In response to a comment after the poetry review in today's Irish Times

what women write is of the body

the body we toil to preserve and to serve

up, we write of Sile na Gigs

the body familiar, the body of history and hysteria

we write of our genitals these days,

of our lovers’ too

we dare to speak its name

we dare to write it white

we write of domestic bliss and of love

we strive for the universal in the local

the shelter of words when the sky is falling

for the secular prayer to fill the void

while children are dying in Gaza and maybe 

we could take our hands out of our knickers

and write about expelling Israel’s ambassador

or the sale of the country’s most beautiful theatre

or the consultants getting a pay-rise

but sure who'd read it anyway

now that books are dead?

and a girl in a workshop last week

had it on good authority poetry isn’t far behind them.

 John McAuliffe's poetry review in today's Irish Times