ealtaine
An Irish Literary and Arts E-zine Issue 1| Spring 2021
S p r i n g 2 0 2 1 / IN THIS ISSUE
Poetry Siobhan McLaughlin | 2 Emerald | Nathanael O'Reilly | 6 Survivor | Bernadette Gallagher | 6 The Woods | Sophie Greer-Sanders | 7 Home Fires | Linda Ibbotson | 7 Sophrosyne | Shaw Chard | 10 The Song of Selection | Damien B. Donnelly | 10 the dance | Ruth Seavers | 18 Arriving at Night | Calvin McManus | 20 untitled carvings | Grace Sampson | 20 Late Night Tea | Daniel Durand | 21 Cheekbones and Adam's Apples | Lucia Kent | 21 Bamboo | Jaki McCarrick | 27 Hurricane | Jennifer O'Neill Kaan | 36 Dark Sky Reserve | Niamh O'Connell | 36 Opening a Termite Mound | Stuart Flynn | 36 Praise Song for Lockdown |
Photography Áine Hayden | 5 Post-Swim Attire | Thady Trá | 10 Paris Window 3 | Conor Horgan | 28 Untitled | Aisling Larkin | 31 Beloved, beheld | Ciara Colette Hurley | 33 Paris Window 4 | Conor Horgan | 38 Edge |
IN THIS ISSUE / S p r i n g 2 0 2 1
Art Alexandra Pud | Cover Photosynthebus | Eleanor Martha Hulm | 3 Ailis | Orlaith Lowry | 6 Margarite | Orlaith Lowry | 6 Pieta of the Unexpected Homeschooler | Mary Coen | 11 Staycation, 2020 | Róisín Nolan | 17 Requiem | Eilis de Faoite | 19 Elements: Water | Roisin Ní Neachtain | 20 Carefree Idleness | Alexandra Pud | 21 Ward of Court | Annemarie Stanley | 23 The Pope’s Children | Róisín Nolan | 26 Spring / Earrach | Rimma Islamgalieva | 35 Tread Softly | Claire Murphy | 41 Floating |
Essays Kiera McCarrick | 22 One Layer at a Time | Aghogho Sophie Okpara | 29 Indelible Marks |
Short Fiction Jenny Darmody | 3 Hobbes | David Butler | 8 Stile 13 | Ger O'Malley | 32 Unloading | Alison Driscoll | 37 The Hottest Month | Madeline Beach Carey | 39
The Things We Never Knew We Needed |
New Beginnings T
iiiiiiiii his issue marks a year on from the start of
have grown a wealth of diverse life, nourished by
something "novel" in this country. We suspected it
our fortitude, our compassion, and our creativity.
would never land here. And then it did.
All of this has taken time. Time we would not
iiiiIt did something to us. It drew us in. Attached
have been granted in a “normal” situation. It also
masks
takes
to
our
faces.
It
burned
to
a
crisp
the
courage
and
planning.
have shown they are replete with.
the
precipice
of
the
which
battle
restrictions
from
art,
to
skeleton structure of a future we had all shared in And
through
strength
our
against
contributors
wreckage, the litter, and the expanding silence
iiiiLooking at the work we’ve been fortunate to
before us all, we could expect nothing but time.
receive, this is the kind of Creative Ireland we
The
want to showcase – one of diversity, inclusivity,
Creative
immensely.
A
Ireland whole
we
knew
community
suffered had
their
environmentalism, and empowerment.
platforms stripped away. For many who relied on
iiiiIt is a solace to know that in the moment of a
connection, it was the loneliness of isolation that
great crisis, such as the one we find ourselves in,
hurt the most.
it is the Creative who can lift the soul from its
iiiiiHowever, we have learnt from our contributors
darkest point. It is the Creative who can change
that
of
us from hearing the silence to listening to the
solitude, and that such a thing as community-in-
song. It is the Creative who transforms the world
solitude does exist. The seeds of community were
wrestling with its own future to one which has
being sown, though we didn’t know it, when this
found
meaning
in
pandemic began, and those seeds are beginning
these
qualities,
we
to flower.
simply would not exist without you at its centre.
iiiiOur pre-pandemic selves may have discounted
iiiiWelcome to Bealtaine. Bright fires, and new
the sum of our activities this past year as a waste
beginnings.
of
loneliness
is
sofa-engorged
not
necessarily
time,
a
year
a
of
function
nothingness.
Certainly, it has felt like that. But from the wastes have grown a wealth of diverse life, nourished by Bealtaine | 1
our fortitude, our compassion, and our creativity.
its
present.
thank
you.
Because This
of
all
magazine
Seán Flynn and Molly O'Connor Editors
Praise Song for Lockdown Praise the long mornings: No rush hour, no traffic lines, coffee with biscotti, the swell of birdsong in trees, raindrops bejeweling branches.
Praise the whimsical theories, the time of learning names of flowers: Zinnia, Impatiens, Gladioli. A habit of haiku acquired on counting fingers, syllabic abacus.
Praise the practical magic: front door chats, pinging phones, cosy cocoon of evenings watching the breaking news of the moon, light pooling on night-darkened streets.
Praise the new technology: Zoom meetings, pixelated faces, live streamed theatre without the queues. Tobogganing penguins somewhere in the South Shetlands, virtual flowers in Monet's garden.
Praise the novelty of the long-lost ordinary: a café, an unmasked smile, laughter lines. Praise the inner sanctum of self found in the space where ‘be’ replaces ‘do’ after ‘to.’ Poetry, rhythm of rain, hibernating heart attuned to the minutiae of life again.
Praise the strength gathered, the hope gleaned. Bone marrow of winter, of spirit on display, flint hard, soul spark. Future a shimmering mirage drawing closer.
Siobhan McLaughlin
Bealtaine | 2
Photosynthebus Eleanor Martha Hulm
THE THINGS WE NEVER KNEW WE NEEDED Jenny Darmody
M
artina’s hands tremored against the buffering
wind. She wrung them together, desperate to keep some
part
“I think we need to meet her.” Martina wasn’t sure
remind herself that she was still alive, still on this
if it was the thick Salthill gusts or the news of their
earth. That she was still living in the same body she
long-lost
had
moment, she felt Jim had aged ten years.
those
her
body
years
moving.
ago.
In
She
contrast,
needed
Jim’s body came to life with a sigh.
to
all
of
needed to repeat herself but after a few seconds,
Jim
was
a
daughter
looking
for
them,
but
in
that
statue beside her. His hand was fixed to his walking
He had always looked spry. Even now at eighty-
stick, his leg cocked out from the bench slightly,
six years of age, he had the agility of a man in his
eyes trained on the rough sea foam beyond the
late
dock. If he didn’t occasionally blink, Martina would
commanded a room when he walked in, but not in a
wonder
domineering way. He always gave the impression
if
the
revelation
had
actually
killed
her
husband. ”Tell me what you’re thinking, love.” She felt her voice running off into the wind and wondered if she needed to repeat herself but after a few seconds, Jim’s body came to life with a sigh. Bealtaine | 3
sixties.
His
voice,
even
just
his
presence,
that everything was under control. It was what had attracted
Martina
those years ago.
to
him
when
they
first
met
all
But now, his voice was raspy, shaken. He had
bare body that first time. The hands that took hers
never sounded so unsure of something. It unnerved
when she discovered she was pregnant. The hands
her. She swallowed the lump in her throat and
that
reached for his arm.
through labour and sobbed through giving up the
encased
her
shoulders
as
she
screamed
“I think so too. But I’m scared.” Finally, Jim tore
beautiful baby in her arms under cover of darkness.
his eyes away from the gurgling sea water and
Her mind started to skate through the rest of her
looked at his wife. She could see the small glint of
life on fast forward. The tears, the depression, the
confidence in his eyes and it calmed her a little.
working two jobs, the running away with Jim, the
iiii“I
am
too.
And
we
have
to
be
ready
for
new life, the new jobs, the wedding, everything that
whatever she has to say. We have to be prepared
came after that…
to hear about…her life. What happened to her.
iiiiHe squeezed her fingers, bringing her out of her
What she’s doing now. If we’re going to meet her,
daydream. She looked up at his tender expression
we have to listen to her. We can’t just shut it all
and felt warm in spite of the cutting wind.
out. Otherwise, there’s no point.” His voice was
iiii“Come on,” she said. “I think it’s time to go.”
returning to normal now, despite the wind picking up. Martina wrapped her shawl tighter around her
*
body. iiii“It’s our fault, Jim. It’s our fault if she had a
iiiiDenise
horrible life.”
making a faint scratch of a noise with each turn. It
iiii“You
can’t
think
like
that,
love.
We
were
wasn’t
turned
quite
as
the
coffee
hard
on
cup
the
in
ears
as
its
saucer,
nails
on
a
teenagers, we wouldn’t have been able to take
blackboard, but it wasn’t pleasant. Still, she found
care of her.”
it to be sort of melodic. A distraction from why she
iiii“But we could have protected her from that! We
was really sitting there. This particular cup was old.
wouldn’t have done that to her–”
She came to the café far too early and ordered
iiii“We
were
kids,
Martina.
You
can’t
blame
straight
away.
Now
the
waitress
was
hovering
yourself.” His voice boomed, completely overtaking
nearby, no doubt wondering whether or not she
the wind, but it still had something of a comforting
should take the cup that was clearly empty. But
tone to it. He put down his cane and placed both
Denise kept rhythmically twirling it, as if entranced
hands
tight
by it, hoping to hold off until just the right time to
many
ask for it to be replaced with a fresh one. She
layers. It was as if he was worried that she’d blow
looked at the clock over the door and then at her
away. She looked down at her lap and examined
watch and then at her phone, as if any of them
the small, dark circles on her coat from her tears.
would give a different answer, but no. They were all
She
annoyingly accurate.
firmly
enough
for
on
her
hadn’t
her to
even
arms,
feel
gripping
them
realised
them
through
she’d
her
been
crying.
Without looking up, she nodded.
iiiiTen more minutes before they were due to arrive.
iiii“Look. She wants to see us. I don’t think she’s
The waitress was making her antsy, so she stopped
angry. And even if she is, we have to let her feel
twirling the empty cup and put her hands under the
that way.” Martina nodded again, unsure of what
table.
else to do. Jim placed his hand gently on hers.
iiiiMaybe if I let her take it from me, she’ll stop
They were like crinkled paper and yet she could
lurking nearby and leave me in peace.
still
iiiiAs if on cue, the waitress almost skipped up to
see
hands
the
younger
encased
version
within
these
of
her
aged
husband’s
shells.
Most
the
table
and
swiped
the
cup
with
a
smile.
people can see past the masks that years put on
iiii“Anything else?”
their partners, see their youthful faces, hear their
iiii“Could I get another cappuccino?” Denise said,
unchanged voices. Martina could see all of those
too
things
waitress
in
Jim
including
the
too,
but
hands
also
that
a
great
spun
her
deal
more,
across
the
fast,
stomach,
and
then
scurried
added
off.
scolding
An
her
“please”
anchor for
before
dropped
seeming
in
rude.
the her Her
dance hall 70 years ago. The hands that held her
parents raised her better than that. Her parents.
bare body that first time. The hands that took hers
too fast, and then added “please” before the
when she discovered she was pregnant.including
Bealtaine | 4
Even though it was a conversation happening in
balancing on top. Her own shock caused her to
her own head, she tripped over the words.
twitch her arm, which brought the perfect puddle
iiiiPathetic.
cascading down in a streak.
iiiiShe pinched her right wrist lightly. Just enough
iiiiShit. I broke the skin again.
to stop from looking at the clock again.
iiiiBefore Denise could say anything, she spotted an
iiiiIf I can keep myself looking straight ahead until
elderly couple a few hundred yards away from the
the coffee arrives, I’ll have done well. And then it’ll
coffee shop slowly approaching. She wasn’t sure if
nearly be time. And then they’ll be here.
it
iiiiShe pinched harder as she self-lectured from
guess, but she knew it was them. She grabbed the
inside her own skull. Her legs started to prickle but
cappuccino from the waitress and waved her off.
she would not scratch them, no. She would just
Without hesitation, she plunged her fingers into her
continue to stare ahead and tell herself that she’d
untouched glass of tap water and rubbed them
be OK until the coffee arrived. She would not think
across her bloodied arm to get rid of the streak.
about what she was going to say to these people,
She then pulled down her sleeve to cover the mark
who were due to arrive any minute. She would not
and
think
looked
about
having
to
tell
the
stories
of
the
was
a
biological
went
about
like
she’d
instinct
tidying nested
or
the
just
table
there
for
an
intelligent
that a
suddenly
month,
as
countless other parents she has had. The lovely
opposed to half an hour.
ones who taught her to say please to waitresses
iiiiStupid idiot. They won’t want you now.
and the not so lovely ones who taught her that
iiiiThe thought leaked out of her brain and into her
bad girls get locked in wardrobes.
veins
iiiiI don’t need to scratch my legs. There are no
stomach
rashes there. It’s not a real itch. The coffee will be
realise that until that moment. That she wanted
here soon and then I will be fine.
them to want her. And suddenly as the bell over the
iii“Miss? Are you OK? Do you need a tissue?” The
coffee shop door chimed slightly off key, Denise’s
window in front of Denise’s eyes had gone blurry
body went rigid, except for her right hand, which
so she wasn’t surprised the waitress was asking
was now pinching her left wrist under the table.
before
she
harden.
could She
stop
did
not
it
and
really
made let
her
herself
her that. However, she was surprised when she blinked back the tears, to find the waitress staring in horror not at her eyes, but at her right wrist, which now had a swollen blob of dark red blood balancing on top. Her own shock caused her to twitch her arm, which brought the perfect puddle cascading down in a streak.blinked
Edge Áine Hayden Bealtaine | 5
Emerald Autumn leaves fall from the oak revealing a nest high above
the lawn, newly visible against a crisp blue sky, standing
out at boughs’ end like a white stitch on a black seam, shaping
a new afternoon shadow, remaining within sight
until spring brings a new veil of curtaining emerald leaves
Nathanael O'Reilly
Ailis Orlaith Lowry
Survivor The tulip lay flat to the ground cut off at its base
I picked it up, and placed it in a vase
with a little water it recovered
never fully opening its flower but tried hard not to die.
Bernadette Gallagher
Margarite Orlaith Lowry
Bealtaine | 6
The Woods
Home Fires
I went to the woods
It was the road that stifled me.
For a short walk.
Suburban trees standing as if sentries,
I found, in the middle, an open grave.
making sure you didn’t leave.
Of course I climbed down
The forced smiles of bay windows
To see if it would fit,
hiding what really went on inside.
Of course it did.
In the distance, steel eyes watched chain smoking stacks,
The birds embroider
the end of work sirens releasing their black captives,
A lullaby
coughing a trail of coal dust and emphysema,
Just for me.
brass bands played at their wake.
The badgers stand guard,
Under middle-aged pillows, the taunting scent of heather,
As I sleep underground.
a reminder of a day of erotica on the Yorkshire Moors.
They bring me grass, for a pillow.
There is good news, a new Tesco at the end of the road, no more melting summer ice cream carried home
The leaves above
on the seventy-five bus that always ran late.
Block out the sun and rain,
In spring, daffodils brighten the shade, those kicked and broken
Mainly,
I picked in anticipation of my mother’s smile.
So I am dappled in both.
She remembers none of that now as I hold her hand,
Moss grows
anchoring her still to this world,
through my hair,
her mind as broken as the daffodils.
Which the foxes come to stroke. I chose the open road, I went for a walk in the woods,
washed off grime in the Himalaya’s,
In the middle
thought about the pen pushers in the tower of steel,
I found an open grave,
their jealous words I don’t believe you will go
That fit just so.
as green as the phlegm
It feels so welcome
that filled their neatly embroidered handkerchiefs.
It must be fate.
In Greece, on a white beach in Parga, my body, then, the shape of a sand filled hourglass,
I dream now under birdsong
ate baklava with walnuts and cinnamon,
And with moss through my hair,
drank warm wine I had cooled in the sea,
On a pillow of grass
read My Family and Other Animals,
That the badgers brought,
the book I had read for the school exam
Of the man who gave me
while plotting my escape.
This gift. Returning home this winter to an empty house, Sophie Greer-Sanders
the dead limbs of tree branches lay, frozen with ice, while the fires of the crematorium still burn my ears.
Linda Ibbotson
Bealtaine | 7
Hobbes
online
pornography.
Down
the
years,
a
tell-tale
fluorescence had been reported long into the small hours from whatever bedroom overviewed the black Beetle – I’d witnessed its eeriness myself. Mornings,
David Butler
his dull eyes were frequently bloodshot. iiiiHobbes’ wardrobe had never escaped the 70s,
C
and this gave rise to the outlandish conjecture that olman McIlraith was nicknamed Hobbes not
McIlraith had once been trumpet-player in a show-
because he lectured in History or Political Science.
band; his stature, that he’d set out to be a jockey,
In
was
but had been debarred for the mistreatment of his
impossible to imagine he was ever a young man –
mounts. There was even a theory he was a failed
the modules he taught on had been entirely within
priest. Every year at conferring, his robes bespoke a
the
nicknamed
Queen’s University doctorate. It was inferred that
Hobbes because, as every Fresher soon discovered,
when the Troubles were in their infancy, Colman
Colman McIlraith was nasty, brutish and short.
McIlraith had been run out of the North. That much
fact,
over
remit
an
of
accretion
English
Lit.
of
No.
decades
He
was
–
it
Why he should have elected to devote a lifetime to a regional college like All Hallows declaiming on
was
agreed;
but
whether
in
his
capacity
as
informer, sniper or child-molester was never settled.
subjects which sparked in him no obvious pleasure or curiosity was anyone’s guess. So immutable were
*
his lecture notes that every September there was an active trade in photocopies from years gone by.
iiiiFor the better part of a month, Deborah Lyons-
McIlraith must’ve been a puzzle to his colleagues
Gough had balked at the long corridor that led to
as much as to the rest of us. He was caustic, prickly
McIlraith’s office. Freshers might still occasionally
as a hedgehog, not given to the free-exchange of
misread
gallows’
the
soles
and
he’d
done
so
banter
academic
life.
which
For
makes
thirty
years
agreeable and
more,
his
wide-collared
hooded myself.
eyes
No
to
Final
open
shirts,
betoken Year
platform
humour
ever
–
made
I’d
that
arrived and left as punctually as a striking clock in
miscalculation. Deborah had reason to know this
an indefatigable Beetle, ecclesiastical black with
more than most. Beneath Hobbes’ corrugated brow
undersized, myopic headlights.
and dwindling comb-over squatted a humourless,
There was a story he’d once been jilted. Whether
letter-of-the law mentality. Whether he would now
there was any truth in it, the only creature he was
prove
ever seen to consort with outside college hours was
something she was loath to put to the test.
a
iiiiThough
wiry
terrier
with
Old
Testament
eyebrows
he
as
vindictive
three
as
winters
he
was
had
officious
passed
was
since
her
chaperoned round the perimeter of the park as dusk
celebrated run-in with Hobbes, the incident still had
fell. On Fridays and on the last day of term, the dog
the power to raise a smirk among us. Deborah was
would pant for hours on the backseat of the VW like
‘of a certain age’, which is to say there was nothing
some
trek
less certain than her age. The course was a gift
back up to whatever ancestral home Hobbes laid
made possible by the life-insurance policy her late
claim to in his native Armagh. Down here he rented
mother had taken out. I’d known them both – knew
bedrooms
them
effigy
of
only
patience,
by
the
awaiting
academic
the
year,
long
rooms
in
to
nod
at,
the
way
everyone
is
known
to
which it was a rare event indeed for him to remain
everyone else in small-town Ireland – and I could
over a weekend.
have predicted Deborah Lyons-Gough would be just
In the absence of hard fact, speculation, which makes
agreeable
the
student
life,
flourished.
the type to put Colman McIlraith’s nose out of joint. iiiiShe was disorganised, constitutionally so. Desirée
Rumour had supplied the passionless man with any
Toussaint,
number of solitary passions. His storied debauches
absolutely rely on Debs - rely on her to show up late
invariably danced about the poles of alcohol and
and
online
madeflustered. Through their twenties they’d made
pornography.
danced flourished
Down
the
years,invariably
her
closest
flustered.
friend,
Through
used
their
say
you
twenties
could
they'd
several attempts at retail – ethni Bealtaine | 8
made several attempts at retail – ethnic clothes,
forlorn print-out of the first essay she’d attempted
tarot decks – but none had cleared the pittance
since her time with the Loreto nuns: ‘Madness and
they paid on a room that adjoined a charity shop
Method in Jane Eyre’. But the secretary was gone
out the Dublin Rd. Then Desirée began to tour the
home,
midlands with a Cajun band called Les Diaboliques.
acknowledged the Christmas wishes from departing
When she moved back to Essex, the retail business
classmates. Then she sat, erect. From the carpark
went under entirely. That’s ok love, consoled Lorna
behind
Lyons-Gough,
vintage engine. In a trice she’d swept up the essay,
the
nuns
always
said
your
talents
were more for English than for sums. iiiiShe
moved
back
home.
And
the
deadline
eructated
expired.
the
Half-heartedly,
staccato
flatulence
she
of
the
in another, had intercepted the black Beetle, stuck
that
was
alright.
fast
in
the
general
the
by
an
uninterested shake of the head. Hobbes hadn’t even
she
Indian
squaw.
and
Worse,
unteased
she
like
deliberately
answered
at
was gone, Deborah stopped dyeing her hair, which long
was
tapped
window
wore
but
She
What bothered her mother was that, once her pal
now
brightly,
exodus.
some
red
looked. So she brandished the essay, tapped more
chose
the
insistently.
The
window
was
lowered
a
grudging
baggiest of clothes that did not a jot for her figure.
inch. “Dr McIlraith,” she panted jubilantly into the
And would you not go out and meet a nice young-
gap, “I’ve got your essay for you.”
fella instead of sitting in writing them oul stories?
iiiiHe’d smiled, almost. “Has it,” he inquired of the
This from Lorna Lyons-Gough, who’d gone to the
dashboard,
grave without ever having married. Still, for all her
secretary?”
bluster,
Christmas joke? From the rear of the car the dog
she
must’ve
known
the
insurance
policy
“been
stamped
Was
he
by
toying
the
with
departmental her?
would send her Debbie straight through the gates
watched with Presbyterian imperturbability.
of the former seminary to indulge her passion for
iiii“She’s gone home.”
them oul stories.
iiii“Because
iiii“Layons-Goff
or
Layons-Gock,
Muzz,”
Mcilraith
bobbing
all
submissions,”
doll,
“must
he
be
A
nodded
stamped
little
like
by
a
the
intoned, as though he suspected the name might be
departmental secretary, so they must.”
a manifesto of some kind. Whether it was the grey
iiiiHer mouth fell open. Could he really…? “But,
tendrils tumbling down from either temple of the
she’s gone home! For Christmas!”
student
iiiiThe
who’d
nose-ring,
in
late,
dungarees,
whether
brazen
Dickensian
detail
fell
flat.
Slowly,
deliberately, Hobbes wound up the window. She
surname or some other perceived peculiarity that
thumped at it with the heel of her palm. The car
had triggered his disdain, it was an unpropitious
lurched forwards a foot. The terrier watched her
beginning to her new life.
temerity,
iiiiShe might well have despaired, if it hadn’t been
time, panic stopping her breath. Hobbes raised
for
his
Scattergood.
In
the
the
double-barrelled
Sarah
the
burst
Dr
Scattergood,
a
astonished.
hooded
eyes,
was
She
thumped
there
maybe
a
second
something
bindee-wearing Londoner who was the other half of
else? Exasperated, “Why are you being so anal?”
the
only
she must have ejaculated, because she saw him
survive first year, offered such electives as 201 Irish
turn white, then pink, then puce. Then there was
Female Poets, 320 Post-Colonial Representations of
a clearance in the traffic ahead and the Beetle
Women and 303 The Gothic, Deborah knew she’d
sputtered into it and she found herself the centre
found a kindred spirit. Sarah Scattergood’s arrival in
of gob-smacked admiration.
the college some seven years before had given rise
iiiiThat
to
smirk betrayed the extent to which she’d enjoyed
English
the
only
faculty
and
verified
who,
instance
if
one
of
might
wit
from
the
January
been
whose
of a tutorial on T.S. Eliot: “Nowadays the women
over the faux pas. Over the many semesters that
come and go / talking of Maya Angelou.”
followed, Deborah side-stepped such electives as
iiiiAll at once it was the last day of term. Debbie sat
McIlraith offered yet somehow, through the good
on the front steps, distraught, on the ground the
grace of Sarah Scattergood, was well on the way Continued on page 12
forlorn print-out of the first essay she’d attempted
to
since her time with the Loreto nunsable
Teaching Diploma in English. What’smirk betraye
sufficient
instrumental
credits
to
in
subdued
the
amassing
had
Scattergood,
redoubtable McIlraith, who’d quipped in the course
Bealtaine | 9
riposte,
Dr
smoothing
qualify
for
a
Post-Swim Attire Thady Trá
The Song of Selection (after
an
article
I
found
in
a
Sunday
newspaper by one of the nuns who cared for the babies in the convent where I was born)
Sophrosyne
She comes to cradle in a song,
I saw a word and fell in love Thinking, that is me, I've found It, the thing to define me
gentle is the melody that folds back and continues familiar like breath new to baby,
Felt it wrap itself around my wrists,
uncertainty is not the stuff to serenade,
Coil through my hair, weave into my lungs
we can still sway
And crawl its way into my veins until
despite the crosses we’re born to bear,
I had become the word and carried
blue can be breathtaking
My shoulders, bent by its letters
like her song,
How was I so wrong? The time
like broken chains
I spent becoming was in all the
that have their own charm.
Wrong directions I didn't sound half as lovely as
She comes to cradle,
I thought I looked
that without name can still be a son, for a second,
Shaw Chard
after separation, before selection, for the length of a song and she sings it now and it is familiar.
Damien B. Donnelly
Bealtaine | 10
Pieta
of
the
Mary Coen Bealtaine | 11
Unexpected
Homeschooler
McIlraith offered yet somehow, through the good
reverie that she failed to notice his descent onto
grace of Sarah Scattergood, was well on the way
the mezzanine just above. Finding his way blocked,
to
his eyebrows hoisted interrogatively.
amassing
sufficient
credits
to
qualify
for
a
Teaching Diploma in English. What’s more, she’d encouraged Debbie’s creative efforts, and one or
“I was hoping to have a word,” she gasped. “Before you go.”
two stories had appeared in online journals. They’d
He considered for a moment. “Office hours,” he
even sketched out, together, the skeleton of a final
recited, “are Mondays at eleven and Wednesday
year dissertation to be entitled Subjectivity and
afternoons.”
the Female Body in the Poetry of Eavan Boland.
have understood, he added, “Today is Thursday.”
iiiiThen,
When she again failed to comprehend, he came as
almost
casually,
her
friend
and
mentor
because
to
anyone had ever been afforded. “Ms Lyons-Gough,
part
if we don’t have rules, do you know what we have?
scalded,
her
constricted.
throat
year.
Her Dr
eyes
were
Scattergood
dissolved in a blur. Dreamlike, there followed the sting
in
the
Academic
tail.
Her
Advisor
position
would
be
as
Final
assumed
by
personal
appear
She would be on maternity leave for the major final
a
didn’t
near
Deborah’s
expounding
she
announced the unforgivable. She was pregnant.
of
to
And
philosophy
as
We have a free-for-all.” “Dr McIlraith, I…” she at last managed, but her
Year
sentence was severed by a raised hand. “Office
none
hours,”
other than Hobbes himself, Dr Colman McIlraith.
he
declared
without
looking
back,
“are
Mondays at eleven and Wednesday afternoons…”
iiiiNow it was late October. Deborah was in all kinds of trouble. Stress was playing havoc with her sleep, sleeplessness was impacting on her health,
She decided to convene a war council. Friday
and ill-health was ratcheting up her stress. She’d
was Halloween, and Hobbes would be away off
had a panic attack that had put the frighteners on
home
all of us who’d witnessed it. The substitute who
couldn’t
was
and
agitated nights before his next office hour came
supervising her dissertation students was a Trinity
round, and that on the very day that the future
doctoral student named Coyle who could not see
would be set in stone. Because even if, by some
past the requirement to lace every paragraph with
miracle, she could find a potion that would have
‘discourse’, ‘enabling’ and ‘problematize’. Twice, on
her sleep out the interim, the point was that the
foot of his prescriptions, she’d trekked up to the
Monday following mid-term was the final deadline
capital to waste hours staring at arcane papers
for fixing title and supervisor for the dissertations.
covering
whose
Dr
Scattergood’s
footnotes
cited
Lacan
electives
or
Foucault
or
for
the
simply
duration sit
out
of
the
the
ten
mid-term.
fidgety
days
She and
Desirée Toussaint, her friend since Loreto days,
Irigaray.
brooked
iiiiThere was no other way; she would beg Mcilraith
counted upon to steel her resolve it was Desirée.
to allow Sarah Scattergood special dispensation
“Why are you being so anal?”
to
throbs of throaty laughter. But she’d been away in
act
as
supervisor.
Scattergood
be
Failing
allowed
that,
supervise
might
the
Dr
doctoral
Essex
shit
for
from
seven
years
and
still
had
sent
only
into
recently
Hobbes McIlraith. So it was that, out of the loose
unthinkable: asking Hobbes himself whether he’d
assemblage of mature students who gravitated to
supervise the bloody thing.
the end tables of the canteen, she selected an old
iiiiSeveral
students
had
thinking
complained
about
the
chain-smoking
the short man from Armagh. Small wonder Debbie
which is to say myself.
had
iiiiOutside
the
better
part
of
a
week
ways
of
boot closer to her mother’s vintage than her own, a
Trinity pedant – they’d received short shrift from
wasted
the
her
be
the
even
with
could
so
was
unfamiliar
anyone
returned.
she
was
If
student’s supervision? So desperate was Deborah, demoralised,
She
nobody.
of
battle-axe
tutorials,
named
I
had
Viv
McHugh,
a
nodding
prevaricating at the foot of the stairs that led to
acquaintance with McIlraith – on the back steps to
the
the college I smoked, he vaped. Besides, I’d had my
dingy
reveriniiii
office.
So
deep
was
she
in
gloomy
own
Bealtaine | 12
own run-in with the little man, or to be entirely
coffee
accurate, with the Dean of Studies, on foot of a
shrugged
satirical
elder, to explain. The minute his final tutorial was
sketch
that
made
it
onto
Sunday
early
week.
Desirée.
It
was
left
the
to
deal?”
as
village
me,
iiiiWe were to meet up that same Thursday night
would retire from the field of battle and would be
after Desirée knocked off waitressing. Earlier, in
out of reach until Monday 9th.
preparation,
iiii“Still don’t see the problem mate. We make him
needed
to
be
a
notebook.
resolved:
(a)
how
Two
to
issues
obtain
a
afternoon,
big
over
opened
following
“What’s
Miscellany. But that’s another story.
I
the
next
McIlraith
and
dog
stay down, is all.”
meeting for the next day; and (b) what precisely to
iiii“Oh? How do we do that?”
ask of the man. I was dismayed to learn she’d had
iiii“You know where this dude lives, yeah?” In the
no
minutes that followed, I discovered I hadn’t really
contact
with
Sarah
Scattergood
since
the
previous June. Above my bifocals I inquired: Would
known
a first-time mum, who was due any week now, be
following
willing to take on a supervision, even if it were a
college, I learned she was no mere talker, either.
possibility?
iiiiHobbes was in foul humour. When he was in foul
Not,
you
understand,
that
it
was
the
first
thing
morning,
on
back
the
caterpillar, on his vaporiser. He’d had to march in,
Female Body in the Poetry of Eavan Boland, my
post-haste. A mile and a half. More! He’d actually
dear, better the devil you know …
arrived thirteen minutes late for a lecture, he who’d
iiii“Ok,” said Debbie, iPhone already in her palm.
never been late for a lecture in his life. “Really?”
“I’ll send Sarah a text.”
Car wouldn’t start! First time in thirty years, not a
iiii“A text?”
dickey-bird.
iiii“What?”
everything:
iiii“Ring her.”
jump-leads; everything. Not so much as a dickey-
iiiiShe
winced.
smarted
like
a
Subjectivity
Palpably, betrayal.
the But
and
pregnancy
she
nodded.
still
bird.
The
iiiiI
“Did
you
pushing;
coughed,
to
to
cover
suck,
try…?”
choking;
a
the
the
requesting
only
to
of
stranger.
paused
and
steps
The
of Colman McIlraith would ever sanction it. As for
He
freely,
Toussaint.
humour,
supervise
spoke
the
Ms
remotely likely that a stickler for rules of the stamp
he
he
about
Oh
like
Alice’s
he’d
pumping,
guffaw.
merest
tried
cranking;
What
voodoo
Scattergood phone was turned off, however; so
Desirée Toussaint had employed - a potato up the
she
exhaust or sugar in the tank or some other trick -
promised
to
try
again
prior
to
our
war
council.
there was no way that vintage banger was getting up *
to
Armagh
any
time
soon.
Would
he
maybe
consider taking the bus, or train? He might. If it came to it, he might have to. But he’d go bail that
iiiiIt was late when we met for the first time,
the car would be back on the road by this time
three
tomorrow. Still couldn’t understand it all the same.
black
and
midnight
hags.
So
Desirée
Toussaint declared us. I felt I already knew her,
Thirty years, and this morning not a dickey-bird.
so
their
iiiiThey say God helps those who help themselves.
her
Whether or not the same is true of the Devil, the
many
inspiration
of
Deborah’s
from
the
stories
took
misadventures
of
irrepressible school-friend. She countered that
coup
she knew me through a scrapbook Debs had put
indirection, to a couple of interventions that even
together of my humorous pieces cut out of the
now suggest the black arts. Firstly, out of all the
Midland Tribune, which seemed so unlikely one
possible garages about town, Hobbes dialled up
had to believe it. Then it was down to business.
Brennan’s
Debbie’s latest didn’t encourage. It turned out
became apparent. Then, having watched his black
Sarah
Beetle towed away, he set off for St Brigid’s Park,
Scattergood
was
up
in
Dublin
for
a
Desirée
–
the
had
pulled
significance
off
of
gave
which
rise,
only
by
later
routine check-up and was staying with a friend.
the dog on a short leash alongside his short stride.
But
iiiiHow precisely the mutt slipped the leash may
she’d
suggested
meeting
up
for
coffeebelieve it. Then it was down to business.
Bealtaine | 13
a
never
never be known. What Hobbes should have known
“Definitely not. That’s the little guys on the whisky
is that the park, usually so quiet, fills up at the first
bottle.”
whiff of Halloween with every class of hooligan
iiii“He has these bushy eyebrows, if that’s any help.”
and
prankster
bent
on
taking
advantage
of
“Maybe he’s a whatcha-may-call-it. A Schnauzer?”
costume and the dark to let slip their savagery. It
“Isn’t that a sausage-dog?”
may
What
have
been
scarcely
dusk,
but
already
happened
next
amazed
and
delighted.
schoolboy shrieks and hoots were echoing up from
Debbie drew the notebook to her, borrowed the
incipient fires.
pen, and in less than a minute had executed a
iiiiOne imagines the terrier had a canine aversion
passable likeness. The proportions were askew; the
to loud bangs. One imagines a firework, thrown
comical severity, spot on.
with
malice
another,
or
the
with
carelessness.
animal
slipped
One
the
way
hold
or
“So now what?”
and
Desirée sat back and stretched like a cat. “Set
scarpered. Word doesn’t take long to get around a
up
town like ours, and by the time of the next war
yeah? Tell them to get back to you the minute any
council
of them sees or hears shit. Oh, and tell them they
the
disappearance
was
common
knowledge. “Which plays right into our hands,” I
a
group.
You
send
out
that
pic,
gots to keep it to themselves, yeah?”
said. iiii“Yeah?” Debbie was having her doubts about
We met up the next day prior to Desirée’s shift.
the whole project.
There had been several developments. Word from
iiii“Don’t you see? Suppose the car gets fixed first
Brennan’s Garage was, the Beetle was properly
thing tomorrow…”
banjaxed. Desirée’s cousin who worked there had
iiii“It won’t,” rumbled her friend. “Trust me.”
seen to that. It’d require a couple of days just to
iiii“But just suppose, sake of argument. Now he’s
get
got
have a policy of offering a replacement car for
another
reason
to
stay
down.
I
mean
he’s
in
spare
parts.
On
the
downside,
they
did
hardly going to abandon the animal.”
the duration. Hobbes hadn’t taken up the offer, so
iiii“Tell you what I think,” Desirée suddenly sparked
far
up. ‘I think we’ve gotta find that pooch. You show
several reported sightings on WhatsApp; sightings
up at this dude’s door with his poor little doggie in
not of the dog, however. A distraught Gollum with
tow, he’s gonna owe you big style.”
a
iiiiDebbie considered, nodded undecidedly, looked
accosting strangers to solicit news of the missing
to me as though it had been my idea. ‘But how do
creature.
we go about finding him? He could be anywhere…’
bumps and furtive angles.
iiiiSearch me, I shrugged.
as
the
cousin
comb-over
knew.
had
There
was
Then,
been
even
too,
there
variously
a
video,
were
reported
all
shakes,
So what to do next? “Let you run into him as if it
iiii“Got a picture of him, have you Debs?”
was an accident, yeah? Make sure he sees how
iiii“God no.”
shocked you are when he tells you his pooch has
iiii“Could you get one?”
run
iiii“How?”
spread the word. That way, he’s well impressed
iiii“I dunno. By calling in on this McIlraith dude.”
when you do show up with it. That way, he’s got to
iiiiThe
horror
enough.
But
on her
Deborah’s friend
was
face
away.
it
what,
wasn’t
you’ll
was
answer
be
undeterred.
Desirée
major favour even trying.”
pulled over my notebook and flicked a pen, all
thinking
Know
no
help
fluke.
find
You
it!
done
You’ll
him
a
Debs not only looked less than impressed, she
business. ‘So what’s he look like? What breed is
looked
he?’
she’d ever brought her old school-friend in on the
iiii“Terrier!”
said
together.
Unimpressed,
She
was
beginning
to
regret
her
deal. For my part, I spent that afternoon about the
ebony eyes looked from one of us to the other. ‘I
town, not actively searching for the dog, or for its
don’t know. Scottish?”
master
iiii“Nah, not Scottish. West Highland maybe?”
eye
bo
we
deflated.
for
out.
I
that
matter.
expect
what
Wandering. I
was
really
Keeping doing
an
was
hand.
Bealtaine | 14
making myself available to Providence, should it
hesitated. “Please.”
choose to take a hand.
iiiiThere’s a quality in the palette, a predominance
Toward four I ran into him.
of browns or oranges, that dates a photo every bit
He was like a homeless case, shuffling about with
as
much
as
clothes
or
hairstyles.
These
two
no idea of where he was going. He looked hard at
children, a boy and girl, it placed in the early 60s.
me as though struggling to bring his eyes to focus. I
“Lorraine,” called the voice from the far side of the
was so shocked I abandoned all thought of playing
bed, somehow intensifying the silence. He’d risen
out a scene, letting on I’d heard nothing. Instead I
from the semi-recumbent position. In his hand was
took him by the arm, ushered him back up toward
another photo, a polaroid of the dog, which he was
the estate in which he was renting a bedroom that
holding toward me like a schoolboy. “Will this do?’
year. He allowed himself be led until we were within
iiiiIt
sight of it, then he tugged his elbow from me, in
dozen colour copies down in the chemist’s with his
horror
the
contact details appended, but he said no, I’d been
search. “But have you a photo?” I appealed, “you
very good. He could manage from here - they had
must have a photo!” He stared hard at me from red-
a copier in the college. As I closed the gate his
rimmed eyes. “Of your dog.” The idea must’ve been
voice overtook me. “When she was sixteen, they
running around in my head, unbeknownst, because it
punished her. Left her tied to a railing, so they did.”
came out fully formed. “If you’ve a photo, we’ll run
I stared back, appalled. “Lorraine,” he called from
off
the
that
some
he’d
colour
been
cajoled
copies
and
to
put
abandon
them
up
on
would.
upper
Admirably.
window.
I
offered
Then
he
to
run
added,
off
as
two
though
lampposts around the town with your details. It’s
reminiscing, “She was never right after that.”
what they do for missing persons.”
iiiiI walked with no direction, having trespassed on
iiii“I
see,”
he
nodded.
He’d
never
looked
so
a
private
unhappiness.
ploy.
Was
troubled sister he sped home every weekend? I was
gut. “Yes,” he declared, “very good. Let’s do that.”
of
I
Christ
images; the tarrings, the tribal intimate revenge.
Viv, what are you letting yourself in for? Was this a
Probably I was being fanciful. All the same, to have
betrayal of what the war council had agreed?
spiked the man’s car was a shabby affair.
iiiiInside the house I felt like an intruder. It was
iiiiOn a whim, I decided to take the route home
every bit as dingy as I’d imagined. I was all for
along the river, a thing I rarely do. Can it have been
waiting at the foot of the stairs but he wouldn’t
an
hear of it. Now he was all bustle and purpose. I
suggestion? I was about two-thirds the way along,
was
the
too far to turn back though my instinct was to do
threshold of the bedroom. In order to keep my eyes
so. I could see ahead, at the locks that skirt the
off the skinny backside bobbling up and down as
weir, a group of youths up to no good. They’d seen
he
I
me, and there was a leering challenge, daring me
glanced uneasily from the desk, dominated by an
to continue past them. To turn back might bring
old computer with bulky disk-drive to the wardrobe
them on, who was to say? Well Viv. Nothing for it.
open onto jackets, shoes and folded shirts to the
iiiiThe leader - he was perhaps fourteen - stood out
dresser’s priestly toiletries: the hairbrush set; the
into the middle of the path. One or two of the
scissors and electric razor; the bottle of bay-rum. It
others, uneasy, looked from him to me, from me to
was the opposite of nosiness. A fear of privacies,
their bikes, from the bikes to him. Another, a low-
rather. Behind the bay-rum was a double photo-
browed
frame, a little silver diptych with what appeared to
stone
be
“The
hunkers. There was an expectant stand-off until I
sister,” he approximated a smile, gesturing I should
said “Could I get by, please?” Unable to find a
come into the room, was welcome to look closer. I
verbal witticism, the first of them stood to one side
hesitat
an
watched
him
mortified
rifled
two
Bealtaine | 15
a
stride
to
find
suitcase
children.
purposefully
He
myself
he
kept
caught
ahead.
standing
under
me
the
at
bed,
looking.
agent
of
lout
down
still
the
with into
remembered
occult
who
close-set the
lock
eyes,
before
it
deep
not felt in years had begun to tumble inside my
that
whole
having
misgivings
vintage
the
was
infantile. “I see. Yes.” All unlooked for, emotions I’d
a
about
I
the
to
terrible
whispered
tossed rising
his
a
the
surly
from
his
and parodied a bow that triggered a round of
approaching
sniggers. I walked on, concealing from them the
Debbie abandoned all hope of getting a second
glances I stole into the frothing waters. When at
reader for her dissertation and at Christmas, to my
last I reached the bridge, heart fisting my throat,
intense dismay, she dropped out. She did go on to
by the grace of God there was a Garda just within
land
sight.
collection of short stories to be entitled Why does
iiiiThey’d
gone
by
the
time
we
got
back
there.
a
contract
friendship
have
somewhat.
anything;
a
bundle
of
clothes,
or
a
Final
with
Year
a
Academic
small
Irish
Advisor,
publisher,
a
the Devil have the Best Tunes? I’ve an idea her
What I’d glimpsed tumbling in the torrent might been
the
with
Desirée
Toussaint
cooled
off
coat; yet I was as certain as though I’d stood there
iiiiSarah Scattergood had twins, and is tipped to
unmolested
dog,
be the next Director of Humanities at All Hallows.
bound in some way to a stick or plank, no longer
By all accounts, she’ll be delighted to launch the
paddling against the frightful current.
forthcoming story collection.
iiiiIf I’d been fortunate in finding a Garda; I was
iiiiAs for Hobbes Mcilraith, that was to be his last
doubly so in the Garda I’d found. She appeared to
year among us. He took early retirement. Word was
know as though by instinct from what thicket to
he told the Dean of Studies he was heartily weary
pull out a plank long enough to coax the bundle
of the damned place. One thing I can say, he held
toward an opening. Then, without waiting for the
true to his principles to the last. At Easter, when I
help she’d called in, she waded knee deep into the
went to him to look for an extension, he turned me
waters to drag that bundle into the reeds. But for
flatly down. “Rules have to be rules for everybody,
that,
Muzz McHugh.” The funny part of which is that even
the
to
confirm
unfortunate
my
fear.
animal
It
was
would
a
surely
have
drowned.
though that scuttled any chance I had of coming
It was in a dreadful state, eyes shut fast, so exhausted
the
ribcage
was
barely
palpitating.
out with a 2-1, I still harbour a tiny fondness for him, the old bastard.
There was an open gash to the back of its head that had bled white. Queasily, I watched the latex fingers of the man from the ISPCA touch it open, his call
face
glowering
them
animals
with
impotent
who
do
disgust.
this.
All
“They
wrong.
No
animal is this sick.” Then he fixed his brown eyes on mine. “Any idea whose it might be?” I shook my head, needing time to think; to allow my guts to settle. Debs was entirely distraught, so much so that I decided this was not the time to tell her what I’d learned down
about
just
Colman
before
McIlraith.
the
ISPCA
She’d van
made
took
it
the
unconscious terrier away. I’d given the Garda a description
of
the
four
ne’er-do-wells,
but
she
didn’t hold out much hope anything would come of it. I hadn’t actually witnessed them mistreating the animal.
*
iiiiThere’s
not
that
much
more
to
tell.
The
dog
recovered. So too, the VW Beetle. Without even approaching
the
Final
Year
Academic
Advisor,
Debb Bealtaine | 16
Staycation, 2020 Róisín Nolan
the dance we did the dance you know the one where you stood with your knees bowed back against me and your head toward the wall bathing in your grandmother’s jumper your shoulders round and rigid, hair falling you woke and feared you could smell me on your cheek, i think so you gave me the other cheek, lay sideways drowning in the lavender knit, all knees then rolled over to me in your sleep. like a bee, quivering, on a tall and thin stem, i’m waiting for you to land. for the hum of cobwebbed wings to stall so we can trade, all this you see for waking into mornings of honeysuckled silence and the sound of you sighing in cotton and down. for watery sunlit dawns as i watch your rib cage rise and fall and listen to nothing but the sea bird’s call — i wanted to toe away in silence and cover you in sky. leave you sleeping in white linen and never speak matters of the heart.
Ruth Seavers
Bealtaine | 18
Requiem Eilis de Faoite
Bealtaine | 19
Arriving at night Donegal, 2018
The morning light gave birth to rambling stone rows Grown out of the drumlins laden with auburn stray sod.
untitled carvings
Pasture only meant for grazing eye and timid ewes, Venturing higher to the summits lost in fog.
a bed, a pen, a tiredness. Ink yet to be used
The boreens tangle in themselves dividing up the land, Flowing to testaments standing to the test of time. On a clearer day, is a canvas untouched by hand, While the Atlantic roars over the seabirds whine.
A Celtic lilt of the native tongue colours the air of the room
Eyes which flickered, and a tongue that didn’t roll. would I remain alone Or would the words grasp me.
Grace Sampson
And a swell of the bow slips in between tattle. A haven of rumination awry in its loom. A doldrum of the mind for no gale to battle.
Calvin McManus
Elements: Water Roisin Ní Neachtain Bealtaine | 20
Carefree Idleness Alexandra Pud
Late Night Tea
Cheekbones and Adam’s Apples
Lighting up the room,
Cheekbones and Adam's apples
Their face upon a screen
That hang off a tree
Behind the fainting plume
All the men in my life are statues
Of live and wisping steam
poised stoically. They are polished marble in a hall
Here, in separate sections
A knot caught on their shoulder
We cannot see each other
Smooth and gentile
Still, we feel a real connection
I love my army of men
Though we sometimes buffer
Statues can’t gather dust in the back of my mind
Despite the night grown old
They can’t shoot themselves up,
We'll chat away online.
Fall into a river,
The tea has since gone cold,
Or lose themselves in formaldehyde
And we've started drinking wine.
Maybe I’ll place them in a gallery. So they can stay there frozen forever,
Daniel Durand
For the most part at least, Alive.
Lucia Kent Bealtaine | 21
Indelible Marks
about
than
of her studying religion academically, but religious literacy is not the same as collective worship. Irish faith schools – which account for more than 95% of
he’s four. We were sitting at the dinner table a weeks
important
iiiiDespite my lack of personal faith I see the merit
Irish
schools
cultural
of
more
part of my “crusade”. Crusade!
all
couple
being
adherence. He tells me to stop forcing her to be a
Kiera McCarrick
S
conviction
before
Christmas
when,
in
that
-
aren’t
tasked
so
students
knowledge
with
developing
can
recognise
religious nuance in early modern literature, or so they
can
appreciate
turns to me.
buachaillí
is
iiii“I can’t believe it.”
contextual
insight
iiii“What can’t you believe?” I countered.
faiths, and none, live their lives. No. Indoctrination is
believe
my
teacher
picked
me
to
be
not
formation
for
Hundred
Guilder
can’t
Faith
‘The
apropos of nothing way of the pre-schooler, she
iiii“I
Print’.
Rembrandt’s
concerned into
how
cailíní
with
other
agus
developing
people
of
all
the only means to the only end. Lord help us.
Mary.” Jesus Christ.
iiiiWe’ve
iiiiOnly minutes before there’d been a discussion on
grappling with that particularly Irish brand of self-
the radio warning the public about ticket scams for
loathing, we often deride our country as backwards.
Midnight Mass and I’d shaken my head with a sort of
In this case it’s apt. Look back towards 1831. They
affectionate levity, but now this.
say it’s impossible to achieve now, but when the Irish
iiiiShe’s
not
christened
you
see
and
it
wasn’t
a
gone
backwards
you
see.
When
we’re
school system was first established it had to offer a
decision that was taken with ease, nor one that’s
curriculum
reached its denouement. She’s due to start school
instruction but kept religious instruction separate. As
this September and despite being the largest inland
schools
county,
character, this separation of education and religion
no
multi-denominational
schools
exist
in
which
became
combined
moral
increasingly
literary
denominational
diminished
and
I’m left agonising over whether I should just sprinkle
curriculum,
whereby
her with holy water and be done with it. I oscillate
integrated into all subjects and school life, settled in
back and forth like a thurible. Weighing the cultural
for the long haul.
capital
iiiiSome might say it did me no harm, so why the
her
belonging
against
my
own
religion
expected
older
on the Rights of the Child warned of the need for
perhaps. The Age of Reason. But there was a time
“concrete
the
before that when I did accede, as all children do.
in
We took it as gospel, revelled in the pageantry and
availability Ireland.
of
They
significantly
multi-denominational said
this
increase schools
should
be
done
than
her
when
almost
be
about it. The year she was born the UN Committee
my
me
to
decades
pinpoint
took
integrated
iiiiShe was still in my belly when I first began to fret
to
It
was
the
need
to
dissidence?
of
perceptions of morality.
measures”
for
concept
in
Tipperary. So she must go to a Catholic school and
of
the
and
motivations.
my
heresy
I
three
was
began.
little
Seven
pomp of the sacraments.
“expeditiously”. Great, that will sort it, I thought. By
iiiiOddly, I don’t remember the Big Day itself too
the time she gets to five they’ll have fixed it. Except
well. My six-year-old recollections are from a week
it didn’t and they haven’t.
or two later, walking round and around our gritty
iiiiWe argue about it, her Dad and I. Not over the
estates
religious teachings – he’s just as absent from the
ensuring
church
lobe. I can still recall the collective murmur of the
on
Sundays
as
I
am
–
but
he
feels
the
on
the
Christi,
memory’s
formation
communal even. His main thorn however, is that she
in the middle of a housing estate, upon which the
will be left out, excluded. I quote hoary old adages
church had erected a Calvary scene. If it seems my
about
childhood memories have descended into some sort
being
more
important
than
adherence. He tells me to stop forcing her to be a
of Dali-Kafkaesque
5,000
temporal
megalithic passage tomb, situated on a roundabout
conviction
the
my
expectation,
familial
circled
in
possibly
this
there’s
crowd
repetition
rosary
parish,
the
the
pressure a little more I suspect. He was born into rural
as
Corpus
year-old
Bealtaine | 22
Ward of Court Annemarie Stanley Bealtaine | 23
childhood sort
of
place
memories
have
Dali-Kafkaesque existed
then
descended
hybrid
and
I
into
assure
remains
some
resistance to Sunday mass. Kicking and screaming
you
this
and making a general spectacle of myself in the
on
the
front garden before I’d eventually acquiesce. Yes I
today
outskirts of Sligo town.
found
the
iiiiDelighted were we with our second chance to
more.
It
wheel out The Dress, fit with Guinness and gravy
exposed,
stains. “Aren’t they lovely!” they said. And we were.
reports absorbed. Banners outside the post office
Loveliness
to
depicting the murder of babies left their mark. Little
freckles
trinkets from the past were gifted to me along the
measure
being our
the
yardstick
worth.
Teeth
with
which
missing,
sermons
was
the
90’s
hushed
this
and
secrets
whisperings
being
vague
news
proudly in our procession. We prayed to honour the
mosaic coming together tile by tile.
Blessed Sacrament and we were lovely and we
iiiiMy
were good and therefore we were happy.
Wednesday
iiiiThe confliction settled in soon after. As a child,
announced that a referendum would be held. It was
naturally predisposed to believe what my parents
also
and teachers told me, I couldn’t yet recognise why
bodies
religion unsettled me but a perception began to
thought
form and the undertones were dark.
ensued
should
iiiiUsually a compliant girl, I started to put up a
naively
assumed
resistance to Sunday mass. Kicking and screaming
comment
and making a general spectacle of myself in the
misogyny had been tempered. I expected joy at the
front garden before I’d eventually acquiesce. Yes I
result but I was weary. It was still there. The religious
found the sermons dull, but this was something
virtue, the judgment, the disapproval.
“
I had naively assumed we were further on than the comment sections suggested. I thought the misogyny had been tempered. exposed,
the
90’s
hushed
and
secrets
whisperings
and
were
being
vague
news
my
in
2017
birthday,
were this
was
was
it
more
the
not
up
have
we
sections
the
felt
shift.
ask
months
when
and
once
10
to
were
permission to be sterilised after her ninth baby. A
pre-schooler
having
and
something
tail feathers atop French plaits as we marched
was
Granny
was
way,
It
my
but
mingling with summer sweat, beads arranged like
more.
like
dull,
old
new
it.
for
public
The
vicious me
further
suggested.
I
on
priest’s
on
that
Taoiseach
Though
surprised
were
the
women’s
steering, fight but
I
that
I
had
than
the
thought
the
iiiiIt strengthened my resolve to shield my daughter from
moral
paternalism.
Not
realising
Catholic
reports absorbed. Banners outside the post office
influence would begin as early as pre-school, I had
depicting
tried to get ahead before junior infants. I bought
the
murder
of
babies
left
their
mark.
Little trinkets from the past were gifted to mealong
picture
the way, like my Granny having to ask the priest’s
creationism that awaited her. I inquired about what
permission to be sterilised after her ninth baby. A
was
mosaic coming together tile by tile.
instruction. She will be put down the back while her
iiiiMy
pre-schooler
Wednesday
in
was
2017
10
months
when
the
old
new
on
that
Taoiseach
books
involved
on
in
evolution
opting
to
her
counter
out
of
the
soft-
religious
classmates are tasked with colouring in crucifixions, their
bright
red
crayolas
used
for
depictions
of
announced that a referendum would be held. It
ladybirds and love hearts and wounds torn apart.
was
Scenes of torture.
also
women’s
my
birthday,
bodies
were
and
felt
steering, I thought this was the shift. The vicious
manipulation. They just want to fit in. Fit in to what
fight that ensued should not have surprised me but
though? So I swing back yet again and research the
I had naively assumed we were further on than the
primary school religious curriculum. It starts out soft
comment
the
no doubt. Promoting kindness and care for the poor
misogyny had been tempered. I expected joy at
and the sick. Then I come across a picture depicting
the result but I was weary. It was still there. The
a little girl, sitting on her bed looking startled. ‘Mary
religious virtue, the judgment, the disapproval.
says yes!’ the text enthuses, yes to God ‘working
iiiiIt strengthened my resolve to shield my daughter
through her’ by making her pregnant, despite Mary
from
being afraid, confused and not understanding what
suggested.
paternalism.
Not
I
up
Though
iiiiStill I faltered. I worried about ostracism, ridicule,
moral
more
it.
public
sections
once
it
for
thought
realising
Catholic
influence would begin as early as pre-school, I had
was going on. Oh my God.
tried to get ahead before junior infants. I bought
iiiiIt’s the final piece. This is the merit of religious
picture
literacy. Yes it’s important in order to understand
books
on
evolution
to
counter
the
soft-
Bealtaine | 24
creationism
that
awaited
her.
I
inquired
about
the
history
of
humanity
but
as
a
woman:
it’s
literacy. Yes it’s important in order to understand the
history
of
humanity
but
as
a
woman:
it’s
important to know your enemy. iiiiFor all the decrees of Christian kindness, such favour
does
not
seem
to
extend
to
female
autonomy. I’m not married. I’m a child of divorce. My own child belongs to no church. If she had been conceived back in the year of my birth only a shotgun wedding would have saved my sweet girl from being considered an illegitimate bastard and saved me from being socially ranked as a Fallen Woman. If we were lucky. Lucky! Good Lord. iiiiShould I waver again, consider offering her up to the
purveyors
of
such
social
conventions,
I
will
remind myself of those who didn’t have the choice. Those marked by the signs of the faith. The ones who
weren’t
merely
grappling
with
ideological
stances but wrestling the physical and emotional manifestations of an iniquitous culture writ large. iiii“Ireland is a Catholic country,” many still bay. “If you
don’t
like
it…”
Yet
none
of
that
sort
were
extolled in retort, no not in the aftermath of the report.
Illegal
systems.
This
adoptions, is
where
malnutrition, the
sewerage
hypocrisy
becomes
painful. And I can’t be a part of it. iiiiThose women. Their babies. Hundreds of little upturned
noses
and
thousands
of
tiny
kissable
toes, and I looked to my baby at the kitchen table. Selecting ignorance as my tool of choice I gently probed. iiii“Oh wonderful, who’s Mary?” iiii“You know…Mary had a little lamb”. iiiiLittle lambs indeed.
Bealtaine | 25
The Pope’s Children Róisín Nolan
Bealtaine | 26
Bamboo Whitefly settled on our undersides, and though we bent to the wind and turned to the rain we could not shake the eggs or hatchlings.
This did not go unnoticed, and our pretty whooshing sound was soon forgotten in light of the plague we harboured.
We reminded the house of the swamp, of hidden things, of war and jungle beasts — so were hacked up, tendril-pulled, replaced by clean pine hedging.
But, as we did in Hiroshima, we survived, in another part of the garden, all wabi sabi and shinrin-yoku with its magnolia, small cherry and acer trees.
Here the poet knew we had whitefly. She tried soap and water — which did not work. But because she liked our woody music, our green quills painting the air, our imperfect calligraphy,
the restraint that could not be found before, was lavished upon us, and the white colonies were left. They were not looked upon again, or, in our presence, even spoken of.
Jaki McCarrick
Bealtaine | 27
Paris Window 3 Conor Horgan
One Layer at a Time
smile that takes over their appearance. This is the usual acknowledgement I receive when I walk into a room that black people are not usually permitted entry to. As soon as I see this take place, I prepare my mind for the typical type of conversation that accompanies
Aghogho Sophie Okpara
it.
It’s
usually
a
conversation
that
involves a stranger being deeply interested in my roots,
in
my
family
history
and
in
their
proud
explanation of knowing a person who has been to
Y
ou don’t usually become aware of your identity
Africa. There also tends to be a strange entitlement
until you are told to be, i.e., until you are told to live
that often laces through the speech of this stranger,
in a constant awareness of it. Human beings tend to
where they are adamant to receive their desired
live
response
comfortably
and
freely
in
their
person
until
from
me,
even
when
that’s
not
the
society interrupts and tells them to do otherwise.
response I have to provide. This is the first type of
This has been the experience of my entire life. As a
acknowledgement of my difference – the first layer
child, I lived a very care-free life. I can’t say this
unveiled.
lasted for as long as it does for other children, due
iiiOther layers are a bit more complex than that to
to my more noticeable differences, but there was
unravel, for example, when I learned that I was a
certainly a period of time in which I thought life was
black woman.
simple and easy. I thought one hundred euro was a
means to be a black woman in Irish society. This
lot of money, I thought sleeping at 12am meant you
layer has many different dimensions to it, and these
were an adult, and I thought that being black meant
dimensions are usually assembled apart by various
you could be seen as a human being just like others.
kinds of people. I have learned what it means to be
For all three of those things, I was wrong.
a black woman in academics, in social spaces, in
iiiiI
became
increasingly
aware
of
my
multiple
Or
rather,
when
I
learned
what
it
the workplace, at parties, etc. It means a different
identities the older I got. It was like one layer being
but similar thing in each setting.
peeled off after another, and these layers became
iiiBeing a black woman in academia looks like being
unveiled by the different crowds I found myself in.
undermined before you are even given the chance
This taught me of the multifaceted nature of my
to
being in the sight of others. I was never allowed to
opinion. It looks like being offered a seat at the
be just one thing. I was never afforded the simple
table but being declined an opportunity to speak at
demeanour that my counterparts were allowed to
it. It looks like being accused of stealing your work
have. If someone was a man, I was a woman. If
from
someone was a lady, I was a black lady. If someone
standard it is – which was the experience of an
was a minority, I was a black minority. My identities
aunty
could never be separated. Complexity was just a
universities in Dublin. It looks like being dismissed
part of my being, and I had no choice but to accept
when
it. As a result, at a very early age I became aware
academia,
of the existence of intersectionality, even when I
‘angry black woman’ – which was the experience of
didn’t
know
Years
later
there I
was
have
language
finally
found
express
your
opinion.
elsewhere,
of
mine
you
simply
at
raise
one
issues
because
you
chance
to
because
of
the
of
express
of
how
most
high
just
a
prestigious
discrimination
are
your
acting
within like
an
to
articulate
it.
my first black female professor. It looks like your
the
language
to
fellow
classmates
being
intimidated
by
your
express the sentiments I have always been forcibly
presence
acquainted with.
conversation – which was my experience in my first
iiiiIt starts when you walk into a room and someone
year of college. Essentially, being a black woman in
gives you their first glance. Except it’s usually not
academia means you have to constantly prove your
just
a
worth, you have to prove that you have something
glance of polite surprise – followed by an awkward
valuable to contribute, and you have to dim your
smile that takes over their appearance. This is the
confidence
usual acknowledgement I receive when I walk into a
‘angry’. It is a whole job in itself.
one
glance,
Bealtaine | 29
but
two
–
the
second
being
and
so
thus
that
choosing
you
to
appear
never
gentle
initiate
and
not
confidence
so
that
you
appear
gentle
and
not
advocate
for
what
inconveniences
middle-class
‘angry’. It is a whole job in itself.
white women, and not women as a whole, but that’s
iiiiBeing a black woman in the workplace is similar.
a conversation for another day. The point is that the
Typically,
disrespect
women
in
the
workplace,
regardless
of
towards
black
women
runs
so
much
their race, tend to face condescending attitudes
deeper than it appears on surface.
and patronising behaviour. Our work tends to be
iiiiI think one of the worst settings for black women,
overlooked if there is a male counterpart around, or
though, are social spaces. These are home to the
else it is assumed that the male will do a better job
most vulnerable of moments, and unfortunately they
in
we
also tend to be the most common spaces we find
be
ourselves in, because these are a part of everyday
the
speak
first
place.
against
When
an
we
are
it,
issue
arises
and
considered
to
overreacting and ‘emotional’ and probably on our
life.
period. We are not taken seriously nor respected
subject to things that other people would be broken
appropriately,
down
and
this
is
reflected
on
a
casual
Black
by
women
if
they
in
social
settings
experienced
once.
gap). Now imagine being a black woman on top of
stereotyped...these are simply a few things that we
that. Take all the stereotypes that are placed upon
have no choice but to become numb to due to the
women as a whole, and now add black stereotypes
alarming frequency with which we experience it.
on top of that too – it becomes a whole different
iiiiSee, black women are at the mercy of the media.
story. It is no wonder that traditional feminism is
We
known not to include black women, because even
nature. Growing up, the media told everybody to
traditional
a
hate black women, and so that’s what everybody
whole arena in itself. Western feminism tends to only
did. We became victim to hatred from all races of
advocate
people, including our own. We became victims of
feminists
for
what
know
that
our
issues
inconveniences
are
middle-class
“ women are Black
the
its
volatile
a conversation for another day. The point is that the
because
disrespect
people are told otherwise. For example, around 5 or
black
women
runs
so
much
are
internalized
of
both
we
and
victims
publicly
white women, and not women as a whole, but that’s
towards
external
primary
being
Sexual
harassment,
often
fetishized,
regularly
scale to an economic scale (seen in the gender pay
are
being
just
are
often
seen
racism.
as
less
This
than,
is
until
deeper than it appears on surface.
6 years ago the media decided to start liking black
f their
women. Society, as always, followed suit. But this
not a human zoo...You would never say that to a pretty white woman, because their beauty isn't a surprise to you.
time
it
felt
strange
because
we
knew
it
wasn’t
genuine and people did a bad job at masking that. Because of the robotic tendency of people to follow whatever
mainstream
society
tells
them
to,
they
would express their newfound love for black women in
an
odd
way.
I
remember
being
at
Longitude
Festival in 2018 and being told by random girls on multiple occasions that I was the prettiest person they
have
ever
seen.
Sometimes
people
would
literally stop and stare at me. I don’t say this to brag, I actually say it to pinpoint the opposite. Black women are not a human zoo, that our beauty should be seen as a spectacle. If you ask me, I have a pretty
average
face,
but
when
your
mind
is
accustomed to seeing black people as ugly, you will think someone who isn’t ‘ugly’ looks amazing. I was told many times growing up in Ireland that I was the prettiest black girl they had ever seen, which is an insult. You would never say that to a pretty white woman, because their beauty isn’t a surprise to you. But this is our everyday experience. Bealtaineto | 30 iiiiThere’s a reason why many of us are forced
But this is our everyday experience. iiiiThere’s a reason why many of us are forced to develop a thick skin, and funnily enough, even when we develop that thick skin, we are told off for it. Oh, the irony. Despite this, I have grown to love my multiple identities – not for the reasons society has given
me,
myself.
I
but
am
multicultural
for
the
proud society,
to
reasons be
and
a
I
have
black
never
found
woman
again
will
for
in I
a
feel
shame for it just because others tell me to. Never again will I let who I am be defined by people who are slaves to mainstream media. Never again will I dim my light to make others comfortable. I am who I am, and I will express that in its entirety. found for myself.
I
am
multicultural
proud society,
to
be
and
a
black
never
woman
again
will
in I
a
feel
Bealtaine in focus: Every issue, Bealtaine will reach out to at least one artist whom are slaves to mainstream media. Never again will I we admire and wish to support. We dim my light to make others comfortable. I am who commission them to create something I am, and I will express that in its entirety. which amplifes their voice and promotes values of intersectionality, inclusivity, environmentalism, and empowerment. This issue we feature Aghogho Sophie Okpara as our artist in focus. shame for it just because others tell me to. Never again will I let who I am be defined by people who
Untitled Aisling Larkin Bealtaine | 31
husband vanish.
Stile 13
iiii“One
moment
he
was
there
and
the
next
he
seemed to fade away. I was afraid he might not come back. When he did come back he looked the same…but I knew he was different. It was like he
Ger O'Malley
knew things, big things, things he could not tell me of…no matter how much I asked him.”
S
ince the now widely reported discovery of
iiiiSo should we be actively on the look out for our
13,
the
own Stile 13 opportunity…no matter where in the
gateway remained unseen for so long. Why was it
world we are? Should we welcome the chance to
not found earlier when it was apparently - as one
step through and discover for ourselves what Jerry
prominent
knows?
Stile
speculation
has
academic
grown
put
it
-
as
to
“hidden
why
in
plain
view"? And when it was eventually found, how did
iiiiThe
the phenomenon that is the enigmatic gateway
become quite heated. Those against have railed
spread so rapidly?
and argued that we should all be content to stay in
iiiiOf
late
the
hypothesis
that’s
gaining
most
our
debates
own
around
dimension
and
normal rules don’t apply when one is dealing with
newest trend in racism and has attracted a lot of
portals
vocal
universes,
then
the
gateway
wasn’t
parallel
necessarily
location
of
the
Stile
is
said
to
be
ever
was
protests
solely
at
Ireland.
Croke
‘The
Park
However,
Gateway’,
Gaelic
reports
was
grounds
of
in
similar
attention.
Of
and frustration for them. Several cities and towns around
that
right-wing
own
course the difficulty in identifying who to aim their
changing. In the early days of the phenomena, it thought
enthusiastic
their
abuse at has caused an amount of aggravation
hidden, but just wasn’t there…until it was. iiiiThe
and
to
have
parallel universe. This has been described as the
or
back
who
was ready to do so. This argument asserts that as
dimensions
get
those
have
stepped
different
should
that
questions
support is that the Stile only appeared when it
to
across
these
located Dublin, ‘Passing
the
world
and
attendees slogans
have
marches
carrying
such
as,
recently
by
these
banners “There’s
and
no
experienced groups,
with
placards
with
parallel
like
this
Through’ experiences soon began to filter in from
parallel”, “13, unlucky for some”, and a very common
other locations around the globe.
one, “Get back to yer own universe.”
iiiiAn
example
of
one
of
these
Gateways
is
iiiiA
support
group
involuntary
travellers
Peru. Known as the “Doorway of Aramu Muru” it is
recently produced a best selling pocket book called
purported
another
“That’s the Stile”. This handy volume points out some
dimension. It stands near the border with Bolivia
of the key indicators we should look for that would
on Lake Titicaca where Inca legend says life was
imply one has already had a passing through event
first created on Earth.
that we may not even be aware of. It encourages
iiiiSome travellers to the Peruvian site have talked
people
about
speculation
their
doorway
be
a
passageway
experiences
and
travelling
to
of
falling
through
to
another
the
dimension.
to
possibility
“Accidental
dimension
located in a remote mountain region of southern
to
called
for
always
be
stating: of
“if
having
Parallelism”
prepared we
are
an
with not
its
central
open
involuntary
has
to
the
crossing
One such person, whom we’ll call Jerry as that is
experience, then this can lead us to a place where
his name, said, "My experience here has been
we
fantastic!
ourselves in.”
I
have
actually
been
through
the
can
make
little
sense
of
the
world
we
find
another
iiiiSome of the most common signs this invaluable
dimension." His first words on his return were, "I'm
tome tell us to look out for is a strong feeling of
back." Some doubt Jerry’s story, but those who
being
witnessed his disappearance and re-emergence
disbelief in some of the things we see going on in
have no such doubts. His wife was one of those
the
witnesses. She described how she had seen her
authenticity of the things that surround us. If you
husb
findity of
doorway,
and
I’ve
travelled
to
disconnected,
world
and
an
regular
feelings
unwillingness
to
of
déjà
accept
vu,
the
Bealtaine | 32
find
yourself
saying
things
like…”It’s
a
different
iiiiTo
counter
the
of
conventional
therapists,
like this”; or maybe, “how did that gobshite get to
recently
be president”, then there is a very real chance that
service has proven to be a huge success, with the
you are actually living in an alternate reality, where
organisers saying they are finding it hard to cater
the rules that govern normal society have been
for the volume of callers they’re getting.
distorted,
iiiiThe CEO of the service - herself a committed
in
some
cases
done
away
with
confidential
view
world we’re living in today”; “things shouldn’t be
and
a
narrow
been
set
up
telephone
called
service
has
Lines.”
The
“Parallel
completely.
paralleler - in a recent interview said: “People tell us
iiiiOf course realisation of the possibility of having
the world’s your oyster…but what if you’re hungry?
an inadvertent crossing over experience can be
One oyster isn’t going to do it for you…is it? So why
very
should we settle for one world?”
frightening
anxiety.
for
some
Conventional
and
can
therapies
put
cause in
huge
place
to
iiiiHer arguments have been gaining traction with
deal with this tend to go down the line of trying to
sales
convince an affected individual that there is no
proving particularly popular.
such thing as Stile 13, and that the world they find
iiiiSome
themselves in is actually the only one available.
passed through Stile 13 have become quite vocal
This has brought succour to some, but has also
and public in their defence of the physical existence
upset
of
others,
some
of
whom
have
gone
on
to
of
the
their
of
“I
want
those
who
gateways.
This
has
tee-shirts
to
definitely
led
have
to
degree
debates
iiiiThe symptoms of this condition include a fear of
common. Reality television has also gotten in on the
conventional therapists and also an uncontrollable
act with excitement building in particular about the
compulsion to jump through random gateways and
upcoming shows, “I’m my own parallel person” and
doors.
“I’m a Stile 13er, get me out of here”, where rumour
therapists,
a
the
narrow
confidential
view
of
telephone
conventional service
has
other
platforms
on
talk
of
Claustrophobia”.
counter
appearances
a
celebrity
and
with
claim
Oysters”
develop a new syndrome called “Single Dimension
iiiiTo
status
more
shows,
becoming
quite
has it that Jerry from Peru will be one of guests. iiiiA
documentary
called
I’ve
met
myself
coming
recently been set up called “Parallel Lines.” The
back, all about the travails of a woman called Mary
service has proven to be a huge success, with the
who
organisers saying they are finding it hard to cater
parallel
for the volume of callers they’re getting.
special
iiiiThe CEO of the service - herself a committed
speech largely consisted of her thanking herself and
paralleler - in a recent interview said: “People tell
wishing
us
witness this great honour. She accepted the award
the
world’s
your
oyster…but
what
if
you’re
claims
to
selves,
have has
actually
recently
achievement
that
her
other
met
won
award.
selves
some
the
Her
of
her
academy’s
acceptance
could
be
here
to
hungry? One oyster isn’t going to do it for you…is
on her own behalves.
it? So why should we settle for one world?”
iiiiVeteran Stile 13ers Evangelina and Rebel West,
iiiiHer arguments have been gaining traction with
whose names happen to be an anagram of “well it’s
sales
been average”, are leading the charge to find what
of
their
“I
want
more
Oysters”
tee-shirts
proving particularly popular. iiiiSome
of
those
who
they describe as “The Perfect Parallel”. The premise
claim
to
have
definitely
that
they
have
become
spokespeople
for
passed through Stile 13 have become quite vocal
rationalises that if infinite possible worlds exist, then
and
a perfect world where everything is harmony and
public
existence
of
in
their
the
defence
gateways.
of
This
the has
physical led
to
a
balance
has
to
be
out
there.
The
pair
have
run
degree of celebrity status with appearances on
several well attended seminars on the subject under
talk shows, debates and other platforms becoming
headings such as, “Dimension Ascension” and “You
quite common. Reality television has also gotten in
don’t have to be perfect to be unparalleled”. Their
on the act with excitement building in particular
gatherings have been attracting a growing number
about the upcoming shows, “I’m my own parallel
of people, but the fact that one person’s idea of
Beloved, person” beheld and “I’m a Stile 13er, get me out of here”,
perfection
Ciara Colette where rumourHurley has it that Jerry from Peru will be
tended to dominate discussions.
Bealtaine | 33
iiiiIn
a
may
recent
not
equate
television
to
anyone
interview
else’s
has
Evangelina
and
has
it
that
Jerry
from
Peru
will
be
one
of
the
believe in its existence or not…Stile 13 will present
guests.
itself to you, possibly on several occasions within
iiiiA documentary called I’ve Met Myself Coming
your lifetime…maybe not in gate form…but it will
Back,
called
present itself. All you have to do is leave yourself
Mary who claims to have actually met some of her
open to recognising it, and when you do…well, the
parallel
choices are yours.
all
about
selves,
special
the
has
travails
recently
achievement
of
a
woman
won
award.
the
Her
academy’s
acceptance
speech largely consisted of her thanking herself and wishing that her other selves could be here to witness
this
great
honour.
She
accepted
the
award on her own behalves. iiiiVeteran Stile 13ers Evangelina and Rebel West, whose names happen to be an anagram of “well it’s been average”, are leading the charge to find what they describe as “The Perfect Parallel”. The premise that they have become spokespeople for rationalises
that
if
infinite
possible
worlds
exist,
then a perfect world where everything in harmony and balance has to be out there. The pair have run several under and
well
attended
headings “You
such
don’t
unparalleled”.
seminars as,
have
Their
on
the
“Dimension to
be
subject
Ascension”
perfect
gatherings
to
have
be
been
attracting a growing number of people, but the fact that one person’s idea of perfection may not equate to anyone else’s has tended to dominate discussions. iiiiIn a recent television interview Evangelina and Rebel
were
questioned
about
cross
dimensional
living; “Look, it’s a simple as this,” answered Rebel - who was wearing an “I want more Oysters” tee shirt - “If you want to live in this world…then live in it.
Settle
in…commit.
I’ve
been
through
many
gateways, and you wouldn’t believe the state of some
of
the
dimensions
I’ve
seen.
Who
knows,
faults and all, this might actually be your perfect world.” iiii“But,”
interjected
Evangelina,
“if
you
feel
that
this parallel might not be right for you, and maybe you’ve even been indulging in a bit of crossover behaviour; a foot in many camps so to speak…then I’d suggest it’s time to start looking for your own Stile
13.
When
you
find
it,
then,
if
you’re
brave
enough, all you have to do is take that step.” iiiiSo is Stile 13 for you? Would you like to expand beyond your familiar horizons? Does the idea of stepping through a portal to a different dimension excite
you?
Well…irrespective
of
whether
you
believe in its existence or not…Stile 13 will present cce choices are yours.
Bealtaine | 34
Spring / Earrach Rimmi Islamgalieva
Hurricane
Dark Sky Reserve
You bend time with the force of your cry
On top of the mountain, above the clouds, we lay
Can it be only thirty grains
back on the picnic benches. And wait. Our eyes
Since I have clutched you to me
adjust from the passing headlights to the dark. The
Thrashing and wild,
stars perk up. I see the milky way for the first time.
Force of a hurricane
Do
Child.
constellation. A meteor scratches at the earth’s
not
blink.
atmosphere
Carefully
and
burns
watching
itself
up.
the
Then
Perseus
another.
A blind alchemist, I try every trick
Silent fireworks. I grip the bench, the only thing
In a book I can’t read in the dark:
keeping
Potions and patience, feverish feeding,
Colliding with a shooting star, it sizzles out.
me
here.
A
tear
falls
from
my
eye.
Pleading to your raging heart. Niamh O'Connell Teeth tearing through the surface of you, Your tears and my wordless cry. Sleepwalker ripped from the island of sleep, Weight of a year on my eyes. No mother’s kisses, no father’s touch, No stemming this boiling tide; Your tiny craft slipped away from its mooring, Nothing to soothe you but time.
I wait in the dark, holding my breath Until yours at last steadies and slows. Nerves on the outside, Grateful for silence,
Opening a Termite Mound
Wanting to leave,
Northern Australia
Cannot go. I shove a crooked stick in the crust Your sleeping is fitful, little red gums
of the driest looking mound,
Inflamed with the pain you can’t say.
stirring ancient dust that stings my eyes.
I wait till it’s safe, peer at your face,
No dead thing rises from this tomb:
Guiltily tiptoe away.
life itself comes pouring out
Knowing the storm is far from being over,
cool and damp in tiny white packets,
Sleeplessly straining to hear.
guarding its treasure with pincers and riddles,
Counting the minutes remaining till morning,
life that is older than dinosaurs
The ghost of your cry in my ear.
but will still be new when we are gone.
Jennifer O'Neill Kaan
Stuart Flynn
Bealtaine | 36
Unloading A woman comes home full of a hundred thoughts. The countertop clean as when she left it, the dumping ground for post, keys, broken things and lists. She puts down her bag,
her
phone
and
her
mask
-
her
holy
trinity.
She
unloads the shopping experience; the disinfectant smell lingering in her nose like thoughts of third class P.E at the pool, the sight of the shop security letting people in and out with gestures and clickers.
She recalls the man who stood too close, who called her “an erratic woman” when she asked him to step back. Did he mean neurotic? Her meal planned trolley was far from
erratic,
separated
into
food
groups,
neatly
arranged. It was easy to feel in control of such caged things.
She
hung
back
from
this
man
and
felt
an
aubergine - remembered how her youngest child took a bite out of one once, back when you could bring the kids with you in store. Before one per trolley policy.
She is notified of deaths and cases and lockdowns rolling like hills. She forgot to get the birthday cake for doing the candles over Zoom. She voice notes her husband - a thumbs up reply.
She unpacks her reusable bags full of good food and healthy snacks and nothing she chose for herself. There is a
bottle
of
wine
she
bought
for
the
weekend.
It's
Tuesday, but it's felt like the longest week. She pours and drinks and washes the glass straight away. Tidies her countertop
again,
googles
'erratic'
again,
reads
the
headlines again, waits for the kids again, for her husband to come in with the latest reports from RTE Radio 1. She shakes her head at the figures and developments, as if she hasn't refreshed her app a hundred times today.
She chops the courgette so small they won't even notice it. She steadies her hand and tries not to pull away from human contact when her husband brushes against it. The kids line up at the sink like little cadets and scrub their hands for at least twenty seconds each, singing songs that have lost all meaning.
Alison Driscoll
Bealtaine | 37
Paris Window 4 Conor Horgan
The Hottest Month
treatment for melanoma and twice a day my father gave her an injection in the thigh. The medicine was some sort of nasty stuff. Slowly, at first, and then remarkably
quickly,
my
mother
transformed.
In
January, when first diagnosed, she was still plump and fearless; by March, she was shockingly thin, frail and easily tired. Many days she was short-tempered
Madeline Beach Carey
with Darío and me and then suddenly tender, snotnosed and apologizing, begging us for forgiveness
I
iiiiiiialways
imagined
Sinéad
as
very
young
and
like a little girl.
much shorter than my parents, but when she arrived
iiiiWhen
that morning she was taller than I’d expected and
market they went right to the kitchen to unpack the
older too. I ran down to greet her before anyone
groceries and I remember, very clearly, not wanting
else. Some neighborhood kids had gathered around
Sinéad to leave, wanting her stay with me and Lola,
as she pulled her suitcase out of the taxi; no one in
out on the terrace, away from everyone. But after a
our neighborhood ever took taxis. Our building was
few minutes, Sinéad convinced me to let Lola rest in
full of African immigrants and old Spanish women
her shoebox. We ventured into the kitchen, which is
who
when I realized for the first time that my mother
lived
off
state
pensions
or
people
like
my
Darío
and
Papa
came
home
from
the
parents who were down on their luck. When our
might die.
neighbors went to the airport, my father drove them
iiiiIt
in the Kangoo and sometimes Darío and I rode in
Sinéad and held himself up, his hands behind him
the back, rolling around with all their luggage.
grabbing the kitchen counter, tears in his eyes. And
iiiiAs soon as she saw me, Sinéad smiled in a way
how Sinead hugged him without saying anything,
that
from
not saying his name the way she had repeated my
Mama’s stories. She picked me up, or tried to. My
mother’s or mine. I wanted to throw something at
feet touched her ankles; my head hit right at her
both
chest.
weakness and emotion.
iiii“África,” she said. “África Miguel.”
iiiiWhile the adults sat in the kitchen drinking coffee
I
recognized
from
photographs
and
was
of
how
my
them,
so
father
angry
buckled
was
I
at
when
that
he
saw
show
of
taxi,
and talking, I tried to teach Lola to fly. I’d only found
realizing that this woman knew me, that she was
her two days before and her wing was still broken.
ours.
But it didn’t go well, and she just flopped about on
iiiiSinéad kept hold of my hand as she lugged her
the terracotta floor.
bag up the three flights of stairs. When she saw
iiiiBecause we had a guest, my father said we could
Mama, shrunken, waiting in the doorway, she didn’t
go out for lunch, down to the place near Antonia
react as dramatically as so many other visitors had.
María’s where they served the best pescaito. Under
She just kept her cheek against my mother’s cheek
normal circumstances I would have been thrilled,
for a few seconds and said, “Mari Luz, Mari Luz,” in
but that day I was angry that Lola would not be
her gentle, accented Spanish.
allowed at the restaurant.
iiiiThe
onlookers
iiiiStraight
away
stepped
I
pulled
away
Sinéad
from
the
away
from
my
iiii“She can wait in the car,” Darío suggested.
mother and ushered her out to the terrace to show
iiiiSinéad
her Lola, my new pet sparrow. At first, I sensed that
spoke,
Sinéad was scared of the bird, that, like Rita from
stupidity sent me into a rage.
downstairs, she might have feared contracting lice
iiii“She’ll suffocate in this heat!” I screamed.
or
eventually,
iiiiMy father asked me to take a deep breath.
hand
iiiiMama slammed her bedroom door and appeared
some
Sinéad
other
cupped
sort the
of
parasite.
bird
in
her
But own
and
smiled
and
her
at
my
smile
father
and
my
when
my
brother’s
brother extreme
patiently gave her water from the syringe.
a few minutes later wearing a jeans skirt, a wide-
iiiiThat summer we had plenty of syringes because
brimmed hat, and bright red lipstick.
my
iiiiSinéad, you need a hat for the sun? It’s brutal out
mother
was
very
sick.
She
was
undergoing
treatment for melanoma and twice a day my father Bealtaine | 39 gave her
an injection in the thigh. The medicine
there,” she said.
there,” she said. iiiiHer
eyes
iiiiMama was having fun and I was glad, yet wary of a
that.
She
joint. Her own little bird legs stuck out beneath the
from
years
skirt, making everyone nervous.
before Mama knew my father or had even moved
iiiiMy father was already pulling the car around
away from home. Way before Mama had moved to
and no one was paying the least bit of attention to
Barcelona and shared a flat with Sinéad, she had
me
studied in Italy for two years during university.
or
were
cared
moist
one
bit
with
the
about
afterglow
Lola.
of
Sinéad
sat
kept
telling
back,
Sinéad
before
stories
Sinéad
about
lived
in
Italy,
Spain,
between my brother and me. It was so hot in the
iiii“What were you doing then, José?” Sinéad asked.
car that we could hardly breathe.
iiii“I don’t know. Pretending to be an artist. Chasing
iiii“It takes a few minutes for the a/c to kick in,” my
girls,” my father answered.
father said.
iiii“You
iiiiI looked out the window and sulked while Sinéad
mother
read a book to Darío. She was a dramatic reader,
hardware store.”
inventing exotic accents for animals and magical
iiiiThe
creatures. It was a silly picture book with rhyming
charming
poems and she stumbled over some of the words,
realized that Sinéad, despite being blonde, wasn’t
but my brother was enchanted by her, clasping his
quite so young or quite so new to Spain, or maybe
¡
lived
in
Granada
countered.
food
“He
arrived.
the
with
worked
The
second
then
dark
time
at
Paula,” his
waiter
around.
my
father’s
wasn’t Maybe
as he
hands together and saying, “ Sigue!”
he just had a lot of customers. My father asked for
iiiiMy parents didn’t speak to each other or to me.
another big beer for himself and two small ones for
Sinéad
Sinéad and my mother.
and
Darío
were
enough
for
them,
I
suppose. They were probably thrilled that someone
iiii“I guess África will have to drive us home,” he
new was reading all those silly rhymes. When we
said.
had parked the car, Darío wanted to bring the
iiiiMama slapped my hand because I was eating the
book to the restaurant, but Sinead promised him
squid and tiny fish too fast. She was oblivious to the
they would continue reading after lunch, as she
fact that Darío and I were bored out of our minds. I
unbuckled
stuffed
his
car
seat
and
kissed
him
on
the
more
battered
fish
into
my
mouth
and
cheek. He was much more easily consoled about
announced that I was going to the bathroom.
leaving the book for later than I had been about
iiii“Can you go yourself?” Mama asked me. “Do you
leaving Lola. But then, in my case, we were talking
want Sinéad to go with you?”
about
iiii“I need to go too,” my brother said.
a
living,
breathing
being
who
had
never
been left alone before.
iiiiHe hadn’t touched his food and I glared at the
iiiiWe sat outside at a table where my mother and I
fish and bright green peppers on his plate.
could fit under the shade of the awning, but the
iiii“Take Darío,” my father said. “Please, África, don’t
others were left out under the hot sun.
make that face! Just give us a break!”
iiii“We’re outside,” I said. “Lola could have come.”
iiiiThere was a line for the ladies’ and as we waited
iiiiSinéad promised my mother it was fine, that she
against the cool tile wall Darío kept singing a song
was wearing sun cream and beamed, without even
he’d
flinching, as the dark waiter flirted with her, serving
absolutely crazy.
her
iiiiA round old woman smiled at him. “How old is
beer
first,
welcoming
her
to
Malaga.
My
learned
at
school.
He
was
driving
me
parents and, so it seemed, all the other adults at
he?” she asked.
the restaurant got drunk and loud quickly, even
iiii“Four,” my brother answered.
before the pescaito had arrived. Sinéad tried her
iiii“A beautiful boy,” she said. “Look at those lashes.”
best to stay in my good graces, glancing over at
iiii“I’ve decided I don’t have to go,” my brother said.
me a few times, asking if I wanted Fanta or juice,
iiiiI headed into the stall and yelled for Darío to wait
but I remained guarded, having seen how quickly
where I could see his feet. He, of course, walked off.
she had traded me and Lola for Darío and Darío
When I finished peeing I burst out of the stall, into
for beer, and the waiter and that flush of male
the
attention.
humming to himself and watching the waiters push
Mama was having fun and I was glad, yet weary of
through the kitchen door carrying steaming piles of
that. She kept telling Sinéad stories about Italy,
fried seafood. Before he could see me, IBealtaine grabbed | 40
tiny
hallway
where
my
beautiful
brother
was
Tread Softly Claire Murphy
through the kitchen door carrying steaming piles of
bottled water, so I gulped Fanta Limón out of the
fried seafood. Before he could see me, I grabbed
large
Darío, pushed him against the wall and began to
morning.
tighten my hand around his tiny throat.
iiiiMy parents’ door was open and I could see my
iiiiIt wasn’t the waiters or the kitchen workers who
father sleeping with his mouth wide open, beads of
stopped
sweat at his hairline. He looked like he could sleep
me,
but
Sinéad,
who
was
heading
towards the bathroom door. iiii“África,” from
she
Darío’s
said
neck.
as
for
she
“Go
removed
back
to
the
my
fingers
table
right
now.”
plastic
days.
bottle
From
my
the
father
kitchen,
I
had
bought
heard
that
Mama
and
Sinéad whispering. They were curled up together on the sofa eating sweets that Sinéad had brought from Barcelona. Years later, recalling snippets of their conversation, I can almost begin to make sense
iiiiWhen we got home, my father said it was time to
of what I heard: that Sinéad had “lost” two babies
practice music. I was supposed to be practicing
and that she was very much in love with a man who
the cello an hour a day that summer. Papa had
had two babies himself and a very beautiful wife.
worked
iiii“Where is she from?” my mother asked, giddy with
overtime
at
the
post
office
so
that
we
could rent the instrument for the whole vacation.
the
The cello and the fact that I could sort of play it
information.
gave my father immense happiness. Around the
iiiiSinéad answered too loudly, laughing so hard she
time
started to cough, “Napoli!”
my
mother
had
gotten
sick,
he
had
come
intimacy
of
female
company
and
so
much
home and announced that Señor Muñoz had said
iiiiMy mother laughed so hard I thought she might
that I was a very strong player, that my parents
choke too. “Oh watch out, bonita. If they find out,
should even consider sending me to private classes
her family will kill you both!”
in
mother’s
iiiiAfter so much laughter, and the pescaito and the
diagnosis, my father focused on music. It was as if
sun and the beers and my nasty behavior, Mama
a nine-year-old girl playing an instrument gave him
needed a three-hour nap, so Darío, Papa, Sinéad,
hope against illness and his general unluckiness in
and I took a long walk around the neighborhood.
life. He instilled in me the power of culture over
There
barbarism, as if my playing could help us escape
playground, just cement and high-rise buildings, and
poverty
a few wheelchair ramps that I liked to ride my bike
the
evenings.
and
And
so,
corruption,
despite
Andalusia,
my
provincialism,
wasn’t
anywhere
nice
to
walk:
no
park
or
and maybe even fate itself.
straight down, no brakes. As Darío and I rode up
iiiiOn the way to a Wednesday evening class with
and down the ramp in front of the medical center,
the new private cello teacher, Papa had said, one
my father talked to Sinéad more than I had ever
day we’ll go to Barcelona, stay with Sinéad and
heard him talk to anyone. It was strange but not
see a real orchestra play, with the violins and the
alarming. He told her about Mama’s illness and he
violas and the cellos. Thus, I associated Sinéad
even talked about me, about how I was stubborn
with
and hard to handle, just like Mari Luz, too smart.
music,
urbanity,
refinement,
cultural
sophistication—everything my parents assured me
iiiiHe helped Darío balance out his training wheels
the North meant. But when I played for her in the
and
living room, she looked tired and distant.
changes. And well, now this.”
iiiiShe clapped when I had finished and said, “Oh
iiiiSinéad didn’t tell my father many things. I’m not
José!” as if my father had been the one playing.
sure, even to this day, that he knew about the lost
iiiiAfter
knew,
babies or the man with the Italian wife. She was
everyone supposedly took a siesta: Sinéad on the
different with him than she was with my mother; she
sofa, my parents in their bedroom, Darío in our
just listened. She also decided things: to buy us ice
room, and me out on the terrace with Lola. I woke
cream,
up hot and thirsty and wandered into the kitchen
morning, that we should walk and not ride our bikes
for water. It was maybe five o’clock by then, still
across
deathly
brothers the whole way back to the house, about
I
had
hot
in
played
the
the
three
apartment.
songs
We
were
I
out
of
bottled water, so I gulped Fanta Limón out of the large
plastic
bottle
my
father
had
bought
that
said
to
to
the
Sinéad,
get
“With
bread
street.
My
and
kids,
your
water
father
for
talked
whole
the
about
life
next
his
why Bealtaine | 42
why he worried about each one. Sinéad knew their
iiii“He’s fine,” she said, but it sounded like she was
names and the names of all their wives.
going to cry.
iiiiBy 8:30 that evening, Lola was able to fly from
iiiiWe weren’t off the highway, when suddenly I felt
one end of the terrace to the other and Papa said
sick to my stomach. It came on like it had sometimes
she might be able to fly away soon, which sent me
in school: I felt warm all over and dizzy. I knew what
into
was coming: the surge, the humiliation, the joyful
a
fit.
I
buried
my
head
in
the
sofa
while
everyone else got ready to go to the beach.
release. Just the week before I had vomited on the
iiiiSinéad thought it was hilarious that we didn’t go
private cello teacher.
to the beach until nearly nine p.m.
iiii“Mama,” I said.
iiii“It’s too hot before that,” Papa insisted.
iiiiBut there was no time for anyone to do anything,
iiiiHe was right about the heat. The sand was still
for Papa to pull over or for me to stick my head out
eerily warm when we got there. It was low tide
the window, or even for Sinéad to pull my hair back,
and the sea was gray, calm and flat. The water
so I panicked and turned and puked all over her.
wasn’t
out
iiiiDarío stirred but fell back asleep. Mama said it
across the sandbar, so happy to be swimming with
was because I had eaten the pescaito in such a
Mama, her body thin, her skin almost translucent.
hurry.
Diving into the tiny waves, she looked like she was
iiii“It’s
only a few years older than me, maybe fourteen,
looked like she might throw up too.
topless, flat-chested, and sinewy. Sinéad, on the
iiiiWhen we parked a few streets away from our
other hand, looked like a woman in her bathing
house, Papa put his hand on my forehead. Mama,
suit. She stood in the shallow water next to Papa,
exhausted, headed inside.
watching Darío intently as he practiced dunking
iiii“Get Darío,” Sinéad told him. “I’ll carry África.”
his head under and blowing bubbles. Her body was
iiii“She’s
really
round and full in all the places my mother’s had
latched
onto
once been: breasts, belly, hips, and pear-shaped
puke, she didn’t flinch as I settled into her and she
thighs.
even
iiiiBy the time we had rinsed off and dried our feet
around her waist.
it was pitch black and each and every one of us
iiii“We’re
was exhausted in our own way and for our own
promised me.
reasons. Personally, I had been up since six a.m.
iiiiSinéad struggled as she carried me up the stairs.
with Lola and hadn’t had much of a siesta at all.
She stopped a few times and we readjusted. Once
Darío was asleep on Sinéad’s shoulder before we
we got inside, Papa had the shower going and was
had pulled out of the parking lot.
telling me to hop in with Darío. Mama was changing
any
cooler
iiiiThere
was
leading
back
than
air.
ran
between
stroked
heavy,” Sinéad’s
my
gonna
hair
get
my
father
neck.
as
said,
but
sweet
in
my
legs
girl,”
she
the next morning. She had a meeting downtown
vomit, and then just up the stairs, Sinéad was all
and a flight out right afterwards.
mine.
like
a
woman
anymore.
Apparently, she was only matronly in a bathing suit, and compared to my mother. In the backseat of the car, with her wet hair and navy-blue, zip-up sweatshirt, she looked like a girl, like the girl Mama had talked about so many times: innocent, serious, preoccupied.
My
father
caught
her
eye
in
the
rearview mirror. iiii“And Gabi?” he asked, referring to Sinéad’s exhusband. “He’s fine,” she said, but it sounded like she was Bealtaine 43 going| to
cry.
shoebox
was
covered
adjusted
up,
I
She
wine. But for that walk from the car, all covered in
look
Lola’s
Sinéad.
Already
she
cleaned
in
said
from a weekend away. Sinéad would be leaving
didn’t
towels
seats,”
Sinéad that in a while they would have a glass of
people
paper
the
home
city,
the
in
coming
the
the
all
road
to
along
We
national
iiiiSinéad
traffic
the
and
telling
Meet the
CREATIVES David Butler is an Irish writer whose previous novel
Jenny Darmody
City
of
of
Dis,
published
by
New
Island,
was
sci-tech
is a journalist and deputy editor
news
site,
Year
acting,
Review, Sonder Magazine and Honey & Lime. She
directing, as well as set-building for theatre. His
takes inspiration from her writing group, Writers Ink,
insomnia
and from her job to combine sci-fi elements into
grow
He
allows
steadily
has
the
into
a
little
stories.
passion
voices His
for
in
his
head
forthcoming
to
short
her
work.
story collection, Fugitive, is soon to be published
Delegates
by
Follow
Arlen
House.
He
currently
lives
in
Bray,
Co.
Wicklow.
Jenny at
was
the
the
one
of
Dublin
in
four
Book
Meath-based
The
Her
previous
2015.
appear
Republic.
shortlisted for the Kerry Group Irish Novel of the in
publications
Silicon
Galway
Young
Festival
writer
Writer
in
on
2018.
@Jenny_Darmody.
Madeline Beach Carey,
recipient
of
several
Eilis de Faoite
graduated
from
the
National
writing awards and fellowships, is the author of the
College of Art & Design, Dublin in 1990. She was
story collection Les filles dels altres. She has been
awarded
writing since approximately the age of eight and
undertook an MA in Sculpture Studies at University
believes that daily rituals are key to channeling
of Leeds. Her work in education, which primarily
inspiration. Currently, Carey teaches at the Irish
focused
Writers Centre and is finishing her first novel. These
society, led to a range of professional roles. Her
days she writes from her Barcelona rooftop.
work
a
on
Henry
the
reflects
Moore
more
the
Scholarship
marginalised
vulnerability,
and
learners
fragility
in
and
resilience of humans, in response to grief, loss and
Shaw Chard writing
on
is a Canadian artist who has been
and
off
for
as
long
as
she
longing. Follow her on Instagram @eilis_de_faoite.
can
remember. Her inspiration is derived mostly from
Damien B. Donnelly
the people and connections in her life. She feels
between hosting and producing the Eat the Storms
grateful to the people in her life and especially to
poetry podcast, painting, and making very good
her
will
carrot cake. His two poetry collections, Eat the
always represent a guiding light to her. You can
Storms and Stickleback, are both published by The
follow
Hedgehog Press. You can follow him on Instagram
late
mother,
her
on
who
passed
in
2016,
and
who
on
@shawchard. She is currently based in Belfast.
@damiboy,
is a poet whose time is split
@deuxiemepeau,
or
TikTok
@eatthestorms.
Mary Coen
is an artist and photographer, hailing
from Ballina. She received her BA in Visual Arts
Alison Driscoll
Practice
Creative Writing from UCC where she received the
from
Dun
Laoghaire
IADT
in
2009,
BA
disciplines to create multimedia images which has
Writer in Residence at the Molly Keane House. She
been
photography
on
her
workshop
facilitator
and
regular
has
been
art
and
is
@marycoenart,
and
national Arts events. You can stay up to date with
@marycoenphotography. She is currently based in
a
work
MA
featured online and in print. She is the current
Follow
Her
and
into photography in 2011, before combining both
since.
Scholar.
English
title
practice
College
a
specialising in painting originally. She expanded
her
of
holds
reader
at
her on Twitter @AlisonDriscoll5.
Mayo.
Bealtaine | 44
Daniel Durand Wicklow.
is a queer writer hailing from Co.
They
are
a
great
admirer
of
Alice
Conor Horgan filmmaker
is a self-taught photographer and
(most
recently
with
The
Queen
of
Oswald, Seamus Heaney, and Ocean Vuong. Their
Ireland, 2015). He was artist in residence in the
work is themed around the idea of relationships
Irish
and the connections that they bring. They currently
subsequently stayed on in Paris for two years. His
live in Dublin where they are studying for a degree
portrait
in journalism at DCU. Follow their poetry journey
commission to make a permanent installation in
on
the Irish Cultural Centre of 18 large-scale portraits
@daniels_poem
and
@daniels_poems.
Cultural
work
Centre
there
in
Paris
led
to
in
En
2017
-
and
Résidence,
a
of former artists-in-residence which will open to the public in November.
Stuart Flynn
was born in Australia to Irish parents.
Creativity is hugely important to him as he has
Eleanor Hulm
been a jazz musician his entire life, and has been
background in Physics. She draws her inspiration
writing seriously for twenty years. He is inspired by
from the intersections between art, science, music,
the natural world, and his poetry reflects that. His
technology,
poems have appeared in Cyphers and Abridged.
technique, she is still experimenting with
You
find her place in the art-world.
can
follow
him
on
@scyflynn,
or
a.k.a. 'LNR' is an visual artist with a
nature
and
activism.
As
for
her
styles to
@flynnsc on Instagram. He currently lives in Dublin.
Ciara Colette Hurley Bernadette Gallagher
is a Cork-based poet who
Her
greatest
is a fine art photographer.
interests
in
life
are
spirituality,
has been writing since she was a teenager. Her
meditation, and spending time in nature. As a child
inspiration lies in gardening, cycling, and being in
and
nature. She believes cutting briars is the perfect
which she has learned to overcome through her
meditation.
been
spiritual practice and artistic outlet. In her own
recorded by the University College Dublin Poetry
words, “the emotional alchemy I have carried out
Archive, and she has been invited to read her work
since has been my inspiration.” Follow her journey
in Ireland, UK, US, and at the Sahitya Akademi in
@ciaracolette.fineart on Instagram. She is currently
New Delhi, India. Follow her on Twitter @cornagcat.
based in Co. Cork.
Sophie Greer-Sanders
Linda Ibbotson is
A
selection
of
her
work
has
grew up on the shores of
in
her
teenage
years,
she
suffered
abuse
a poet, artist and photographer
Lough Derg, and works in the Graphics department
from the UK, currently residing in Co. Cork. Her
of an archaeology company in Wicklow, producing
wanderlust and love of classical piano has taken
maps. Her poetry and her work in this regard share
her around the world to photograph events. Her
the
of
work has been published internationally, including
Her work has been featured
in The Irish Times, Irish Examiner, Poethead, and
in in the anthology of new Tipperary Writing, Vessel
more. Most invaluably, she finds listening to other
of
poets a great inspiration. She writes a poetry and
common
themes
human connections.
Voices.
You
of
can
tracing
follow
her
the
on
origins
@sophie_sanders_poet.
arts blog: ‘Contemplating the Muse.' Follow her on Instagram
Áine Hayden work
has
is a photographer, and most of her
been
taken
while
travelling
around
Ireland in a VW camper with her family for the past nineteen heroic,
years. yet
Her
work
sometimes
draws
lonely
on
the
quietly
landscapes
and
people of Ireland. Her postcards have appeared in The Winding Stair Book Shop
and in the Dublin
Food Co-op. You can follow her photography on Instagram @ainehayden.iiiiiiii
Bealtaine | 45
@lindaibbotsonpoet
@lindaibbotson
and
Rimma Islamgalieva graduated from the Moscow
Kiera McCarrick. To protect her privacy Bealtaine
State University of Print Arts with a degree in book
have not published any biographical information.
graphics,
and
worked
as
a
freelancer
before
becoming a mom and moving to Ireland (where
Siobhán McLaughlin
she's heard mythical creatures live). Now learning
writer from Co. Donegal. Her inspiration is derived
Irish, her hope is to clean up Phoenix Park to invite
from moments of emotional magnitude which only
the fairies back. Follow her creative journey on
poetry
Instagram @selkie_wife, or follow her Flickr @unari
published in The Honest Ulsterman, The Ekphrastic
to read her book of Irish fairy tales. She currently
Review, and Drawn to the Light. She is a creative
lives in Dublin.
writing
can
is an English graduate and
capture.
facilitator
Her
and
poems
creative
have
arts
been
enthusiast.
Follow her on Twitter @siobhan347.
Lucia Kent
grew up between Calabria, Italy, and
Waterford.
Having
two
languages
has
made
Calvin McManus
is a graduate of Applied Music
writing a mainstay of her life, and her connection
at Dundalk Institute of Technology. He has spent
to writing has been so strong over the years that it
the
feels like a reflex. Her inspiration doesn't come in
scene performing, writing and teaching music. He
lightning-strikes but in banks of mist whose origin
is currently a member of independent Irish band
and duration are hard to judge - all that is certain
‘Priorland’ to which he devotes his songwriting and
is that she'll need some paper and a pen. She is
performance
captivated by birds, plants, and the sea, because
Cavan.
last
five
years
in
Dundalk
energies.
He
within
currently
the
music
lives
in
Co.
based
in
Co.
they always bring her to nostalgic realms. She's
Claire Murphy
currently based in Co. Cork.
Kildare.
Aisling Larkin
is a freelance photographer based
She
is
is
a
visual
mainly
artist
interested
in
figurative
painting and portraiture, and has spent the last
in Dublin. She has been working in the medium for
few
years
exploring
and
developing
a
personal
five years and has recently branched out into the
style of portraiture that she hopes delicately and
world of 35mm film photography. Her work tends
beautifully captures aspects of the spirit of the
to focus on magical moments in nature and the
sitter. Follow her on Instagram @clairemurphyart.
often overlooked beauty in everyday life. Follow
Roisin Ní Neachtain
her Instagram @aisling_larkin.
is an emerging autistic poet
and artist based in Co. Kildare. Her work hopes to
Orlaith Lowry
Pre-
reduce memories and perceptions of landscapes
pandemic, travel and experiencing other cultures
down to simple shapes, marks and 'shadows' using
is what made her happy. Now, her favourite place
a
to be is
Strandhill, Sligo. Nothing cheers her up
previously appeared in Ropes, Indelible, Beir Bua
more than a walk on the beach. Colour is what
and Drawn to the Light. She is currently working on
inspires her to draw; the warm harmonious feeling
her first collection of poetry. Follow her on Twitter
of
@starsandmud.
stained
is
glass
an
illustrator
windows
from
are
Sligo.
always
floating
limited
colour
palette.
Her
paintings
have
around her head, and she hopes to emulate them.
Róisín Nolan
Follow her work on Instagram @ulla_designs.
a.k.a.
Roosh
Mulan,
is
a
multi-
disciplinary creative from Dublin. Analog collage is
Jaki McCarrick
is
an
award-winning
writer
of
the answer to airing her frustrations with social,
plays, poetry and fiction. On the basis of her debut
gender
collection,
the
Vancouver
The
renewed, and began constructing collages from
Naturalists premiered in 2018 in New York to rave
an intersectional feminist lens that are critical of
reviews. Jaki is currently working on her second
the Irish government, capitalism, and Catholicism.
inaugural
Jaki Irish
was
longlisted
Fiction
in
Laureate.
2014 Her
for
play
collection of short fiction and her first novel. She
and
political
for
two
norms.
years,
Having
she
felt
lived
in
artistically
Follow her on Instagram @rooshmulan.
currently lives in Dundalk. Follow her on Instagram @jaki_mac.
Bealtaine | 46
Niamh O’Connell from
Newcastle
power
an
holds an MA in Writing Poetry
University.
hour-long
She
daily
believes
walk
can
in
the
confer
to
Alexandra Pud
is a Russian graphic designer, and
illustrator who has been based in Dublin for the last
three
years.
inspired
Moscow’s industrial landscape to Dublin, and with
in UCC’s The Quarryman. She currently resides in
that she decided she’d like to see it for herself.
Cork.
She has more than ten years experience in multiple
Aghogho Sophie Okpara is
inspired
equality
by
and
the
true
is a writer whose work
values
of
pursuing
self-expression.
visual
who
Steve
this in her work. She has previously been published
a
illustrator,
by
Simpson,
as
Irish
was
commune with nature, and she hopes to impart
scopes
an
She
designer.
compared
Follow
her
on
Instagram @alexandrapud.
justice,
Most
of
her
Grace Sampson
is a poet from Co. Limerick who
inspiration to write comes to her from Jesus and his
invokes Irishness and growth within her work. She
teachings. She has a passion for content creation,
had a selection of poems published in The Galway
whether that's on the blog she has kept for the last
Review,
ten years, or shooting and producing videos for her
book on the experimentalism of Thom Gunn. Her
YouTube
inspiration comes from friends, her psyche, and the
channel
It's
Aghogho.
Follow
her
Instagram @itsaghogho.
and
is
a
collaborator
on
an
upcoming
Irish nature. She is working on her first collection of poetry.
Ger O'Malley
is
originally
from
Dublin
but
now
lives in a railway cottage near Miltown Malbay in
Ruth Seavers
west Clare. He's an avid reader who finds that a
writer living with her girlfriend in Dublin. A Media,
good story which lingers with you long after you've
Culture
finished
most
interest in all things pop culture of both high and
motivating reasons to write. He has co-written a
low brow. She finds the dichotomy between both
play called Stages, been writing songs for thirty
brows of particular interest. Fond of cheese.
years,
reading
and
is
it
to
currently
be
one
of
developing
the
a
film
&
is
a
Journalism
twenty-nine
graduate,
year
she
old
has
a
baby
keen
idea
Annemarie Stanley
around a story of mythological Ireland.
is an artist who grew up in
New York, was educated in Ireland, and is now
Jennifer O'Neill Kaan
is an Irish poet, singer and
based in Cork city where she has a studio. Her
teacher
and
Sussex,
technique of fusing legal texts with oil paintings
England for ten years. She has stolen moments
aims to explore the effect of law on society. She is
between
the
currently working on a series to be exhibited in
happy chaos of raising her two boys, to write. Her
Germany in 2021. You can follow her on Instagram
poetry
@a.stanleyartist.
from
Louth,
singing
seeks
parent-child
to
in
the
has
band,
explore
lived
Caveau,
questions
relationships
in
and
of
the
and
identity,
weight
of
history. Follow her on Instagram @jenniferkaan.
Thady Trá
has
found
solace
this
past
year
in
printing his work in his darkroom in Clonakilty, Co.
Nathanael O’Reilly
is an Irish-Australian residing
Cork. His photos have been featured in The West
in Texas, and has been writing for more than thirty
Cork People, Irish Times, and Irish Examiner.
years. His most recent books include (Un)belonging
always has at least some sort of camera by his
and
have
side, be it film or digital, but one place he always
appeared in journals & anthologies published in
finds himself taking photos is the beach. Follow
thirteen
him on Instagram @thadytraphoto.
BLUE.
More
than
countries.
200
Follow
of
his
him
poems
on
@nathanael_73.
Simpson,
an
Irish
illustrator,
who
compared
Moscow’s industrial landscape to Dublin, and with that she decided she’d like to see it for he an Irish illustrator, Bealtaine | 47
who
compared
Moscow’s
industrial
landscape to Dublin, and with that she decided
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Our focus is on all things intersectional, inclusive, environmental, and empowering. We prize the values which go into making art for art’s sake. And we would like that to shine through. Whether it's scribbling or philosophical musings, we want to hear your voice out!
Special thanks to Rory O'Connor, whose IT wizardry and attention to detail are the reason our website exists. Thank you to Lucia Moreno Montero for the beautiful design of our logo. Thanks to our families for encouraging and inspiring us. Thank you to Corrinna Rath for her amazing friendship, critical eye, and hearty meals. Thank you to Sara O'Connor for her help with proofreading. Thank you to Poetry Ireland for supporting us through advertising submissions details. Finally, thank you for reading.
We are based in Co. Cork, Ireland.
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