MAEVE M C CORMACK

The tide is running. It confused Paula as a child how the pebbly beach was there one night and covered in water the next. She disliked the unpredictability of not knowing what the landscape would look like when she woke up. So, she watched. Every day. By the time she started school she knew if she was looking at an ebb or a flow. The unused boatshed and battered pier give the beach a forlorn look. Funny to think of Uncle Tom, Mam and the others dipping together there, decades earlier. Mam and Uncle Tom used to tell her stories. Paula is not sure what is true, mis-remembered, or longed for, but both sets of stories mesh into disjointed fragments. ‘In a pair of togs, everyone was the same’, Mam used to say.

Contoured into the frame of the sash window, Paula sits on the floor of the boatshed, connected to the sea through gaps between wood and glass, the high tide sliding along the banked-up shingle, rustling the round pebbles, creating pockets of soft foam. The sound of home. That comforting regularity that four years in Belfast failed to smother. Sleepless nights curled up in bed; traffic, streetlights and late-night revellers were blocked out by closing her eyes and sensing the ripple of the tide amplified within, its flow lulling her to sleep against the sharp bleep of the traffic lights below her draughty window.

How is it that a series of essays exploring the society created by internal migration in the 1950’s, turned into Relative, a fragmentary non-fiction memoir? Why did a politically-themed short story, Flag Check, turn into a young woman’s quest to find her place in contemporary Irish life? It’s because I just can’t get away from my fascination around how our past affects our present and how our present affects our future. In these convoluted passages of time, the manner in which we choose to catalogue and connect memories dictates how they impact us. In Relative, I juxtapose moments from my parents' past, my past and my present moment. I do this to try to work out who I am, who my parents were and what shaped us. I write the truths of ordinary people, asking what is our place and where do we belong?

Inspiration for my poetry, essays and fiction comes from observation of the small narratives that unfold about us. Be it in a cafe, graveyard, or supermarket, I collect overheard conversations and random sentences to explore, develop and reimagine later. Death and the natural world always find a way to feature throughout my narratives, and many draw on vignettes from memory or place. I’ve always found the process of creating both grounding and stimulating, and, as a child, my stories were always bookmarked by drawings. Art still continues to play a considerable role in my writing, my work is illustrative, using colour to influence imagery and create depth of feeling. The creation of rich visuals that impacts all senses greatly inspires and enhances my writing experience. I hope for others to find meaning, comfort, or beauty in their reading of my work.

a skeletal man tosses packages aside lips move as if in prayer despairing of the fluorescent sale stickers whispering lies to vacant pockets frustration makes him vocal discount my arse he says to the stranger who nods in agreement, it seems the polite thing to do his basket stays empty as Bono sings over the shoppers Is it getting better, or do you feel the same? at the checkout, faded denim jacket counts out coins unsteadily a half flagon of Jameson and tin of dog food it’s too early the checkout girl frowns you can’t buy that yet she announces crossly louder when he offers her the money again it’s not time, wait till 10.30 she taps the invisible watch on her wrist he lifts the bottle with shaking hands brushes by me smelling of neglect and disappointment shuddering jaw unshaven she rolls her eyes he’ll be back in five minutes he lingers in the cleaning aisle my goods roll towards her, electric blue nails skim back and forth across the scanner screen like an accomplished pianist

A Blazing Storm

Thunder rumbles, lightning sparks in a cloud. Droplets hitting the roof in a splat. The flames in the fire stand proud –Droplets hitting flames like the hiss of a cat.

Rain buckets down slamming against the roof Like bullets ricocheting; while I inside, Ponder this odd feeling of being bulletproof Against the violent cold outside.

I sink further into this groaning leather marshmallow. My eyes see past the metal guard into flames, shifting: Crimson red, tiger orange, marigold yellow, Observing until my mind begins drifting.

The crimson bed of embers glows dimly like a dying star of old. In the ash left, the searing heat cuts differently than the violent cold.

A Blazing Storm

Fusing Antitheses is a collection of nine poems and four critical reviews exploring both a creative and a critical form of writing. Ubiquitous Entanglements explores in poetic form nature and the seasons. The ever-changing scenery of Murrisk in County Mayo offers inspiration for my writing, and this sense of place is embedded in my poetry. There are poems in the compressed Imagist style as well as a modified villanelle, a Shakespearean Sonnet and an acrostic poem.

The reviews explore various texts all written by contemporary Irish women, including a novella and a film adaptation of the novella, a poetry collection, a short story collection, and a novel. Engaging critically with the texts helps me evaluate the ideas and content of my creative writing. Fusing Antitheses marks the beginning of my work both as a poet and developing an engaged critical voice.