Real Words

By Marie Studer

These powerful and evocative poem that captures moments of introspection and a sense of place. “This impressive debut marks Marie Studer as a ‘memory keeper’ of human experiences from recipes and folk ways to fierce love. These poems flow into each other and stay by the ‘mind’s side’ till the last page. ...” — Catherine Ann Cullen

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Oct 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215590317

Marie Studer

Marie Studer lives in Castleconnell, Co. Limerick. She grew up in Ballymackey, Nenagh, Co. Tipperary. Her work has appeared in journals and anthologies at home and abroad. She won the Trocáire Poetry Ireland Competition 2020 and was among the winners of the Bangor Ekphrastic Poetry Challenge in 2019 and 2021 and, shortlisted in other competitions. She holds a B.A. in Comparative Literature, History and Sociology from the University of Limerick. Real Words is her debut collection.

Book preview

Back and forth, waist through shoulders,

feet firm, knuckles like a hill chain,

she rolls speckled stone on stone

as kernels succumb to white flour,

rhythm of her morning mantra:

I will not stand by

as they syllable up sweet talk

with their thirty pieces of silver,

look at your corrugated roof, they say

and think of your children;

I will not stand by

as they covet my giving acre

of plantains, white corn and beans

and target neighbours

to get me out;

I will not stand by

as excavators growl

and the motherlode is filched

from cavernous pits,

their tailings poisoning our water;

I will not stand by

as they drill for veins of gold dust

and unearth the bones

of my people from

their final resting place.

Around the table, children chatter

as they shrink the stack of tortillas

and all the while she hugs the Mother Cup

to the rhythm of her thought for today:

I am Provider, Defender and Memory Keeper.

Safe Keeping

I roll fluff in the pocket of your red-

floral apron, remember you say,

instinct will serve you well,

setting a colander of apples on the table.

I sieve saucers of flour into your delft bowl,

sugar, a chunk of butter,

coax the mix to a pliant ball

with hands of raised veins, like yours.

Always make two or more,

when they smell it, they want it straight away,

but it’s better on the second day,

you’d say, riddling the red pit in the range.

Over and back with the rolling pin,

my wrists strive for your deft touch,

my heart your no-nonsense repartee

as I line Pyrex plates with pastry.

Slivers of Bramley, sprinkles of sugar,

and as preferred, a pinch of cinnamon

and crushed cloves, your alchemy covered

and crimped with the tines of a fork.

The shavings, I sculpt into your insignia,

three veined leaves, always, from the centre.

Now I say, sliding the tarts into a digital