‘Sylvia Plath You are Dead’ and other poems by Elaine Feeney

Sheer poetic brilliance from Ireland on this historic day for its people. Do read beyond the first poem; it keeps getting better. The poem “Mass” intrigues and delivers.

Review: Poet Elaine Feeney employs mythical imagery but roots the reader, clear-eyed and seeing, in today’s realities. This posted collection snags emotion through shades of rich cultural color to present startling kernels of truth both local and universal. With unpredictable trajectories, Feeney’s poems of oddly blossoming ideas marry feminist flavor to a gritty sensibility recalling for me Baudelaire’s “Les Fleurs du Mal.” A poetic body of fresh, clever turns of phrase and challenging political power, the work proves bracingly raw, cohesive in exploring fragments, and beautiful in the dark.

I just bought Feeney’s 2014 collection “The Radio Was Gospel” sight unseen–today.


Charles Bukowski is my Dad

He stands with me in the
holding open my pearl lace
umbrella to the
ravaging Galway rain.
He calls me up on
blue Mondays and gives me
whiskey on bold Fridays.
He fills up my father-space
He fills up my mind-space
He fills up my hot-water bottle
His advice fills up my cheer
and revives my rotted liver,
but that’s a small price to pay
because Bukowski’s my Dad.
He’s my feather pillow
and my guitar string.
He’s my soccer coach and sex therapist
He paints my nails
pepperminty green and sings
raindrops keep falling on my head
on wicked trips to the racetrack.
But that’s a small price to
because Bukowski’s my dad.


Little biteens of people, pieces all over the raven pavements and sprayed on the cracked gutters, bits of…

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