We are delighted we’ll be publishing apple, fallen by Olga Dermott-Bond. Olga is originally from Northern Ireland. A former Warwick Poet Laureate, she has had poetry and flash fiction published in a range of magazines including Rattle Magazine, Dodging the Rain, Magma, Strix, Cordite Review, Under the Radar, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter’s House and Paper Swans. She was one of the winners of the 2018 BBC Proms poetry competition and is a commissioned artist for Coventry City of Culture 2021. Olga was selected as one of the emerging poets for Bedtime Stories for the End of the World, a podcast due to be broadcast on Radio 4 in October 2019. She is an Assistant Head in a secondary school and has two daughters. apple, fallen is her debut poetry pamphlet.
A little bit about my pamphlet
apple, fallen questions and confronts ideas of female identity and motherhood, through autobiographical poems and characters from myth and folklore. Through this, my collection also explores mental illness and the aftermath of grief.
Why I submitted my poem to Against the Grain Press
I really love the work of the three editors Abegail, Karen and Jessica which is always a good start! Against the Grain’s published poets are some of my favourite contemporary writers, and I especially admire the work of S.A. Leavesley and Jane Lovell. Last year my poem Sonnet of swimming parts was commended in their competition and I also had a poem published on The Poetry Shed. I’ve been working hard on my first collection for the past two years, so I feel my work has come together at the right place and the right time!
Such a simple word. Brutal to begin, quick
to end. Glad of the distance between us
I study it. A ship run aground in a glass case,
its blade narrowing beautifully to a curved keel.
Then the handle, heavy as a church pew, wood worn
in two places from practised hands of a headsman.
I picture a neck exposed, pink sinews propped
like a stick of snapped rhubarb gleaming with sugar
beads for a few seconds, before boards darken,
splinters stained again with a body spilled over.
I study it, the opposite of a lung or a bicycle
or a wildflower, and am reminded of the wail
of a child being left by her mother. A front door closing
as a silvered edge. An unchartered place called severance.
(17th century Axe, used for executing criminals in St Andrews, St Andrews Museum, Fife)
Her smile is waxed water, curved perfect and full.
Sleeping in grass-hush, she fits herself perfectly,
a wise moon dressed only in pearled skin and sugar.
She is open as a lake, offering a steady reflection to
gospelled branches above that sway love-heavy,
growing with all of her hope-laden daughters –
her smashed skull is a restless shattered crawling
of ferment, made only of wasps that cling to shrinking
edges. she is a cave of black static, her crabbed body
hollowed beyond blood. a boat silenced with dry land,
she has sunk her own tongue, devoured her eyes, cheeks,
swallowed the blameless sun. there is only this place –
turn me over before you ask how I am.