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Aine Silva

Aine Silva's first poems were professionally published when she was seventeen in a book dealing with violence and abuse called The Foam Sprite. She has also been published in Poetry Ireland anthologies and different women’s magazines. She has read her poetry in various different settings from women’s centres to libraries and internet cafes. She attended Irish poet Medbh McGuckian’s poetry class at Queen’s University, Belfast and has been involved in women’s poetry groups in the past.

She likes to play with words and not follow formal standards. She believes language should be her slave and not that she should be a slave to language. She creates neologisms when ever she needs to and sometimes her adjectives become verbs etc.

She is a semi-professional artist and is currently finishing an Open University degree in the History of Science. She is a mother and a Buddhist.

Age of Aquarius

"It is the exquisites who are going to rule"

Oscar Wilde.

Prepare the teacup for the storm,

for this is the defining moment.

Welcome the multitude,

the dogma,

the absolution, the purging

and the divinity.

This has no precedent

nor will it be allowed a retrospective.

The archives will burn forever.

It is beyond ordinary

punks and popes are united

and become the collective conscience.

Children may even smile again.

The prodigals return.

The mystic has found the heretic

and fallen in love.

The candlelit vigil begins.

The crystal lotus is sitting beside the porcelain dove.

The dakini is reading tea leaves.

The storm has passed

and the steam rises.

Arguemental

Being with him is like cycling through landmines.

I am always afraid of what I will lose next.

He choreographs my fear with the white noise of resentment

and I condone the smashed objects of his penances,

squelching in a vinegar of sweat

ramshackled, but articulating defiance.

The thin symmetry of dread goring me with blunt, unmarked fluency.

He is relentless,

commanding the watery blur of guilt,

strategically poised, cold and applied

each intonation of disapproval

convoluted by the evangelism of his anger

a blinding discourse with the accuracy of verbal lightening.

We are not so eloquent these days in our differentials.

He begs forgetfulness and I can’t feel forgiveness.

I wear my tears secretly beside Granny’s rosary beads.

Flexing my faith.

A prefix to a prayer.

Phil 14.3

With God’s help,

I can cope with anything

Cherubs In Negative

These are strangely passioned fruit these slides,

your sliced aphrodesia,

the shamefaced ghost of computerized tomography

with their disturbing cine presence lingering.

They necessitate belief.

Your central theme remains validated with my careful perjuries of love

obscured by bruised anatomicals

and all your variants on how to achieve silence.

I always underestimate these special occasions

and Rorschach valentines, Jackie pink and speckled

convinced again of my own histrionics

as you peer through obsidian.