Poet of the Month

2021: Poets featured as Poet of the Month 

January: Rebecca Lowe (Wales).
February: Jim Gronvold (USA). 
March: Carolyn Mary Kleefeld (USA).
April: Tozan Alkan (Turkey).
May: Byron Beynon (Wales).
June: Michelle Chung (USA). 
July: Jim Gwyn (USA).
August: Jonathan Taylor (England).
September: Beata Poźniak (USA).
October: Maria Taylor (England).
November: Stanley H. Barkan (USA).
December: John Dotson (USA).

2022: Poets featured as Poet of the Month 

January: Maria Mastrioti (Greece).
February: Gayl Teller (USA).
March: Mike Jenkins (Wales).
April: Cassian Maria Spiridon (Romania).
May: Simon Fletcher (England)
June: Sultan Catto (USA)
July: Vojislav Deric (Australia)

August 2022: K. S. Moore, Ireland
 

(c) 2022 K. S. Moore

K. S. Moore is a Welsh poet from Swansea, now living in Kilkenny, Ireland, with her husband and two daughters. She was selected for this year’s Poetry Ireland Introductions series, which gave her the opportunity to read at the International Literature Festival Dublin. K. S. Moore’s poetry has recently been published by Green Ink Poetry, wildfire words, Skylight 47, The Honest Ulsterman and New Welsh Review. Work has also featured in Arachne Press and Broken Sleep anthologies.

In 2021, K. S. Moore was commended in wildfire words Single Poem Contest at Cheltenham Poetry Festival. In 2020, she placed third in the Waterford Poetry Prize and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Shortlists have included The Allingham Prize and Trim Poetry Competition. She is currently working on several books of poetry, while developing the K. S. Moore YouTube channel.

 

A Welsh Thought

A Welsh thought is songbird,
warbles mutations —
sound beads strung mellifluous.

I once wrote a poem in Welsh —

Ceridwen hustled the clouds
to voice, they pattered a rainbow
to rival her potions

from coch to fioled,
bardd to cerdd,
the colours were written in slopes

while in her cauldron
the bubbles rose, reflected
the spectrum, reduced to three drops

absorbed by Gwion, carried
through forms —
hare to fish to bird to grain.

Even consumed
he continued
evolving,

each limb a line of new verse.


coch – red, fioled – violet
bardd – poet, cerdd – poem


Shortlisted for wildfire words’ single poem contest at Cheltenham Poetry Festival, 2021

First published in wildfire words, 2021

 (c) 2022 K. S. Moore

Wales to Ireland

I stopped on red, moved on to green,
felt the sea traverse my body,
confounded between lands.

I wanted to turn the boat, go back
to my mother, my father;
forever their child, but the sea

was coursing, rocking my breath,
as I turned my face from
its spray on the window.

Waking, I met the Tuskar Rock –
its name passed in whispers,
there were lights here, too:

a welcome for wanderers –
lost, not alone, we shook the
waves from our trembling legs.

And I grew with this country,
I gave it my poems.

Meanwhile, the sea delivered anew –
war-wearied families clinging to faith,
afraid to walk on a stranger’s soil.

But the soil will take root,
run green, grow song:
We miss our shores, embrace the mountains.

 (c) 2022 K. S. Moore

Ballysaggartmore Towers
July 2021

Last of the sun
my daughters’ white dresses
fly the forest path.

Chased by tree snakes
their heels never moved so fast.

I, too, see the snakes
their moss bodies wound around branches
there is one forked tongue.

The forest speaks in the voice of bees
a drone-on roar of industry
fills our ears with purposeful sound.

We hold hands in its tunnel of shadows
feet slip-sliding on dark.

Stumbling into the presence of towers
we push back walls with historic force,

cross the breadth of centuries.


Shortlisted for The Allingham Prize, 2021

(c) 2022 K. S. Moore

Helicopter

Blades on a carousel
of warning, heartbeat resonant –
dark sky, dark thought:
who will they find?

Another mermaid
whose hair is mistaken
for tasselweed,
whose face echoes
river-bleached stone.

Somehow, she slipped out
We thought she was with friends . . .
She was always afraid of water,
but one night its full body hold
seemed freer than day-after-day spite.

Blades are a cross,
this hummed dirge note
a broken aubade:
we found herwe lost her.

(c) 2022 K. S. Moore

There are three sides
to every poem

One is a razor
take great care
not to hold
your pen
too close
the words
will bleed.

Two is the sandpaper side
you can gently
trace this with
your strongest hand,
allow the
beginnings —
an outline in grain.

For three, you will
have to imagine the sea
and turn your sand
to the other side.
This tool is for
smoothing, but don’t
rub too hard,

you’ll erase
the heart.

(c) 2022 K. S. Moore