Michèle Vassal

Biography

My first language is French but because of a long love affair with Ireland, I prefer writing in English. My first collection, SANDGAMES (Salmon publishing Ireland ) is now sold out I believe. The second one, EARTHBOUND is also to be published by Salmon in 2010. Winning the Listowel's writers week (with my collection) and being short listed for the Tribune/Hennessy awards certainly galvanized me into writing and I have since, been published extensively in Ireland and France. Some of my short stories in both French and English, have been shortlisted by La Fureur du Noir and Fish crime writing. I have done readings in Ireland and France. I say reading because performance isn't something I feel very confident with. Recently in association with Brendan Ring (one of the top Irish pipers and harpers) we have been experimenting weaving poems with Irish music - uilleann pipes, bodhran and clairseach (early Irish harp). The audio clip "love in Corca Dhuibhne" is an example of this. I have two novels on which I should be working but my cats make it very difficult as they find nothing more comfortable to sleep on than my keyboard.

Samples

BECAUSE HE WAS MY ONLY SON I TOLD HIM - I gave you the blood of the heroes of Ulster redder than the heather on the Mount of Sorrows and I gave you the warring spirit of the Gallowglasses and their flaxen hair bleached by northern tides and at night when he slept I whispered in his ear - see the yarrow and the meadowsweet they’re yours to make a fragrant bed see the long horned cattle, white as milk they’re yours for the finding of a wife see the harp of willow and silver strings it is yours for the casting of spells see the harness and the foaming steed see the knave see the mail see the spear the skieve and the bow see the skene the axe and the claymor they’re yours for all your victories they’re yours for all my sorrows because he was my only son I didn’t tell him - I gave you Suibhne’s eyes that see only darkness in the crystal of the Swillly’s waters but are blind to the quicksilver leap of the salmon and I gave you Suibhne’s crazed mind more twisted than the blackthorn on the Hill of the Hag sadder than a mother mourning the death of her only child and I gave you Suibhne’s mouth that speaks only foolishness and is forever keening with hungry wolves and at night when he sleeps I whisper in his ear son of Ulster son of Suibhne son of mine see the yarrow in your flaxen hair see the hounds see the crow see the furrow on my brow they’re yours for all your victories they’re yours for all my sorrows LOVE IN CORCA DHUIBHNE That day, I woke up to an anise sky and your body was curled against mine like bracken fonds or newborn leaves in spring, soft and young in the crook of my belly. Through the sash window morning surged forward with its slate-blue sky scratched by seagulls with its strident scattering of houses yellows pinks and greens somersaulting down to the harbour. Slay Head the road... O the road... sometimes a stream more times just wishful thinking but always the dancer the acrobat dizzily leaning towards the Ocean as if wanting to slide to tumble down down down.....down down to rocks below down to where the waves foamed the souls of Silkies in the distance the Skellig's canines sharpened by time and the feet of monks snarled at an obsidian sky and my heart did back flips Ventry the memory of the sand a strand grained with ossicles of armies and wails of keening women Dunbeg a South-Westernly gale salted our kiss Kilmalkedar a fretwork of stone walls and fuchsias hemming in green saturated fields Dun an Oir you said 'Trust me I have an innate sense of direction when it comes to the West.' and we got lost for a lifetime between a brooding earth and a stone sky Glenn na-n-Gealt we looked in springs for the effervescence of watercress to cure our madness but only found in glaucous ponds a froth of clouds shifting on purple hills and so the madness remains. WE WOULD BE We would be spirits forever unravelling like the sands of night under the wing of a Tiger Moth like an August afternoon unfurls in curls of distorted light bleached white as bones of cuttlefish. We would be a frost in May biting black the budding hazel and the lark’s last sigh on the pale oyster of a kestrel’s underbelly and we would be the smoke lingering from the landfill to the thicket on a seagull’s back and the opium particles priming purple asymmetric lips for a bitter kiss. We would be the rejoicing of the failed prophet on finding on his tongue the subtle almond of cyanide peach kernel echoes in the green milk of an ultimate absinthe. We would be spirits had you only waited a while. All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.