thefirstcut #1 by Mike Gallagher

thefirstcut #1

Introduction Hello, For a number of years, a group of writers have met at regular intervals in Listowel. The genesis of the group was a workshop, facilitated by Paddy Bushe. and the highlight of the weekend turned out to be a poem called 'The First Cut' by Hilary Murrane from Sandycove in Dublin. This was the first workshop for most of those present and, despite Paddy's easy-going manner, the weekend had proved somewhat stressful, especially for the less experienced among us. At the end of Hilary's poem, we looked at Paddy Bushe, Paddy looked back at us and Hilary looked , well, ... pensive. Eventually someone giggled and, suddenly, all that pent-up tension dissipated itself through the room in gales of laughter. For the first time, many of us realised that not only could poetry be utterly incomprehensible, it could also be very funny. There was no going back, we were hooked. The workshop ended and the visiting participants scattered. We have not had any contact with Hilary Murrane since then, but, still wandering around Sandycove, I hope, is a lovely lady who is probably completely unaware of the ongoing hours of pleasure she bequeathed to a gaggle of poets in Listowel. And, if by any chance, you become aware of this, Hilary, please get in touch. We would love to publish 'The First Cut' , with your permission. In any case, it will live on in the title of this magazine. That was 2003. Since then, we have grown together as writers. A few of us have been published, others have been nominated for national awards, but, most important of all, is the sense of comradeship our common love of writing has fostered. Our strength has been a collective tolerance of the individual foibles that occur in any group and a mutual desire to support each other with criticism that is genuinely constructive. It is expected that most of our contributors will be local writers; however, as an ezine, the world is, literally, our oyster. With that in mind, please write; we give you our welcome, we welcome your genius. And, Hilary Murrane, Please write!

Contents Introduction

Editorial

Contributors: Louis Mulcahy

5-7

Stephen Connaughton

8,9

Noel King

Owen Durack

Tom Moloney

12-15

Claire O'Keefe

Richard O'Toole

17,18

Mattie Lennon

19-21

John McGrath

22,23

Mike McHugh

24,25

Joe Healy

26,27

Margaret Sheehan

Angela Macari O'Looney

Mike Gallagher

30,31

Kevin Griffin

32,33

Mary Lavery Carrig

34,35

dippingthepen

And the other stuff 100 Thousand Poets for Change

Useful Links

Submission Guidelines

We would like to thank all our contributors.

Editorial What is thefirstcut? Where has it come from? It is a variant of the traditional writers group using new media. It is a place where contributors can display their work, discuss where it came from, where it took them, its form or lack of form; the merits or demerits of rhyme and rhythm. It is the free-wheeling gaggle of writers adjourned to the bar after the reading has ended. It is a group of friends, their friendship forged through years of developing together as writers, their craft honed in an atmosphere of positive criticism and mutual respect , while, at the same time, acknowledging the divergence of talent. Come and join us. Writing, by its nature, is a lonely pursuit. We would like you to feel that thefirstcut is a safe haven in a storm, a place for a bit of repartee and a font of advice and information. Most of all, we hope it will be fun.

Our Team: Mike Gallagher Louis Mulcahy Mary Lavery Carrig John McGrath Margaret Sheehan Joe Healy Tom Moloney

Louis Mulcahy I am submitting an Irish and English version of an old poem from 2006. I had just begun to write poetry then. My translations are never very accurate------------possibly because I am not a native Irish speaker and despite the fact that I use it in daily life, when it comes to more intellectual activity I just donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have the fluency. When translating into or out of Irish I go for the feeling and the rough narrative. Anyhow, I am sending you this to see if there are any useful criticisms.

Casán Na Naomh Domhnach, Is gaoth ón Mol ag faire ar a seans Chun tabhairt faoi aon chorp lag, I ngan fhios do ghrian an gheimreadh Nach mbíonn riamh ard. Go deimhin, ag bun Bhréanainn, bhuaigh an diosc bhuí. Ach, níos airde -an ghaoth anoir aduaidhBhí an orc ró lag i gcoinne an t-sinneáin dhiamhair A d’fhág leata leis an bfuacht sinn. Gan éan, gan chaora, Gan ann ach oighear, cnagadh agus cloch. Gach beo díbeartha ón ifreann so. Suas, suas, suas anáil i mbarr na ngob. Ós na troithe gach scread chráite. Gach céim ina scóladh céasta. An barra bainte amach, cad é iontaisí. Soiléar anois fonn Dé A bheith orthu siúd a bhí romhainn ann fadó. Spreagtha ag sléibhte taibhseacha, fillte ceann ar cheann, Chomh fada siar sna súile le himeall na mórthire. Scáth oilithreachtaí le mothú; scáil phearsanta an bháis, Cén chraobh a bheidh le baint trasna tonnta doimhne? Cad as a thiocfaidh misneach chun seoladh leis an iasc? Gan aon dul as acu ach dóchas a chur i nDéithe. Máirnéalaigh faoi bheannacht Ag triall ar shlánaitheoir is saibhreas thar ríocht a ndúithí fhéin. Feannóg dhubh scréachach, caite ag an ngaoth aníos Go hard ós cionn na faille. Scread léanmhar ar scread léanmhar ón ndeamhan bodhar balbh. Suas len ár smaointe leis an anam bocht, Síos níos tapúla, síos isteach inmheánach, Cluthair faoin ár gcroí, cosanta ón stoirm amuigh, A lascann is a reonn cloigeann agus corp. Fírinní bunúsacha a chuireann in iúl go láidir Do gach naomh beo ‘s do gach diabhal buí , An coibhneas a mhaireann idir duine is a anam. Fea.’06

The Saints’ Path Sunday sharp with icy wind that vied with sun for body parts; on Brandon’s lower slopes the sunbeam won. But higher, open to fierce Eastern blast, the orb, a slanted weakness, could not combat the sirens that almost drove us back. No birds, no sheep, just ice and crunch and rock. All else departed from that place of pain. Each step an agony of thigh and calf. Each breath an ache that thought itself the last. And when at length the crest was reached, we understood their need for Gods, their marvel at Gods’ works; with side-lit mountains rucked away as far as we could see. We felt the urge of ancestors to pilgrimage their crests. What promise past the realm’s reach, what dread across the sea? A phantom crow on ragged wing, borne on wild up-draught, hurled above the yawning drop shriek on strangled shriek. Up in lurching thought we went, down we plunged as fast, down into the inner core, protected from the mad turmoil that whipped and froze the trunk. A fundamental power’s display of majesty and might that put us in our place.

Jan ‘06

Stephen Connaughton. Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow "AH, GOD DAMMIT, can't you come in for a minute," said the farmer, all the time holding my hand in a vice-like grip. "James, it's half past four and I've another five 'calls' to do." "Wouldn't you do that in five minutes" This was quite an underestimation because, at the time, the mid-seventies, I was working temporarily - in South Tipperary, close to the Nire valley where the byroads were long and winding. Even longer and more winding were the lanes intersecting with them leading to scattered mountainous farms. The "calls" were miles apart. A helicopter would have been very useful but then a part-time Al man was lucky in those days to have a car. The job had its compensations, however, and one of those was the many interesting characters you met in the course of the work - like Jim Whelan, the aforementioned farmer with the vice-like grip. Jim was a bachelor who lived on his own at the end of one of those apparently endless lanes close to the foot of the mountains. He was part of a dying breed - those old-fashioned characters more typical of past generations. He had a huge number of sheep but only two cows for his household use. Thus there were long intervals between inseminations and he forgot your requirements - as he did today. "Would you have a drop of water and a bar of soap, Jim?" I requested. He went inside and spent some time rooting about. "Come in a minute." I did so. The kitchen looked like the "set" of an old Abbey play, but dreadfully untidy. There was an electric light but a red extension piece had been connected on to the original white light cord. He hunted a cat away from a jet black greasy frying pan. "Scuth," he shouted casually. There was a multitude of flies, and a mouse went scurrying across the floor. Not being able to find a receptacle, he went into the bedroom and emerged with a basin half-full of a suspiciously foul smelling amber fluid. He pitched the contents out through the open door and began pouring water from an earthenware jug. Without rushing he eventually located a chunk of soap which looked like it had survived World War 2. As we proceeded to the cowshed I decided to keep MY OWN germs and not risk infecting both the cow and myself by using the water, but I didn't want to offend the old guy. At the car I slyly squirted a drop of washing-up liquid on the celophane protective sheath but there was no need to worry - Jim was too busy discussing lambs, rams and the price of wool to notice anything. He didn't have many visitors and tried to make the best use of the ones who did drop in. I got around the water problem by pouring it on my Wellingtons when I was finished. Well, finished is not quite the correct word, because the lonely, farmer had no intention of letting his 8

quarry go - yet. He held my arm with a hand I could almost have sat into, telling me of three sheep he sold to this man and five to that man (He meant three hundred and five hundred, respectively). And I would dearly have loved to spend the evening with the lovable old guy, but I had farmers waiting on my services - literally. Eventually I extricated myself, feeling quite a heel at the note of disappointment in old Jim's voice. "Ye fellas are always in a shocking hurry." We were at cross purposes. Jim had plenty of time but little company. On the other hand, I had plenty of company but little time. Such is life. First published in The Farming Independent

Noel King Black and Tan My grandmother knew the opening scrape of her front gate was not a friend, told us she remembered staying perfectly still, his hard steps crunching through her. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember his face, how long he stood in her kitchen, what lies or truths she uttered while my infant aunt gurgled in her cot. She did remember his words: I have a little girl like this at home, myself. For sixty-three years she stepped over the spot on her flagged floor where the Black and Tan had stood.

Owen Durack Larry Thirty years have passed Since Larry took me Shopping in Dublin To buy potatoes, carrots and chicken Grandma cooked for dinner We all ate at midday With Thanksgiving... He played games of poker, Always laughed heartily Shared his chocolate. Seventeen years have passed Since my Granddad Died. First published in Revival Literary Journal

Featured Poet: Tom Moloney.

Tom Moloney is a happily-married man. He is the father of two grown-up sons. He lives in Broadford, Co. Limerick. He likes to think that he is liberal-minded, practices meditation/mindfulness, accepts that there is no hope and no fear although thinking makes it seem so and realizes that after sitting in the spaciousness of silence, he can more-readily prepare a humble room for his Muse. One could say that he finds his voice in silence. His first collection 'My Register' (Linden Press), published in 2009, was wellreceived. The original internet(word-of-mouth) ensured that its print-run sold out fairly quickly. His second collection, (Lapwing) forthcoming at the end of this year, will probably be called 'Darling, For Women it's Different'.

Tom Moloney First Poem: War Where soldiers think that they’ve the right to kill Defining orders from the head of State, Their actions seem to sanction some done deal.

‘Though stones lie on the side of every hill, Around the mountains grass grows day and night Where soldiers think that they’ve the right to kill.

One way to scream is simply while you’re still Writing more lines knowing well it’s never late. Their actions seem to sanction some done deal.

The thoughts going through your head cause you to feel You’re caught as victim in another’s fight Where soldiers think that they’ve the right to kill.

As curlews warn nature with a shrill, As racing clouds confirm its fight or flight; Their actions seem to sanction some done deal. No matter how you toss or blink or will With words you rage for justice-sake to right Where soldiers think that they’ve the right to kill. Their actions seem to sanction some done deal. 13

Second Poem: The Circumstance of Your First

Imagine, poetry’s word-seed planted In fertile ground the morning that you had A mind to swallow The good and evil sermon, the original Eden-one; and even if it wasn’t

The first crunch of the apple Or God’s curse on the devil Or the former’s scolding To the naked lovers to go and shag, You couldn’t finger it (call it instinct, A special kind of female thing) How Mount Parnassus entered and ravished Your garden, seeing you let down your guard.

Save silence then, meditating on Keats’ ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’, Perhaps all you needed to know was that And before anything else dawned that day You went into labour, your maiden duty. At the same time you were not

Really well-versed On how youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d bear your first child; Neither did you understand The politics of selling yourself, Nor did you entertain old poets from Delphi; merely brought forth naked words off your head, Offered them to the world and be dammed. Commentary: Perhaps it is time to go to war on all the crap that passes for poetry in the 21st century. So, I have symbolically chosen 'War' as my first poem because its form is highly structured and structure and form have been neglected. Not that I think that all poems have to reflect the old school that expected all poems to be so. However, I do think that it isn't good enough that 'poets' write without having some respect or reference to craft of some sort so that if the reader searches, that 'craft' reveals itself without necessarily taking over the poem. At a minimum, I believe that one can improve a poem by searching for rhyme or some sort of form. I supose, what I'm suggesting is that while inspiration or epiphany is necessary, it remains sloppy if not pinned-down by some sort of structure, if only by iambic pentameter or a few rhymes to reminds that we are not reading the work of an obscurantist. Otherwise, poetry becomes like art that is simply 'off the wall'. Another reason for 'War' is to highlight the idea of war on the hegemony that resides in the upper echelons of poetry circles. It is interesting to observe how some established poets network, write reviews about one anothers' works and never call a spade even if it is the right thing to do. See most of the reviews in the 'Irish Times' at weekends. Further, some of the works from established publishers represent dried-out work reflective of the boring output of old William Wordsworth. It is if there is only so much in a poet's well, yet longrunning poets (far from shutting-up) fall into a rut or lose touch, their name sufficing to ensure that the non-thinking assume that they are still 'up for it' when in fact it is obvious that the emperor no longer has any clothes. One more issue to consider for now... humour. I believe that if a poet fails to invoke wit, even regular humour in his/her poetry, such a poet should get a life because we're all mortal and it is as well to laugh at man's pretentious-absurd existence. My second poem may seem like a contradiction to what I've been writing. In it I'm saluting the poet as a bearer of inspiration, that he has to record it and bedammed. However, look closer!. By the way, I also think,allied to the foregoing comments, that some poets are semi-illiterate. They abuse grammer and syntax and that's alright because it's a free country but they have the audacity to expect others to read or listen to their rubbish; in this respect, I'm not necessarily referring to minor poets, so-called.

Richard O'Toole Island Dreams When I look and I wonder in those Perriwinkle dog winkle Salty eyes Of October sea do you see What I see When your limestone bones Formed and grew Like your meadow in summer Did your rocky teeth bite at the sod Did the artist paint your spine Bending click clack of dull on oar Sun shining silver mackerel and rock fish The pollack brown back Of adolescence Your first catch. What is your secret Island man That's felt by stone and monk and beehive hut That's known by fisherman boatman Goodwin and Leary Did your earth mother bare you With dreams and cries of gulls and gannet and Storm petrel The clouds that dreamed and changed And filled your mind filled your skies That touched your soul That kissed my heart Before I'm getting old. That smiled on me Or Is it That All men Carry Island Dreams.

On an island in an island On an island in an island There is a tree that knows every knarl and twisted branch On the weathered landscape of winter It survives again and again It knows beautiful flowers in spring In summer its green apples blush to a hint of red Like fair maidens they glisten in the morning dew lying Heavy On Twisted branch Frustrated in fullness On an island in an island And some of them fall to earth like pieces of rain Become one with clay and sing beautiful songs With Angels Some of them disappear in the hands of the devil Like a wind blown cloud in the dead of night A still life bittersweet Love that bites at the flesh In the forbidden gardenOn an Island in an Island And the thief that runs through scrath and heather Did he laugh with the girl as they danced like bog cotton in The western wind On an island in an island They lay on the beach and sand gritted their teeth As beads of mist stuck to his hair and water rolled down his Face On an island in an island One thousand tin whistles played for him And begin to resonate the land and sea The notes were like oxygen in the white foam As Atlantic light shimmered in music Notes echoed in the mouth of a basking shark As dolphins slept on the left hand side of their brains At the end of a rainbow On an island in an island Is Ireland not that Island And Achill not that rock For soon i will be an uncle As a thousand tin whistles play for me Richard O' Toole

Claire O'Keeffe Self When you cry it’s very rare To see those tears rolling Down your cheek all bare, tears that are only growing. So what’s wrong my dear? What ails your eyes so they leak? Who has stolen usual good cheer And left this heaving corpse all bleak? I’ll speak in soft tones and lull you fine We’ll breath together until the shakiness Disappears for another while and Then you’ll see things aren’t such a mess It’s just us in the middle, in a chain of events Remember, and I’ll never leave yourself We’ll always be one and ensemble moi meme Ill help you in any way I can

BROWN SHOES By Mattie Lennon The late, great, John B. Keane was once accosted by a man, in Killarney, who accused him of not having written about bucker-handles. That most prolific of Playwrights retired to his writing-room, overlooking the Ballybunion Road, and penned a thousand-word essay on the handle of the humble galvanized-bucket. The last sentence read: "There is no subject under the sun about which a decent treatise cannot be written." Well, an illusory bus passenger has appeared in my less than fertile imagination and challenged me to write about brown shoes. Psychologists and other observers of the human psyche have put labels on those who wear yellow ties or carry their keys hanging from their belt. Any shrink will tell you that a man who prefers big women is ambitious, and white socks are like an encyclopedic chip. But has anybody done a study of gobshites like myself who have a persistent yet inexplicable dislike of brown shoes? I didn't always harbor this ... On Tuesday 19th March 1974, when I entered the training school, as a trainee Bus Conductor (with CIE) I was wearing a pair of brown slip-on shoes. During my first weeks employed by this august body I wore the said corn-cases without any conscious feeling of repulsion. (It was the first job I ever had where I didn't have to walk through muck.) I cannot put a date on the onset of my irrational dislike of brown shoes. I must point out that it is a dislike and not a fear. (Although a Chief-inspector once told me that it could be an ".... amplified trace of a basic instinctive fear.") All I know is that in the early summer of 1975 I remember using a bottle of black dye, in a flat in Ranelagh, to transform brown footwear to black. (I suppose if the Chief-Inspector had been around he would have quoted William Congreve; "And black despair succeeds brown study." ) Later a present from my spouse received a hue-change making the tin of "Dark Tan Water Resistant" Nugget redundant. Like erectile dysfunction, hair dye, the Luas and other sensitive issues, my idiosyncratic approach to brown shoes is not something which can be comfortably, discussed in the canteen. Of course, given my present job and lifestyle my peculiarity is no great drawback. But just imagine if I were a cattle-jobber, a Horse-Protestant or a traffic warden? Wouldn't I be in a right predicament? Have you ever wondered why the brown shoe has featured so little in literature? Although a passenger upstairs on a Cabra bus once, when pointing out to me that my penchant for black footwear could have something to do with ageing, quoted Edward Gibbon. And how he (Edward Gibbon, not the passenger) maintained that the abbreviation of time and the failure of hope; ".....will always tinge with the browner shade of evening." Since the passenger in question had just exceeded his fare I was pedantic enough to quote Arthur Millar and inform him that he was now: " riding on a smile and a shoeshine." 19

Anyway, back to the near absence of the brown shoe from art and culture. Elvis had his "Blue Suede Shoes", Nancy Sinatra had shoes that "Were made for Walking" but I'll bet they weren't brown. Hob-nailed boots get a mention in the prologue to "McAlpines Fusiliers" and Christy has a line about when; "I put on me wellin'tons." But, there's not a bar written about the brown shoe. Yes.....yes.....I know. You're going to hit me with: Brown shoes don't make it Brown shoes don't make it Quit school, why fake it? Brown shoes don't make it? TV dinner by the pool Watch your brother ..................... That's not a song, for God's sake. It certainly won't give the brown shoe its place in history. The victims of ills, stresses and addictions are well looked after by my employer; with therapies and counseling available for most complaints. Now, there is a possibility that my disorder is job-related. It did start shortly after I was recruited here. Come to think of it reversion to black shoes could have been a subconscious desire for promotion; you don't see many Bus Inspectors wearing brown shoes. I have been putting out feelers about my chances in a compensation claim. And according to the Union Rep, the Company would call in a specialist witness; A Psychoanalyst, or some such, who would claim that the whole thing was a throwback to the past. "Atavism," he said they'd call it. Seemingly it means the reappearance of a trait after it has apparently vanished for generations. "They'd only titter and grin at you," Says He "You'd be a laugh an' a cod." And I must say the way he explained it to me it would make sense not to enter into any litigation. Say for example some male ancestor of mine had been caught under a bed because of the glint of the candlelight on his well-polished brown boots. And just imagine if it was proven that I, had brought this whole thing out of the genetic memory as a Conductor, attempting to chat-up some fellow's wife on a number eighteen bus. Wouldn't that be a grand looking dose on The Wicklow People! I must say I am a little peeved with Freud. In all his revolutionary theories of the mind and the roots of its abnormalities was the brown shoe mentioned? He analyzed lies, jokes, dreams, the unconscious and the superego. But once again my antipathy was ignored. However, I do have one other layman's theory and it is broadly speaking in the "throwback" department: In my youth, part (or more often all) of the first pay packet of nearly every young male was invested in a pair of brown, brogue shoes. The socio-economic climate of Kylebeg militated against my joining said majority. I mentioned this to a woman at a dance and she checked with her brother (a road sweeper who had 20

studied Psychology). His prognosis was; "Yes....there might be a connection.... and then ....again there might not." You can't beat the bit of education. Surely a support group isn't too much to ask for. How about DOBS; (Dislike Of Brown Shoes?)

John McGrath Gift The waiter brought a foaming pint of beer and from the bar a stranger raised his hand. I raised the glass and sipped. Compelled to seek a reason for this random-seeming act I went to thank him, asked if we had met. ‘You won’t remember me,’ the stranger said, ‘But forty years ago you knew me well. A precious gift you gave me then I vowed, if fate allowed, one day I would repay.’ The man went on, ‘You were my brother’s friend, I wandered in your shadows, barely ten…’ I searched behind his eyes until I found our common ground, the common pain we shared. The swish of cane’s descent on childish skin returned to raise red welts of memory, as if we’d never known the years between. ‘…And when the master beat us brutishly, you pressed a copper penny in my palm. ‘Don’t please the pig as far as let him see your tears,’ you whispered, bade me dry my eyes. Though we were both too young to understand back then, that gift from you was worth far more than one bright copper penny in my hand; a gift, my friend, to serve me all my years.’ John McGrath, January 2011

Red Wine Blues Is it the wine that makes me weep, or is it the deep deep echo of my life, the secret lines that seep into my memory? I turn the pages one by one. Grief, that thief of time and reason creeps into my reddened eyes. I raise my glass. A toast, my friend, to pain, regret and all that might have been. Tomorrow I’ll be fine. I’ll read these words again without the wine… John McGrath

Mike McHugh

beginning like the rising starlight shattered shining hard now in an eye caught once when i wonder where it goes i thought i knew but oh i never know i learn so slow and once its gone its gone we never knew one thing for sure you always lose no chance for nothing else and so you hover humming oh you never learn must you be the next great thing you fool some village somewheres missing you oh great scott you know i believe in such transcendence still and always will as once you get set in such a way it stays and undergrows until its never known cept as a hermit of the skull still banging on and though i welcome it it wants for nothing else but just itself and i know assurety of life holds by the far a lesser truth for me than afternoon tv and is definitely less necessary certainly at ten to three on a wednesday so shark of thought keep moving deep you bottom feeding fullness never sleep tho too much mercury for you will poison me i know you'll never be the clever one that must return to where it comes but i know thats not where knowledges from or we'd bust blisters and suck our thumbs til john west cans the final ton and oh and what would the sandwiches at funerals become without the salmon and sweetcorn ones and once you realise you've drifted wide you smile you change and sing some otherthing til silken gold viridian crashes over everything and at that tipping point of some new wondering there is a thaw into a life thought gone and its then in an instant gone again but you now know you lost not a thing not a second not a chance and that is all you get to know and if it is not true oh is it oh is it oh uhoh

Mike McHugh i can draw the curtains from my bed i can touch each wall by spinning on the spot the walls are wallpaper painted pink i have the draughty entrance to the loft my room lies above the front door one of gods children bangs it often. gods children. even at their best have ulterior motives. life's a game to them. they twist and lie in their thoughts and in their words. they can't be trusted. they are not of themselves. they are powerful they are courted. the leaders have power beyond reason. fanatics. true believers. they are not innocents. they have given into temptation. they are many, they are insane. and in their manipulation of others in their manipulation of themselves they are us at our most evolved.

Joe Healy Pulling the blind It’s funny you know But since starting this writing lark I’ve seen less black daze Stout hearted people Sip some Guinness with me. Past the curtain A chink of light always shines, in his memory. So help me and your self hold hands together Let’s change darkness into light

Joe Healy 2011 26

Stoney Man For Dave

No matter what I thought of myself and how strong I thought I was, there are still lines dirt in cracks different hardened coloured stone there was always something harder smoother called rain and

teardrops.

Joe Healy 2011

Margaret Sheehan Views

And plastic can be beautiful draped on branches outside windows like stained glass figures dancing playing with breezes. Like a silence spoken like a breath taken.

Angela Macari Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Looney

Queenie I o

Queenie I o, she came to town. The roads and motorways all shut down. Marksmen on rooftops, barricades galore, Dubliners and tourists were in an uproar! Shores were all sealed, no audience allowed. Woe betide any maddening crowd. Our reputation as a nation was tested And a few got short shrift, when they protested. There were pros and cons voiced on TV. The media had fun and so had we. As we watched with mixed feelings the pageantry and flair, Her Majesty and our Mary laid wreaths here and there. Day three she was touring the County Kildare, Our horses to visit At the National stud there. Then off to a concert she and Prince Philip went. Fashion and music, it was an event. Day four all was calm, the Royals went to Cork. Police still about, but roads back to work. There seemed to be prevalent a sigh of relief. Visit successful, even if quite brief! Who would have imagined it, a visit from Royals? Three cheers for her Majesty on our Emerald Isle. We next have Obama, whose coming to tea. Our Island is popular As all can see. The Queen and Prince Philip, Obama, The Pope. In a time of recession, It inspires us with hope. I Quote one hi profile American(Homer Simpson); Woo hoo!

Mike Gallagher Pied Piper.

(for PK)

Michael Lavelle came back, travelled from Lancashire on each St. Patrick's Day; piped the Dukinella Band. We skipped behind his thrumming spats, from Keel to Pollagh church. One year, you hankered after his open sandals, followed his thonged steps to Preston North End ...never came back. mjgal 24 mar 09

After Hours Back to front, an exit sign Throws up a bleary haze; Soft colours seep through silhouettes, And shadows cross green baize. Downlighters at the bar Cast a velvet sheen On cheeks of flawless beauty (Through the eyes of Bacchus seen). The Flowers of the Forest Drift from a corner dim; Sweethearts whisper nothings Pump adrenalin. Tables are refurbished With ashtrays of smoked glass And the whiff of sweetest Afton Brings memories of the past. This is the time for misspent age, For tipsy eloquence, When adults play at being kids In furtive disobedience. mga nov 06 First published in Revival poetry Journal

Kevin Griffin

Love

He would nurture her dreams with care, as they loved, reaching into her, choosing a dream, drawing it out, letting it live, allowing another to grow inside. . She could hardly believe it.

MOVING ON

While saying she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like the sound of it, she let herself be led. The boat rose and dipped. The oars creaked in the thole pins. The was a rhythm of hearts and waves. They went past the feeding birds, past the eyes that paused, past the willows and the alders, past the occasional hazel

as if they would ever let you pass them completely. To give them their due The fishes ignored them. Soon the boat and gravel met. There was a walk to where there would be a path, a house, a holy place. There was no rush , the evening air was cool and moist. They strolled among the early adjectives avoiding the full stops. Kevin Griffin

Mary Lavery Carrig Maybe In Time Maybe in time when I reassess moments of passion I will wish you had carved the imprints of your palms along a stretch that reaches right around my lower spine.

Tucked In Well Another day comes when I refuse to splash fresh linen across the face of this old bed. The musky fuss of one man's body ebbs from wrinkles where I draw the sheet to meet the wall. In a swift movement I can trap and wrap a smell between four corners tucked in well.

dippingthepen I'll tell you a story, a story of two incidents. In 2003 I was dipping around in writing. I had never written anything creative, indeed, had hardly opened a book during forty years in London. I had been dragooned into a writer's group in Clonmel and, on escaping back to Listowel, plucked up the courage to show some of my stuff to Billy and Mary Keane. I exagerate - I showed them my only poem. Billy, for once, said nothing. Mary remarked, in her own enigmatic way, 'Its a poem of two parts.' None the wiser, I left it at that. A couple of weeks later I received an e-mail from the esteemed editor of "The Ballydonoghue Magazine" informing me that not only had my poem been accepted for publication, it had won thefirst prize, worth â&#x201A;Ź100. Billy had done the dirt and entered my poem without my knowledge! Of course, I thought this poetry writing was a great racket, so I set about it with gusto. My first outing was a couple of weeks later at a festival in Castleisland; this included a 'Poets Corner' in one of the pubs. Thinking I was onto a winner, I decided to recite my winning poem. It was about a spider, was very long and happened not to be very complimentary towards Castleisland. Waiting in my secluded corner, all these quibbles began to prey on my mind as I inbibed copious draughts of Guinness. Worse still, I had to follow 'The Bogadeers', the brilliant pairing of Paddy O'Donnell and Mike Joe Thornton, to the lectern. They had the audience in stiches. I can still remember approaching the stage through the guffawing mob, I remember being up there, short of breath, wondering if that damn poem would ever end, stumbling back to my table, gulping down my pint and fleeing the pub.Till this day, I still swear that the pub was packed when I got on stage and was practically empty when I came off it. I had recovered my conposure - or thought I had - by the time Writer's Week came around. I had a few more poems under my belt (in my arse pocket, actually) by then and was quietly confident. Poet's Corner that year was held in 'The Sheebeen' at Scully's Corner. I had better explain. Poet's Corner is that part of the festival where journeymen (and women) poets perform; it is a world away from the rarified stratosphere of 'The Hotel', where pertinent aspects of the villanelle and the pantoum are deliberated on over schooners of sherry. As I sat there the old nerves and lack of assurance returned and I delayed putting my name down to recite until the session was over and I kicked myself all the way home. The same thing happened the following night and suddenly the 'Healing Session' was on me. The Healing Session is held in John B's on the Sunday morning of the festival and, more or less, signifys the last gathering of the Muse's clan for another year. This was to be my last chance to strut my stuff but once again, trepidation overcame ambition. And so it would have stayed, but of a sudden, I heard my name being called out. Billy Keane had spotted me squirming in a corner and before I could make a run for it I was being was billed as his latest discovery and the new Heaney. I faltered my way through the expectant 36

crowd. I had a sheet of paper on one side of which was my spider poem. I took it out, looked at it, looked at the audience and turned it over. I read the three-lined haiku on the other side and, once again, this time to a stunned silence, fled the scene of catostrophe. The lady who was sitting beside me when I got back to my seat was most charitable. 'Very good', she chirped. So that is my story, or could have been my story. Luckily, my forays into writing did not end there. Through the support of the Seanachai Writer's; the advice and encouragement and of more established writers, many from Kerry -you know who you are- and the comradeship of the wonderful friends I have made in subsequent years at Writer's Week, I survived and flourished as a writer. And that is why this section of thefirstcut has been created. It is here for anyone who has the desire to write but feels intimidated about going public. It is a place where you can feel comfortable among your peers. It is a place where you can find friends with a common purpose, swap ideas, learn your craft and improve your skills by reading the writing of others. And that shy guy who kept running away, what became of him? Well, last year he won The Michael Hartnett Viva voce award (for reciting his poetry) and this year he has been nominated for a Hennessy Award. See, you really can do it if you keep dipping the pen. Mike Gallagher.

100 Thousand Poets for Change MORE ON 100 THOUSAND POETS for CHANGE: UPDATE, MARCH 27, 2011 There is a lot of information developing on this event. If you read some of the wall posts on the Facebook event pages you can stay current. But, people do have two major questions. 1) What kind of a change are we talking about? 2) I want to organize in my area. How do we begin to organize? â&#x20AC;&#x153;What kind of CHANGE are we talking about?â&#x20AC;? The first order of change is for poets, writers, artists, anybody, to actually get together to create and perform, educate and demonstrate, simultaneously, with other communities around the world. This will change how we see our local community and the global community. We have all become incredibly alienated in recent years. We hardly know our neighbors down the street let alone our creative allies who live and share our concerns in other countries. We need to feel this kind of global solidarity. I think it will be empowering. And of course there is the political/social change that many of us are talking about these days. There is trouble in the world. Wars, ecocide, the lack of affordable medical care, racism, the list goes on. It appears that transformation towards a more sustainable world is a major concern and could be a global guiding principle for this event. Peace also seems to be a common cause. War is not sustainable. There is an increasing sense that we need to move 38

forward and stop moving backwards. But I am trying not to be dogmatic. I am hoping that together we can develop our ideas of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;change/transformationâ&#x20AC;? we are looking for as a group, and that each community group will decide their own specific area of focus for change for their particular event.

thefirstcut will be hosting the Listowel leg of 100 Thousand Poets for chang on Saturday 24th September. Do you have any ideas on venue, time, who should participate (musicians, dancers)? Can yoou organise a group to participate on a particular issue? If you can help, contact renagown@gmail.com. Remember to write something for the occasion yourself!

Useful Links Resources http://writing.ie/ http://www.poetrykit.org/ http://www.poets.org/index.php http://www.fieralingue.it/modules.php?name=poetshome Anny Ballardini http://www.duotrope.com/ http://askaboutwriting.blogspot.com/ Publishers http://moybellapress.com/ http://www.doghousebooks.ie/ http://www.crannogmagazine.com/ http://www.revivalpress.com/ http://tintean.org.au/ http://www.verbsap.com/ Readings http://www.obheal.ie/blog/?page_id=583 http://onthenailreadings.blogspot.com/ http://whitehousepoets.blogspot.com/ Bank Holiday Mondays: Readings in a relaxed atmosphere in The Parochial Hall, Ashe Street (across the road from Rubin's Cafe); 3-6pm. Please post us on any other links, readings etc.

Guidelines. thefirstcut accepts poetry, short stories, flash fiction and essays from Irish and International. Please send your submissions to renagown@gmail.com . Please place 'thefirstcut submission' in the subject line. All work must be contained in the body of the E-mail -- attachments will not be accepted. Poems must be the sender's own work. Please notify us immediately if work, simultaneously submitted, is accepted for publishing elsewhere. Send a short bio (Under 100 words). If work has been previously published, please ensure that you are free to submit it to thefirstcut and let us know where and when it was first published. thefirstcut retains first rights, i.e., if your work is subsequently published elsewhere, thefirstcut must be cited as the original place of publication. Publication in this magazine constitutes "previous publication" for most poetry contests. Copyright remains with the author. Poems Send up to 3 poems. Poems must not be longer than 40 lines. Formatting: Times New Roman, single spaced. Please ensure correct spelling, grammar and formatting. Prose and Essays Send no more than one previously unpublished piece, 500-1500 words in length, in the body of an email. Dipping the pen: In line with our philosophy of encouraging developing writers, which is the norm in a writing group, this section is reserved for previously unpublished writers or for those who consider themselves to be still learning their craft. It is restricted to writers in the Kerry/West Limerick area because these are the people we feel we can best help through contact with our writer's group. Please type 'Dipping the pen' in the subject line if you would feel more comfortable submitting to this section. The editors will commend one entry from this section each month. Port Laureates and other established writers attempting to get into our journal through this section will, if spotted, have their caesuras crushed,their distiches dipped and their metaphors mixed. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. thefirstcut will be published bi-monthly. Closing dates for submissions will be the first day of the month prior to the next publication. Closing date for the next edition will be July 1st for the edition to be published on August 1st. We welcome comment, indeed, beseech it, but, in line with our ethos, ask that it be kept clean and constructive.

Our Display in the Square, Listowel. We would like to thank noted local artist, Trish Healy, who agreed to lend us her installation, in order to publicise thefirstcut. The installation will be mounted in the windows of the constituency office of Jimmy Deenihan, Minister for Arts, Heritage and Gaeltacht Affairs. Trish writes: I have had the privilege of spending the past school year working with a group of 12 wonderful students in Tarbert Comprehensive school. The theme of L.C.A.2's art class was Individuality and Identity... a theme wrought with deep questions, Who am I? What makes me ME? What is my identity? Following a lot of questioning both by me and of themselves, certain themes began to emerge from these teenagers..."I don't want to be different"," I'm uncomfortable talking about this?" "Why can't we just do a different theme?" "I don't know what makes me individual?" "What does that mean anyway?" "Its safer to just blend in", "Sure we're all the same anyway". The students spoke of "not showing the real me",its all "too embarassing", and "what will others think" if I say what I really feel, "I keep that covered up Miss", "Its not easy to be honest about myself in front of others" The 'people' displayed are each individual and seperate, they are unique representations of the students. The tape represents our many layers, how our life wraps and forms us, how we protect ourselves, how we hide ourselves. The installation also highlights the individual in relation to the group, the importance of being connected to and part of a greater whole and yet each one maintains its individuality within 'the sameness'. The themes treated, the questions posed byTrish's installation seemed to segue nicely into the general ethos of thefirstcut, and, indeed, of writing in general, and we are very happy to adopt Trish's concepts for our display. We also wish to thank Minister Deenihan and his colleague, Mike Browne, for their generosity and their unstinting support for our voluntary organisation at all times.