The Pickled Body - Issue 2.2: Loaded/Unloaded

the pickled body issue 2.2: loaded/unloaded page �1

t h e p i c k l e d b o d yissue 2.2 loaded/unloaded winter 2015/2016

c o n t e n t s

Kimberly Campanello A Figure 4

Aifric Mac Aodha Cruth 5

Michael S. Begnal Paris of Appalachia 6 For Joyce Mansour 7 Spectric Poem 8

Clodagh Beresford Dunne You Have Become the Hand-Rub of an Olympian 9

Todd Swift Half a Cup is Better than One 10 X: The Man with X-Ray Eyes 11

Featured Artist: Padhraig Nolan Four paintings from MANTLE 12

Rasiqra Revulva DNA 17

Rúairí Conneely Ground Floor 18

Tween Plath Anatomy of the Female Antihero 19

Susan Connolly Streets and Lanes of Drogheda 20 Bridge of the Ford 2 21

Shane Vaughan Trepanning 22

John Saunders Hindsight 23

Robert Carr Two 24


e d i t o r i a l

How does a poet or an artist respond to a theme as open/closed as ‘loaded/unloaded’? Some of these writers may have sent us poems they’d loaded earlier. Others may have freshly unloaded just for your benefit. Either way, we looked for work that took the theme seriously or played around with it, whatever it meant to the poet. Herein we have pickled poems that came loaded with meaning, ideas, fun/not-fun, excitement and drama, as well as acute observation. Nostalgia was a theme that emerged in retrospect, after we had made our selection. That being in the sense of painful recollection, and not, say, of old movies that remind the viewer of happier times and places. Some poems spoke to others, particularly two we are delighted to feature: Kimberly Campanello’s A Figure and Aifric nic Aodha’s translation Cruth. We are honoured to present Michael S. Begnal’s wistful remembrances of places and people, Clodagh Beresford Dunne’s striking meditation on what becomes of us in death, Todd Swift’s pop-culturally astute word-movies, Rasiqra Revulva’s unflinching reflection on intimacy and illness, Padhraig Nolan’s simply stunning paintings from his MANTLE series, Rúairí Conneely’s exuberant moment of loadedness, Tween Plath’s inversion of an archetype, Susan Connolly’s visual chanting, Shane Vaughan’s visceral haircut, John Saunders’ exploration of suffering without recognition, and Bob Carr’s elegant quotidian assignations. This nostalgia in the true sense – suffused with the pain of remembering that which can never be experienced again except in memory – burns brightly in all of us once we reach a certain distance, different for everyone, on the path towards a kind of maturity, or at least old age. Each piece here is full of life, and the experience of life, both loaded and unloaded. Read on, gentle reader, and reflect.


K i m b e r l y C a m p a n e l l o A Figure

from an old churcha seated figurefigurea seated figuretermed St. Gobonetfrom a drawingdestroyed in 1548 for “fear of the English”seated figurea seated figurea female figuresurmounted by human headsprojecting from a wallthe stone is differentIta figure called “An Idol”on the barbicanon a fonton the gable-end into the wall of a millan erect figurea stone figure the priest twice attacked it,

but the people concealed iton a panel on a quoin-stonethis stone is figured the figures themselves represent females now owned by a gentlemanSaint Shanahanmuch weatheredstruggling with two monsters a seated figurean erect figureabout the size of a small child


A i f r i c M a c A o d h a Cruth

as seanchillcruth ina suícruth cruth ina suíi bpictiúr, “Naomh Gobnait” a hainm sa bhliain cúig déag daichead a hocht a scriosadh í, “ar eagla an namhad”cruth ina suícruth ina suí cruth mnácloigne os a cionniad ag gobadh ón mballa amachní hionann an dá chloch Ise,“An tÍol” a hainmar an mbarbacánar an umar baisteí thuas ar an mbinn féinar fhalla an mhuilinncruth ina seasamhcruth cloichethug an sagart fúithi faoi dhó

ach cheil an pobal íar phainéal di ar chloch choirnéil cloch lán íomhánna, íomhánna mná, le fear uasal anois íNaomh Seanchánseanchaiteé idir dhá ollphéist cruth ina suícruth ina seasamhcruth nach airde í ná leanbh.


M i c h a e l S. B e g n a l Paris of Appalachia [title from & for JTM]

The mansard roof windows in Uptown, Pittsburgh’s long-lost Soho, garrets for poets and artists in a renaissance or generation or movement of poetry and art, a Pgh-centred movement whose forebear is Haniel Long, perhaps, but focused on Uptown

like the Lower Haight in the early 90s, if I was the same age as then I would move to Uptown because the rents are cheap

and the mansards look right out from the roofs,

Jumonville & 5th, Seneca & Forbes, Kirkpatrick and the bridge, Van Braam, the Boulevard, Miltenberger & Forbes

who could know if anyone would even live in there, still some lighted windows are visible at night, to sleep there it’d be bare plaster and the smell of rotting wood

you got yr corner store, the Uptown Mini-Mart, then soon you got yr landlords, developers, and leeching speculation obviously,

so the nature of the movement is nature —

but I ain’t got no wigwam where to go, no warm, matted grass on the bluff, we are pilloried in public squares pissed on in doorways — o my friends, what can we do so

but piss back?


For Joyce Mansour

Joy in ivy’s poisonous rooms, open flame of the eye’s yearnings about crepuscular sylvan bungalows — enter it in code, it’s all code

man is in ecstasy woman is too, another and another neither hum emptily shaking so our fingertips briefly numb, our poetry spit not through mouths’ ur-textual allusions, but in pubic damp recitations of love’s spells:

evacuate your bladder and cry when you can, recline amidst red sun shadows, it is not any message that time’s rays raise no mummies


Spectric Poem Op. 115 [i.m. Emanuel Morgan, Anne Knish, Elijah Hay]

Hemispherical light outside, night inside, a puma appeared when you were gone

I wrote inside a red notebook the puma’s silence out from the light:

its inhaling of aggression and respiration in solitude under a whitening moon,

whose synthetic

rays

when you returned went red (as my book) and the scent of puma kills

drew us out together soft grasses found amidst fallen logs, soft,

and there your lips ope’d to sky-branches

your eyes closed to the breeze

your flesh heaved in the leaves

your legs legs in the peat

your hair draped ’bout your cheeks

and clasping your flesh, you mine,

my stanzas turned to couplet —

and we cupped each other, till puma’s claw


C l o d a g h B e r e s f o r d D u n n e You Have Become the Hand Rub of an Olympian

When your ashes return in a small wooden box, a brass plaque on top, there is no cord

or record of attachment to anything or anyone. Somewhere a uterus is evacuating itself –

a mass of patient vessels, surrendering and collapsing bereft of implantation, their futile existence spent.

If we were to walk every inch of the earth or soar to a distant planet we’d be utterly sure

of one thing now – we’d find nothing of you except these ashes – not your cadaver

or the bony frame of your being, not the protrusion of your dental arcs.

You’ve been reduced to chalky powder like the hand rub of some Olympian

preparing to bar-cling. If this box should open, one accidental sneeze might spell the resurgence

of your skin cells, hair follicles, a glutinous eye or a femur bone. Rewinding,

back-tracking,

you’ve been redacted to the nothingness of an atmosphere.


T o d d S w i f t Half a Cup is Better than One

The sun of course and being guided by AmazonInto Tweens in Music, not Books. FlanneryO’Connor wrote to Alfred about unbelief.I aim for chastity, spill my seed at HDLove.How was it once we met and courtedBefore the zip of the instant cockArriving in the palm like Christ?I ride to my end on an assAnd wave at each frondFondly, like a friendTo man and beast.Go slow, go on.Lift me, Lord. I pray up.I am inThe wayOf need.Bring a chalice To my sensuousLips. Bill me monthlyFor my insatiable greed.The flies raft on my semenLike a damned umbrella drinkWas in the making. I swizzle inSo many ways, my soul is slicknessItself. I have arm-wrestled unarmedMen and downed scorpions in one, likeBond when he was at his very lowest ebb.Satan gave me the part of my life in his web.I play myself but this time famous on strong smack.


X: The Man with X-Ray Eyes

A doctor without cashmay have to throw his best friendthrough a high windowand stumble over barbed wireto proclaim a dark lightat the burning atomic source;no man with a tieshould be let go from researchor criminally underfundedeven if the vile eye dropsturn molten goldand drive mania like nailsinto the rational skull;keenly good at cards;with a monomaniac’s swagger,Ray Milland was the X-ray Man, drunk on cheap budgetsand a lost career;finned car careening from Vegasand the educated girl; a radianthammering ripping of fleshoff the visible bones,and Les Baxter timpaniand xylophones

vibrating the score;you see what you desire;and then you desire more;and as you plunge architectonicpast creatures of the seayou zoom in on monstrosities:skeletal motionsthe living resemblein their stripped downstructures: already dead.Yet I pity no man handsomeafter a sandy car wreck,dapper with the torn dignityof a tailored genius scornedin a world gone mad,or made manic by money;your insane vision was to wantwhat the spying gods have;and then to rave onceyou had seen the blunt sun;and seen the exposednegationof the blatant sun instead,naked in violent zero of the dayon a palmless lot set for Nevada.


P a d h r a i g N o l a n Four paintings from MANTLE

As a graphic designer and illustrator, I produce materials which require quite literal, narrative visual communication. In my painting practice, I seek a more intuitive response, from myself and others.My work seems to me to be fuelled by emotions, fascinations and compulsions. From the external landscape, it can draw resonances from areas such as geology, psychology and poetry. Unlike the empirical proofs of a scientist, I aim for works which have a unique meaning for each viewer.Most recently I've been working with acrylic, inks, collage & graphite. The work shown here is from my recent exhibition, entitled MANTLE. I showed several clusters of work, experimenting with different approaches to mark-making.Having just finished a series of Wax Encaustic painting workshops, I plan to use this medium to make paintings, alongside written work, for The Pale Project. This group project, overseen by DLR writer-in-residence Selina Guinness, has broadly psychogeographic parameters. I am collaborating with artist Anthony Kelly, whose practice includes sound, video and performance. Work from this project will be shown in 2016.

Padhraig Nolan, November 2015

Alchemilla Shale 1 (2015) Acrylic & Ink on Canvas (400 x 400 mm) Private collection

Alchemilla Shale 2 (2015) Acrylic & Ink on Canvas (400 x 400 mm) Private collection

Karst 1 (2015) Mixed Media on primed paper (300 x 220 mm) Private collection

Parch (2015) Mixed Media on primed card (210 x 150 mm) Private collection

All paintings © Padhraig Nolan 2015

www.padhraignolan.com


R a s i q r a R e v u l v a DNA

yesterday morning, full out of meds, i passed a clot of menses, somewhat larger than a teabag, rather smaller than my palm, and shaped exactly like the Laughing Buddha but lumpy, black and red.

yesterday morning, you refilled your scrip, a ration of steroids, NSAIDs and DMARDs, a panacea to keep the wolves baying, dog-paddling, dormant, and hopefully sub-dermal for now.

it’s been twenty-five years since our blood was the same. since then, we’ve grown only stranger. tonight your waving hair drifts like black ash on a scarlet pillowcase and i snap awake, jaw clamped in cold-pressed oil, the wolf-pack’s slaver thick and curdling the skin of my throat.


R ú a i r í C o n n e e l y Ground Floor

Seagulls fly south along the line of this road they use these lights to co-ordinate their flights, orange lights that flow south into city centre

we barely even notice them, our feet to the floor, we're busy drinking, we sip as we bend forward into our cups, we worry that we will drown ourselves and we don't look up.


T w e e n P l a t h Anatomy of the Female Antihero

I don’t want to frighten you but if the character is a woman perhaps her lipstick is smeared her slip is showing and she sleeps with men she doesn’t know Why does the character rebel Against the traditional role of women And other key questions to ask When writing from this perspective


S u s a n C o n n o l l y Streets and Lanes of Drogheda

fairfairfairfairfairfairfair magdalenemagdalenemagdale fairfairfairfairfairfairfair magdalenemagdalenemagdale fairfairfairfairfairfairfair magdalenemagdalenemagdale fairfairfairfairfairfairfair williamwilliamwilliamwill F A I R S T R E E T W I L L I A M fairfairfair fairfairfairf P williamwilliamwilliamwill fairfairfair D fairfairfairi williamwilliamwilliamwill fairfairfair fairfairfairf E williamwilliamwilliamwill dukedukeduke U dukedukeduked peterpeterpeterpeterpeter dukedukeduke dukedukedukek T peterpeterpeterpeterpeter dukedukeduke K dukedukeduked peterpeterpeterpeterpeter westwestwest westwestwestw E laurencelaurencelaurence westwestwest E westwestwests laurencelaurencelaurence westwestwest westwestwestw R laurencelaurencelaurence W E S T S T R E E T L A U R E N C E westwestwestwe westwestwest laurence lauren laurence westwestwestst S westwestwest laurence lauren laurence westwestwestwe T westwestwest S laurence lauren laurence stockwellstock O stockwellsto shopshop shopsh shopshop stockwellstock C stockwellsto H shopshop shopop shopshop stockwellstock K stockwellsto shopshop shopsh shopshop wellingtonwell W dyerdyerdyer O B E S S E X W E L L wellingtonwell E dyerdyerdyer rosemaryrosemaryrosemary wellingtonwell L dyerdyerdyer P highlanehighlanehighlane wellingtonwell L dyerdyerdyer bessexwellbessexwellbess wellingtonwell D Y E R north quay north quay no WELLINGTON dyerdyerdyer N O R T H Q U A Y wellingtonwell thehaymarket north quay north quay no Fair street, Duke street, West street, Magdalene street, William street, Peter street, Laurence street, Shop street.

Highlanes, Rosemary lane, Bessexwell lane, North quay, Dyer street, The Haymarket, Stockwell lane, Wellington quay


Bridge of the Ford 2

r i v e r r i v e r i B e r r B O Y e r B O Y N E r r Y N E e r i E e r r i v e r i v e r

bridgebridge bridgebridgebridge bridgebridgebridgebridge bridge bridge bridge bridge bridge bridge bridge r i v e r bridge bridge r i v e bridge bridge r i B e r bridge bridge r B O Y e bridge bridge r B O Y N E r bridge bridge r Y N E e bridge bridge r i E e r bridge r i v e r i v e r


S h a n e V a u g h a n Trepanning

She takes the blade to my scalp / and lops off a thick bundle of hair / wincing / as each strand falls like off-yellow worms / against the carpet swamp / Then scrapes at the roots with rough edge / until a patch forms / my tonsurette / and she can cut deep lines / crevices / an untidy hole / until the floor is covered in red / and blonde / little worms swimming in drunkenness.

And we wait / till the memories come / and she scoops them with closed palms / like a child to water / till thirsty no more / drops them to the floors / where they puddle / and we can pull on our boots / hers blue / mine red / and splash like I've forgotten how / sing a song about rain like it's the first time I've heard the lyrics. Until later / when we curl up in bed and I bleed all over her / until a crust comes to form a scab / to be picked / by someone else's nail.


J o h n S a u n d e r s Hindsight

Back then there was only me and them locked into that simple block-built post-war local authority house of three-up, two-down without an indoor toilet or bathroom

where life’s decisions were made in quiet and authority could not be questioned. Leadership was exerted without permission. Not even the neighbours knew my plight.

I could not see beyond the paint-stuck fence or past the mucky bank at the back, instead I shaped myself into dusty corners, huddled in the dark of inconspicuousness.

I saw the raw wood underside of counters, the burrows of cupboards full with the unwanted.


R o b e r t C a r r Two

We rarely talk, except through blue-jeaned knees beneath a diner counter. On Saturdays at Wash and Fold we drop family clothes and crease the day.

We drive in separate cars, to the motel room on 202, stand between yellow spreads of noon twin beds. Light greased headboards bare brass screwed into a wall, where prints of strangers shine. The fisheye lens of metal door is peephole empty sunlit view. The parking lot is broken in angled jalousie, above a beige-chipped air-condition whine. A noise to drown the moans of Pay-Per-View.

Cracks in mirror split merry-go-round motion as cool hands hold your hips. One more spin to fill our mouths with another tongue.

You pull up pants. Rings and keys drop in a telltale pocket. I clip ID to my belt, glance back towards two beds — one tightly tucked, the other a pot of sheets boiled over.


p i c k l e d t h i s i s s u e

Kimberly Campanello was born in Elkhart, Indiana, and is a dual American and Irish citizen. Her pamphlet Spinning Cities was published by Wurm Press in 2011, and her debut collection Consent was published by Doire Press in 2013. New Dublin Press recently released imagines, a limited-edition book of poems by Campanello and musical scores by composer Benjamin Dwyer, which includes a recording of Garth Knox (viola) and Campanello reading her poems. The Dreadful Press has just launched Strange Country, Kimberly's full-length collection on the sheela-na-gigs. In spring 2016 MOTHERBABYHOME, a book of conceptual and visual poetry on the Tuam Babies, will appear from zimZalla Avant Objects.

Aifric Mac Aodha’s first collection, Gabháil Syrinx (The Capture of the Syrinx), was published by An Sagart in 2010. She is the Irish-language poetry editor of The Stinging Fly and Poetry Ireland's Trumpet. Her work has been published in various magazines and journals, including POETRY Young Irish Poets, Poetry Ireland Review, Cyphers and Comhar.

Michael S. Begnal has published the collections Future Blues (Salmon Poetry, 2012) and Ancestor Worship (Salmon Poetry, 2007), as well as the chapbook Mercury, the Dime (Six Gallery Press, 2005). His poems, essays, and criticism have appeared in journals such as Notre Dame Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Natural Bridge, District Lit, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He teaches at Ball State University and can be found online at www.mikebegnal.blogspot.com

Clodagh Beresford Dunne is a poet and writer living in the harbour town of Dungarvan, in the south east of Ireland. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including The Stinging Fly, Southword and The Moth, and she is the recipient of a number of awards from the Waterford City and Council Arts Office. She holds degrees in English and Law, is a qualified lawyer, and a member of the National Union of Journalists of Ireland.

Todd Swift is Director of Eyewear Publishing Ltd. He was Oxfam GB poet in residence for a decade, based in London. His poems have appeared in Poetry (Chicago), The Guardian, The Moth, The Pickled Body and Poetry London, among others. His Selected Poems is out from Marick Press, USA (2014). He has a PhD from UEA. He is the editor of over a dozen global poetry anthologies.

Padhraig Nolan is originally from Enniscorthy, Co. Wexford, and now lives near Dún Laoghaire, Co. Dublin where he works as a designer, illustrator & visual artist. His poetry and writing on visual art and theatre have been widely published in print and online. Ongoing practice across multiple disciplines informs creative composition in each. www.padhraignolan.com

Rasiqra Revulva is a Toronto-based writer, multi-media artist, editor, musician, and performer. She is a founding member of the synth-punk/electro/glitch/industrial music and visual art collective The Databats. In 2010, she was awarded an Honourable Mention for the Judith Eve Gewurtz Memorial Poetry Prize; in 2014, she was named a runner-up in the First Annual Jane Lumley Prize; and in 2015, she was named a finalist in untethered’s First Poetry Contest; as well as awarded an Emerging Writers Mentorship through Diaspora Dialogues (to commence in 2016). Her work has most recently been published by Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal, (parenthetical), EW Reading Series, The Puritan, carte blanche; in the Purple Passion Press anthology "(AFTER)life: Poems and Stories of the Dead"; and is pending publication by Sewer Lid, Hermeneutic Chaos Press, and words(on)pages.

Rúairí Conneely is a poet and writer living in Dublin. His work has previously been featured in The Pickled Body, The Runt, and CENSUS 3: the Third Seven Towers Anthology. He has performed at a variety of open mics and on the bill at poetry nights such as The Monday Echo and Kevin Barrington’s Verbal Variety Show. Seek him out on Twitter @RMConneely and keep watching the skies.

Tween Plath is a writer and editor living in Istanbul, where she is currently Editor-at-Large of Brownbook magazine. She previously lived in Beirut, London and Dubai, where she has worked on a number of magazines and publications. Her recent work includes an essay on Turkish circumcision for WTD magazine and a poem for the upcoming issue of Galavant magazine.

Susan Connolly’s first collection of poetry For the Stranger was published by the Dedalus Press in 1993. Her second collection Forest Music was published by Shearsman Books in 2009. Shearsman published her chapbook The Sun-Artist, a book of pattern poems, in June 2013. Her third collection Bridge of the Ford will be published by Shearsman in April 2016. She lives in Drogheda, Co. Louth.

Shane Vaughan is a writer of poetry, prose and plays. His work has appeared in Silver Apples Magazine, Unbroken Journal, Roadside Fiction and elsewhere. His play, Jacqueline, ran in the Cork School of Music in 2015. He is the editor at Stanzas and works for Ó Bhéal: Cork's weekly poetry night.

John Saunders is a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group. His collections are After the Accident (Lapwing Press, 2010) and Chance (New Binary Press, 2013). He is one of three featured poets in Measuring, Dedalus New Writers, 2012.

Robert Carr is the author of Amaranth, a chapbook scheduled for publication in 2016 by Indolent Books. His poems are published or forthcoming in a variety of publications including the The Good Men Project, The Front Porch Review, Canary Literary Magazine, Bewildering Stories Magazine and numerous other publications. He lives in Malden, Massachusetts..


http://www.mikebegnal.blogspot.com

http://www.padhraignolan.com/

http://www.brownbook.me/

t h e p i c k l e d b o d y

Since 2013. The Pickled Body is edited and designed by Dimitra Xidous and Patrick Chapman. Art direction and type: PC. The poems and art featured in this issue are copyright © 2015 by their respective authors and artist, and may not be reproduced without permission. The Pickled Body is copyright © 2015 by the editors. All rights reserved.

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The Pickled Body - Issue 2.2: Loaded/Unloaded

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