thefirstcut #5 by Mike Gallagher

thefirstcut #5

Contents Editorial John McGrath

Greene’s Bar – Wednesday Night

Pamela Clarke Vandall

2 poems

5,6

Eamon O Cleirigh

Safe Haven

Joan McNerney

Fear

John MacKenna

Midlands

9_11

L.A Speedwing

4 Gotham Place

12,13

Clodagh O'Brien

2 Poems

14,15

Alan Garvey

Featured Poet

16-21

Joseph Healy

McQueen

John Pinschmidt

FEAST OF THE EPIPHANY 2010

Neil Brosnan

Driven

Arthur Bromfield

2 Poems

25,26

Mark F Chaddock

GIVE PRAISE TO THE SEA

Kate Dempsey

An Interview with Eleanor Hooker

28-32

Rachel Coventry

The Hospice

Francesca Castaño

2 Poems

34,35

niall o connor

Snow

Ami Mattison

How to Know if Your Book Sucks

37-42

Tatjana Debeljački

2 Pieces

43,44

Michael Corrigan

Childhood Photograph 1962

Donal Mahoney

2 Poems

46,47

Matt Mooney

No Looking Back.

Susan Tepper

3 poems

49-51

Peter Goulding

There will be redundancies

Mick Rooney

Publishing Industry - Change or be Damned

53-60

Tom Moloney

New Year’s Eve

Hem Raj Bastola

Why not!

John Saunders

2 Poems

63,64

Patrick Walsh

Remembering Summer Terrace-Houses 65

George Harding

Call It Stillness

Shauna Gilligan

Brushstroke

67-69

These We Like

Cover: Blue barrow, Cae Mabon 2

Ingrid Mabon

Editorial Welcome to the fifth edition of thefirstcut. We emerge from the Winter solstice, the multiple births and rebirths of gods and of years, of revolutions and threats of revolutions, into the stretching of light, the joy of birdsong and with it, hopefully, a new surging of verse through poetic arteries. Like I said,revolution has been in the air. And not that Arab one, either. Gil Scott-Heron was right - the revolution will not be televised, it will take place, apparently, on the pages of Facebook. A couple of weeks ago, outrage erupted on said pages in the form of attacks on some unnamed art's body. There were apoplectic and unpoetic demands for beheadings and the replacement and general discomfiture of those responsible. There were calls for a new order, a new poetry and even, in one case, for a ban of emigrant poems. It seems that the old meritocracy is to be replaced with a new commissariat. Most of us feel that, in Ireland -and perhaps everywhere- the arts are run by a smug establishment. This establishment is gifted funds from the public purse and doles them out to favoured individuals and organisations. Very little of these funds seem to be distributed outside the golden circle; we see the same cosseted faces reading at the same subsidised venues, while outside the metropolis, poets are doing 100 miles plus round trips for their 3 minutes of glory in noisy pubs. But it is not just that our money is being funnelled to a chosen few, they also monopolise the socalled 'quality' journals. I have read poems by 'name' poets in these magazines which would be torn to pieces at my local writing group - literally. Is it any wonder, then, that people feel rejected and are disillusioned with a system which is so obviously inequitable and which chokes off the outlets through which they can express themselves. Still, our travails are as nothing when compared to those of our haiku cousins. Last week a Swede's misplaced gerund caused consternation; the vitriol flowed freely for days - left standing not even a syllable. Now for the important bit. thefirstcut #4 was our most successful to date, clocking up more than 800 readers already, justifying our inclusive, tolerant ethos. Thanks to all our generous contributors and to those loyal fans who promoted us on Facebook etc. A special thanks to Alan Garvey, our featured poet, to Kate Dempsey, Ami Mattison and Mick Rooney for allowing us to republish their work and, especially, to my collaborators for this edition, Mary Lavery-Carrig and John McGrath. Don't forget send your best work to renagown@gmail.com for thefirstcut #6. We welcome your genius at the home of good poetry. Good rhyme allowed. Mike Gallagher, Editor.

Submissions: renagownATgmailDOTcom. Submission window closes March 1st. Submission Guidelines at:

John McGrath Greene’s Bar – Wednesday Night (Seán Tyrrell Session, Ballyvaughan; July 2011) I searched all day among the rocks for poems, lost for words on Burren’s stony ground. As twilight called I turned for Ballyvaughan to the timeless consolation of Greene’s Bar. At a corner table ‘Reserved for Musicians’ the singer took his solitary ease. His youthful image on the backroom wall claimed him as one of their own, almost a local. Three empty chairs gave promise of companions as he tuned a well-strummed banjo, tried each note for size, strung a few together now and then in snatches of a reel or the vague shape of an old song, with words almost recalled before the music stopped, before he stood again to greet a friend or neighbour, before the rafters rose and spirits soared. I had looked for poems all day in barren places, among the rocks and in the clefts between, searched every hawthorn bush and burial mound, found them in Green’s Bar on Wednesday night.

Pamela Clarke Vandall Maple Roses

The day is spent filling vases; her house a myriad mist of rose colored maples. Russet reds leafed in gold, amber and emeralds. Her arthritic fingers turn maples into roses. Origami leaf folding; God's papyrus. Sprays of fire she set upon snowy windows. Hands that bend beyond the pane. When she's gone I walk alone. I hear the soft fall of bones from trees, feel the same sun, pull a maple from the same bough. The branches bear roses from fingertips; hands them down in braces of wind. Another leaf always blooms in its place.

Pamela Clarke Vandall Nymph

I am the trap you lift your legs into. The small embolism in your heart, killing you like the crow that feeds the wolf. I lie down in dark woods, fragrant of deep pines after winter rain. You find the box I propped open with a stick, but followed the string, between moss and ferns. Was It something you found in the snare of hair? I masked my smell-knew better then to bait a trap with corn in a cornfield. I waited for you to come, forced you inside and closed the door. I warned you. I told you not to be scared. I too can get caught up in blood clots and failures.

Eamon O Cleirigh Safe Haven It came to me, like light from the strongest star, a realisation, awakening, when I knew without fear that we were bound together, destined to share the shadows, endure each other’s pain, breathe one mutual breath. There can be no kiss now without escape, where heart is lifted far beyond denial, where soul’s release from past creates rebirth through love and heartfelt joy. You are my calm, my sanctuary, where I have moored life’s craft, now free of darkest nights of war, long conflict of the mind, of guilt at paths once taken beneath the flag of pride. Whatever time is left to us, late summer, autumn, or the starkness of a final winter, we will survive through all each trial may bring. Strength, love, respect and understanding, pillars to the palace of our hearts. The stars will light our path and we will find our way, as one.

Joan McNerney Fear Sneaks under shadows lurking in corners ready to rear its head folded in neat lab reports charting white blood cells over edge running wild. Or hiding along icy roads when day ends with sea gulls squalling through steel grey skies. Brake belts wheeze and whine snapping apart careening us against the long cold night. Official white envelopes stuffed with subpoenas wait at the mailbox. Memories of hot words burning razor blades slash across our faces. Fires leap from rooms where twisted wires dance like miniature skeletons. We stand apart inhaling this mean air choking on our own breath.

John MacKenna Midlands i It keeps whispering, even when I'm not listening, whispering something to someone else, telling sad secrets, here on the shore between life and eternity. And some of its stories are lies and some are the honest truth and some I'm not even sure I really heard. But it never stops its whispering, here on the shore between eternity and life. ii Dead and gone, all the harm you've done sprinkled with cold water buried under clay, all the harm you've done, blessed and put away for now. For now. iii That strange sound of straining ropes biting the ground at the edge of his grave. In the red brown sunlight I smiled, he loved going down and now he has, forever. iv It must be seven years since he shot my dog. But sometimes on foggy mornings I still hear the gun reverberate and afterwards the silence. The same silence I remember from way back then. 9

v Downstairs he was all smiles to everyone. Can I get you another drink? Are you sure you wouldn't like some more to eat? Can I get you anything at all? You know you only have to say? But I couldn't live downstairs, not all the time. vi I heard the phone ring and then your voice cajoling me, inveigling me, and I fell for it. I remember the ring I gave you, the ring I placed on your finger, and the impression it left on the side of my face. There's a ring around the moon tonight, cajoling me inveigling me, I want to fall for it. vii I remember an afternoon, early winter, a low sun. I was carrying timber from the woodpile in the yard and, in the lamplight within, I glimpsed you poring over a book. My heart skipped a beat like it used to skip a beat when we first met. But then I remembered the rest of it. viii To see you was to see the most handsome man on our street and so well dressed 10

and such a smile. You were the warmth coming back off the summer footpath, you were my happiness, you were my love. And over there is the field where we made surreptitious love and behind it the deep black river.

L.A Speedwing 4 Gotham Place If ever there was a holiday in the Kingdom of "4 Gotthem Place", it was the 1st January of each year, the 1st February and every 1st day of every month. It lasted a whole month and all year around which meant the people of 4 Gotthem Place were on holidays all the time. In "4 Gotthem Place", it wasn't called a Holiday, it was called a "Jolly Day" but because of the history of the Kingdom, it became a "Folly Day" and soon turned into a different scheme entirely. Before the Subjects of his Majesty had noticed a connection between their world and ours, the great team of paper-pushers (the equivalent of our officers and administrators) that run the Kingdom had been asked many times over by the population to provide a day of relief, heck, a lot of days of relief throughout of the year. But the people of "4 Gotthem Place" also called as the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Gothoplaciansâ&#x20AC;? were a small community and they travelled quite extensively. Giving a holiday of let's say 60 days to each and every one of them would bring their little State to a stop and the paper-pushers reckoned it was all too complicated to keep up with whom-had-taken-what-day-off so they came to the natural conclusion that there should be no holiday. This brought chaos to "4 Gotthem Place" and everybody stopped working all together. It became known amongst the paper-pushers as the "Folly Day". The paper-pushers grew very worried for the state of their State and they consulted their King, Shames Shim Shirikawa in the Light who, as we all know, couldn't give a toss about anything (Ah! Yes actually you might not all know. Well, for the people who you haven't read the story of "4 Gotthem Place" 12

yet....err... that's not my problem.... Just try to keep up for Pete's sake!) Anyway, the paper-pushers returned to their desks and thought long and hard about their problem. In the end, they called for a meeting and declared to all respected “Gothoplacians” that everyday should be a "Jolly Day". All “Gothoplacians” were ecstatic with joy. They cheered and celebrated for a week and eventually returned to work. And therefore since this day, everybody is on "Jolly day" but everybody works. A smart move from the paper-pushers who knew this would happen because … actually I can’t tell you why, you’ll just have to read "4 Gotthem Place".

Clodagh O'Brien Transitions All I can do is wait, salty taste in my mouth on a day so hot shadows in the street are bent pouring onto concrete. I can’t remember her silhouette, memories clouded by separation foggy recollections, but I need one last moment, another chance with her, with us. The envelope weighs black ink smeared by angry tears, hasty decision now official for a bed reserved along a line amongst faces no surer than my own, a conveyor belt of flesh and bone. There’s no-one to say goodbye, sorrow reserved for someone else, a better soul than me. She was right to leave, a choice made easy by words and bruises. Through the crackle her voice went low, a strangled whisper drawn tighter by apologies, last letters of my address gulped by a greedy tone. I’m ready now to replace wrongs with rights, face the punishments, become a better man and try to return – intact. Until the sun sets gives up on this day, this is where I belong.

Clodagh O'Brien The Battle Hormones rage, wage a war mind against body instinct against reason. Satiate the craving by a climax sear high a crash a swell ovum in wait of tail. Failure weeps crimson a shedding bomb, grains slip through the neck on its final turn, tick tock tick tock.

Alan Garvey

my work comes from' something that needs to be said something that always holds true this is how it is for me tell me how it is for you

Alan Garvey is the author of three collections of poetry, and is a graduate of the MA in Creative Writing programme offered by The Poetsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; House at WIT. His poems have been widely published in magazines and anthologies and he has read and worked in Toronto, Newfoundland and Budapest, courtesy of the Arts Council. He published two anthologies with writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; groups, Unpublished and Sticky Orchard and is working on another. He is also a contributing editor to the online arts magazine, The Gloom Cupboard.

Alan Garvey GOLDGRAIN Goldgrain was served where I was the visitor: relatives, my parents’ friends, the nuns’ home where I discovered my sister and brother. Goldgrain always appeared on a plate – never straight from the packet like the biscuits stashed with sweets and crisps in my parents’ wardrobe, away from the agile window leverings and verbal twists to get the key in cahoots with my brother, John. No, Goldgrain came with grace and saucers, with Marietta and Garibaldi for company, Jacob’s Quakers and Pink Wafers, the Rising at Boland’s Mill. Most of all – I recall afternoons in Aunt Lena’s when she read my leaves, a special treat to be supped with caution being used to the bag. Regardless of pedigree, loose leaf or Lyons, I dunk my biscuits and frequently leave my own home and half-baked oracle; a rich tea-mush of burnt raisin, lemony syrup and Goldgrain’s nuggets of crumb. Fate’s remained that way, in front of my nose, beyond the reach of my lips and tongue.

Alan Garvey DEATH COMES TO YOU Death comes to you with eyes open, bright and unblinking as your lover’s in moments of deepest communion. Death is ready to pop the question for which there is only one answer when you’re draped on a roadside barrier, nestled in duvet or kneeling in prayer. Death does not care what surrounds you: stuffed toys or hi-fi, couch or bamboo chair; if you have been to the bathroom or not and are wearing clean underwear whether you lived up to the promises you made or still had something to say Death takes you as you are. Death has no worries about your garden or the letter that remains unwritten whether you’re pregnant the only one taking care of a baby or going home to your family gridlocked, suffocating in a car. Death does not think of the future. Death does not see that far. Death has been waiting for this moment – for the flick of a switch when the gas goes on rounding a bend in the road at night when cold light needles through dark from a star Death is wherever you are. Death does not care for your scars or the words lost on your lips or whom you are with. Death has been waiting for this and will not blink or flinch. Death is the one you’ve been waiting to meet all your life who does not care who you are.

Alan Garvey DAYS CANNOT DULL after Miklós Radnóti My good friend rose and so was shot again for being cheeky (alive and moving). The SS in his saddle tugs at the reins of his horse, the sky darkens, a bruising reflection of the scene below – a trial where truth and justice are beyond proving. We walk, no! limp and stumble, mile on mile, while dogs bark at shadows in the distance. I think upon the pages that they file; with whom and where I live. Greasy pistons hourly pass our home: lampposts guard our street. Manila folders do their best to listen in on words we breathe, close on the heart’s beat inside each other…though removed, remember paths we walked together, fried food to eat from one plate in Christmas markets. Render the flesh from my bones though they may, this lurch belongs (and always will) to you, my wife. November days cannot dull this blade, or any forced march through chill wind and rain. Please, do not cry if I fail to return, and they build a church of hate – My honour is loyalty, their daggers lie but I stay true to the fact that though we die this aching, wonderful world goes on – the work survives.

Alan Garvey LINGERIE It’s the fishnets that catch me all over again, riddling ciphers of flesh, language for only two tongues, semaphore-skin; or threadbare, worn, increasingly translucent that you describe as fit for… I breathe you in all these corsets, suspenders and delicate hooks from which I’m hung, trapped in midnight black or blue depending on waxing or waning moon; or salmon, wise as your eyes cradling mine, guiding this child to surprise of cotton, silk and satin, sheer quantity of it all – even what you dismiss as cheap or tatty, barely-there-white I finally found in Toronto; or brazen bandeau, crimson and slutty, loose on a shelf from Penneys in Carlow; froth of ivory, cream; turquoise and gold; sea of dreams strewn over our bed where, like Catullus’ promise to Fabullus of metamorphosis into giant nose, I float on conditioned aromas luscious as musky arboreal greens, tortoiseshell slips, burgundy basques, drunk on hipsters and briefs, silk ruffles and roses, artfully coy poses, flimsies designed to tear with my teeth, sheer lace bouquets, my hands blooming sprays of high-backed, keyhole or thong – wherever my tongue falls it belongs as I recreate you in camisole or babydoll, down on my knees, begging you, begging you, Don’t ever stop giving, you tease! For all my indulgence in fabric, obsessions and quirks I know these are no more than interchangeable covers of books of all that is written and may be read under your skin – no post-modern feminist novel or critical theory tome but living and breathing, always infinitive, layered in your valences, enriching-me-with-what-I-bring-to-you-poem.

Alan Garvey FENCE On my back many will rest but only the wind may ride me. The postman knows me best. Ruler in metric or imperial, my lengths are standards of what is imagined or real on the obverse side of me. I tell you but half my story, the side that you can see. Our kind breed. Soon weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll divide the earth â&#x20AC;&#x201C; give you the space you need. The sun asserts our right, our claim, our signatures writ in darkness though the deeds are in your name.

Joseph Healy McQueen One second you’re making slow conversation next the car is spinning in a scene from Bullitt streets blur, lines converge , arteries of brake lights she gasps, screams, I would say. When her car stops, we are facing each other. She asks again and again, “Are you all right” until I feel like saying, ”Shut up, it’s just a driver has come out too far and hit us, get over it.” Instead I gave her the assurance he’ll pay with his insurance that it’s all repairable. We’ve just made the great escape. Extras start to gather round.

John Pinschmidt FEAST OF THE EPIPHANY 2010 To Donal Donnelly BBCTV Scotland saved our too quiet New Year’s Eve The bold Hogmanay bagpipes, fiddles and drums, fireworks But best of all, minutes past 12, lead-crystaled champagne In hand, Burns’ Auld Lang Syne, softly sung, More poignant each year on this night to look back, Remembering those we’ve lost, drinking not with but to them. Weeks later the Plowman Poet is honoured again on Burns Night with haggis and whisky, poetry and song. Joyce’s 1904 Dublin is celebrated on Bloomsday, And like Burns, there should be a Joyce Night. Each 6th of January it unfolds quietly in front of our fire Muscadet for her, singlemalt for me as we feast on John Huston’s last masterpiece, The Dead, set on this night. Huston died before its release. His swan song is Joyce’s Dublin dinner party On Usher’s Island, where not much seems to happen Until the exquisitely recited Donal Óg transports a few of them, And Gabriel’s fretted-over speech is happily behind him, And everything winds down, like drunken, stumbling Freddy Malins, one of the last guests to leave. But the sting is in the tail. As she comes down the stairs, Gretta hears Mr. D’Arcy singing The Lass of Aughrim. Huston frames her in stained glass, lost to this world. Back at the hotel, distracted, then overwhelmed By a memory, she collapses in tears to sleep Leaving Gabriel to his shattering epiphany. Life imitates art. Following their director The actors one by one are all becoming shades--Donal McCann, Frank Patterson, Sean McClory, Dan O’Herlily, And on the 4th of January, Donal Donnelly, Who played dear, disheveled Freddy Malins. Gabriel’s epiphany is ours.

Neil Brosnan Driven “Will you be going out later?” Betty asked, biting her lower lip in anticipation of her husband’s reaction. “Why?” Tom barked from behind his newspaper. “I’ve got my class this evening; I thought that if you didn’t need…” “Your class,” the newspaper rustled violently, “is just another waste of time and money. What use will car maintenance classes ever be to you anyway? It’s the insurance renewal you should be thinking about; it’s due next month!” “Will you be able to give something towards it?” “Me? That’s what I give you housekeeping money for, woman!” Tom sprang from his armchair and grabbed his jacket. “Car maintenance bloody classes? Hah!” He guffawed as the door slammed behind him. “It’s no trouble.” Jane insisted, topping-up her sister’s teacup. “I couldn’t let you walk home in that rain. I wouldn’t mind but, now that the girls are independent and your mortgage is paid off, you could easily afford a second car. No, what am I saying; why don’t you just leave him? You earn more than enough to live comfortably, and Mum’s granny flat is free. You’d be more than welcome…” “And walk away empty handed after giving him nearly thirty years? Oh, he’d just love that but I’m not going anywhere, anytime soon …” A fortnight later, Betty decided to treat herself to a taxi home after her class. As the car neared the hairpin bend before her cul-de-sac, the driver swore. “Christ, nobody could have survived that!” Silently, Betty re-checked the registration number of the mangled Mercedes car. As a charred body was prised from the wreckage, Betty nodded as though to reaffirm that her classes hadn’t been a waste of time and money after all.

Arthur Bromfield After Caravaggio’s ‘The Taking of Christ’ It may be noted in passing the embrace hands folded in abstinence eyes closed to the commotion the pain of the one back to the arriviste who is the hallelujah man misleading the mob what, in the dark, he can neither see nor hear, matters ?

Arthur Bromfield On doubt and all that You, the command of the aura the inescapable call the contradiction that would neither nest nor fly nor be tamed word that canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t name make me want to lavish to relish again and cherish sin and things passed that out of reach repel to deny, despite whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s evident, you and me and a void to be free not as a bird.

Mark F Chaddock GIVE PRAISE TO THE SEA Give praise to the sea for it would be a dull and sombre world without her kaleidoscope of blues, her cobalt, Prussian, and cerulean hues, her green-glass light-filled waves breaking on white and golden strands; her stormdashed beaches where the curlew and oystercatcher huddle against winter winds; for where would the basking shark, whale, dolphin and octopus have a home if not for her? And whatautumn shore ringed orange with wrack, and spattered with limpet and periwinkle, can you imagine that wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t her companion? Praise be the sea for putting fish on our tables, for providing us with the oyster, the lobster, the pollack and the salmon; for she is what makes our planet blue and our hearts leap when we sail on her in currach, yacht or fishing boat; for she allows us paddle in warm sandy shallows, walk a tideline holding a lovers hand, surf high on breakers with brinewind in our hair; for she is the bestower of a thousand delights, at night the moon coming out to lay her face against hers, to gaze upon her sleek black pelt and sing to her in her sleep; for she is both meek and furious, an ancient seductress, and since time began men have been drawn to her charms searching for distant lands, Blessed isles, even heaven; for the sea, especially in the West where the cliffs flush pink with thrift in May and the immaculate gannet dives for sand-eel and mackerel like an earthbound angel, is a haven, a world of mystery, and of revelation. Give praise to the sea; for it would be a dull and sombre world without her kaleidoscope of blues; Give praise to the sea, for without her we would cease to be.

Kate Dempsey

KATE DEMPSEY is a writer and a blogger living in Maynooth. She writes fiction and non-fiction as well as poetry and is widely published in Ireland and abroad, in magazines, anthologies and on the radio. She fits this around her family and a full time job, writing on the sofa, on the train and in that little coffeeshop on the corner. Poetry can be a solitary activity and she appreciates the support she received from the online community, particularly when starting out. She is excited about continuing the dialogue with her blog here and at emergingwriter.blogspot.com http://emergingwriter.blogspot.com This interview is reproduced from Kate's blogspot at writing.ie Editor's note: Kate's blogs are amog the brightest and most elucidating on the web. If you are really interested in what is happening in the literary world - especially in Ireland - subscribe to http://emergingwriter.blogspot.com .

An Interview With Eleanor Hooker Kate Dempsey

Eleanor Hooker lives in NorthTipperary. She has a BA (Hons 1st) from the Open University, an MA (Hons.) in Cultural History from the University of Northumbria, and an MPhil in Creative Writing (Distinction) from Trinity College, Dublin. She was selected for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series in 2011. Her poetry has been published in journals in Ireland and the UK. She is a founding member, ViceChairperson and PRO for the Dromineer Literary Festival. She is a helm and Press Officer for the Lough Derg RNLI Lifeboat. She began her career as a nurse and midwife. The Shadow Owner’s Companion is her debut collection of poems. I met Eleanor Hooker at the Harbourmaster pub i n the IFSC over a lovely chowder and dark brown bread. Hello Eleanor and welcome to writing.ie. How did you first get into poetry? By discovering that poetry was an even better, safer depository for tender things, that it could even restrain shadows. I’ve always told stories. I grew up in South Tipperary, a landlocked county. When I was a child we used to drive to the sea at Spanish Point. It took forever. Dad got me to tell stories to keep my brothers and sisters entertained on the car journey, but by the time we got there, no one would get in to swim! My Mother says that when I was small, if I didn’t have a word for something, I made one up. I used to send stories out, but got so many rejections. Some were encouraging and kind, but many more were careless and disinterested. I abandoned writing stories when one rejection letter was addressed to a ridiculous version of my name. You think, well if they couldn’t be bothered to get my name right… That was when I began writing poems in earnest. In the last two years I have returned to prose.

Do you use made up words in your poems? Made up words are powerful when you get them right. The only thing is, they make Spellchecker go mad! I like magical thinking. I like my poems to veer off and sometimes you need made up words for that. Tell us about the Creative Writing MPhil you did at Trinity College Dublin . What did you learn? For me, acceptance on the course was a sort of validation and was a huge source of confidence. We had fantastic lecturers, Gerald Dawe, Deirdre Madden Carlo Gebler, Molly McCloskey, Jonathan Williams and Richard Ford, and a whole host of visiting writers. On the MPhil in Creative Writing a certain proficiency in your writing is assumed at the outset, and they use the workshop environment to help improve your writing through critical examination of new pieces every week. It was incredibly enjoyable, but required hard work and total commitment. I stayed in a hotel in Dublin one night a week and travelled up and down from Tipperary on the other days, it was worth it. How do you start a poem? I keep a notebook in which I write down all sorts of things. I sometimes record dreams and use surreal elements from them in my work. Typically, poems begin as an idea, rarely with a word or phrase and never with a preformed line. Some ideas become poems and others become short stories. On occasion I will take it on a long walk and allow an idea to season. Of course, there is a danger than the idea will go off the boil. Some poems have an urgency and need to be put down immediately, while others mature with time like a fine wine. When I’ve written a poem, I read it aloud. If there’s no musicality or if it stutters along, it’s not working. I’ve thrown a lot of stuff away, though that’s rarely a good idea. It’s better to put it in a folder and you can go back to it later. Where do you write? 30

In the kitchen mostly. Something creative has to go on there as I certainly can’t cook! The picture on the cover of my book The Shadow Owner's Companion hangs on the wall behind me. It’s by Clare Hartigan, a good friend and fabulous artist with whose work I feel I can really connect. ‘Nightmare’ was written in the hairdressers. It needed to be written straight away. I asked

for a pen and some paper and the poem has remained largely untouched since then. Your first collection,The Shadow Owner's Companion, is coming out soon with Dedalus Press. The launch is on 1st February at 7pm in The Irish Writers Centre. (Available to purchases here ) Tell us about that. I met Pat Boran of Dedalus Press at a workshop about five years ago. He talked about our work at the end of the workshop and asked if I would like to send some more. My poetry at that stage simply wasn’t ready. Nevertheless, Pat was incredibly supportive from the start. After I completed the MPhil at Trinity I sent him a lot of poems. He is an attentive, meticulous and thoughtful editor. To my surprise, some of the poems I had the most doubts about were ones he felt worked well. The oldest poem in my collection is ‘Granddad’, written after he died. I was fourteen. The ‘Shadow Owner’s Companion’ is made entirely from the workings inside my head. With a book, you issue an open invitation to take a look out at the world from the inside of your head, and while they’re in there, you hope the reader has enough room the to interpret or understand each poem from his or her own perspective. Does your family read your poems? My sons have been known to say - Another freaky number, Mum! My husband sometimes gets concerned over some of the darker poems. He is a kind man and my best friend in the world. It’s pointless to self-censor, so I stopped doing that a long time ago. There’s no advantage to a poem to change it so that it’s palatable to people who are close to you. The best solution is not to show something I’m working on, because a negative reaction will seep into my head and affect my own view and I could lose confidence in it. 31

Which poets do you admire? I subscribe to poetry journals and I love to read new writing as it comes out. I regularly read the poetry of Paula Meehan, Mary Oliver, Kerry Hardie, Sylvia Plath, Sinead Morrissey, Colette Bryce and Kay Ryan. I enjoy the works of Charles Simic, Pat Boran, Derek Mahon, Billy Collins, Paul Celan, Tony Curtis and Michael Harnett. Hartnett in particular has such honesty in his poetry; his books are always kept within easy reach. What advice do you have for a new poet? I’m no oracle, but for what it’s worth, this is what I’ve learned. Don’t get dejected by rejections. Find your own voice; you shouldn’t try to mimic or be dictated to by other people’s sounds. Allow the reader or the listener room to infer, it does not have to writ large. Passion and truth (even if it is a lie) is essential. A poem that is beautifully constructed and pings like cut crystal when you touch it, but is hollow at its core, adds nothing, it is beautiful cold thing. If you spend a lot of your time monitoring what other people are doing, you’re not writing yourself. Turn off the social network sites!

Rachel Coventry The Hospice The stupid bitch on the TV says Put a bit of fizz in to your Christmas day. The daughter holds her tears away for a moment, then they go, the sister shakes his hand, like a child, lets shake hands. The man on the bed has shrunk to the size of a new calf, his head too heavy to carry now, his teeth don't fit. One day your teeth will not fit and it won't be worth replacing them. There is everything in this room, but silence, but it is patient and it will wait.

Francesca Casta単o Flimsy handkerchiefs This world has so many colours that fade at the wind's mercy. For instance the wrinkled green of a prairie just before the axe of winter sharpens its silver edge. Or the tonic air of a white forest, where birds seek shelter among dying leaves. Ah, if one could at least live like the strange song inside. Not at odds with the quotidian hecatomb of stripped trees.

Francesca Casta単o Murmur Under the roof of insomnia the iron bells of a nearby church mark the hours. I stand before the window of the mind trying to keep my eyes open. Thus, I glimpse the language of darkness. Suddenly, I'm awake; lights on, bells on, the wind blowing outside across the streets; across the crowds against the stones of the buildings; a rhapsody in blue! Continually changing. Inventing a sound like the sky kissing a skull with a murmur of shadows; foot-stepping around the stuff of time and its fierce rites. Idle in bed, confessing dreams.

niall o connor Snow The water of life is stilled and I watch as in slow motion the falling eyelashes of snow whisper me towards sleep each and every fractal variation yet unstained by hormonal recreation life is the messy one. From orifices that weep, and secrete and defecate, weaved between soiled and tangled sheets, in oyster stains drawn by semen filled sacks, we find little deaths: preambles in the dark. all men, and beasts, and sentient things fear death's embrace whether it comes gently, or without warning because death reorganises, recycles base elements once more in concert; a symphony rewritten.

For Beginner Poets: How to Know If Your Poetry Sucks Ami Mattison Poets at all levels of experience worry about whether or not our poetry sucks. Often, as we contemplate our poetry, we experience gnawing doubts about our abilities as poets and about the quality of our work. However, the question of “how to figure out if your poetry sucks” tends to be a beginner’s question. Experienced poets, whether we acknowledge it or not, usually know when our poetry sucks. But as a beginner, it’s natural to be confused by what makes a “good” poem.

Distinguishing Good Poetry from Sucky Poetry There are so many types of poetry in culture—good, bad, and ugly. Through experience, poets come to recognize what’s weak about a poem, what’s clichéd, and what simply isn’t working. But when you’re first starting out, writing a strong, successful poem can seem elusive, mysterious, or maybe even impossible. Lacking experience, it can be difficult to tell whether or not your poetry is any good. You know what they say about beauty being in the eye of the beholder? Well, poetry is like that. If you think a poem is beautiful, if it moves you, if it makes you think and seems to speak some truth to you, then that’s a “good” poem. However, if you’re looking to publish your poems, then you’ll need to develop a sense of what critics and poets agree makes for good poetry. Luckily for the beginner, there are some simple indicators that distinguish good poetry from weaker versions. One Sucky Poem and One Not-So-Sucky Poem As an exercise in determining what makes for a good poem versus a weak poem, take a look at this excerpt of one of my poems: The light reflects your skin. Impossibilities recede. 37

I trace where I have been, find the knots and knead. Run my fingers through your curls, twisting and bereaved. Pulling me into your world, from your mouth the air I breathe. You are not alone, as you walk away. I am here with you right now, praying that you will stay. I’m steady on this ground, holding on with all my might. You are not alone, your fears eclipsing light Umm…can you guess the title of this uninspired poem? That’s right: “You are not alone.” If you like this poem, then great. But trust me, it’s a real stinker. The premise is terrible, the rhyme is laughable, clichés abound, and some of it is so vague as to be nonsensical. Now, consider this excerpt from another poem I wrote: Stories sculpt figures, construct apartment buildings plant fields and wield iron, forge whole countries of strangers we come to believe we know. Stories create things. Poetry takes them apart. Unstitching the unseemly seam, breaking open rocks, chiseling crystal composites,

uprooting forest ferns just to smell the fertile musk of soil and finger the tangled, threaded flesh. This poem is entitled “Poetry, say it.” This isn’t the greatest poem, but it is a stronger poem than the first. It manages to use relatively original descriptions, its premise is more interesting, its language is active, and its images are concrete.

Ways to Know If Your Poem Sucks Now, let’s compare these two excerpts to determine exactly what makes one “bad” and the other one “better”: Cliché vs. original description. A cliché is relatively simple to identify. If you’ve heard a phrase used several times in people’s speech and writing, then that’s pretty much a cliché. Can you spot the clichés in the first poem? Here are just a few: “the light reflects,” “holding on with all my might,” and “eclipsing light.” All of those phrases are overused and not particularly interesting. We often use clichés as short cuts to describe our feelings, thoughts, and observations. In the second poem, “Stories sculpt figures/construct apartment buildings” is relatively original and offers two strong images. So always try to develop strong, original lines, phrases, and images. Passive voice vs. Active voice. The phrase “You are not alone” is not only unoriginal but passive voice. Also, “you are not” is a negative construction, making the phrase even more passive and ineffective. But notice the language of the second poem. You find verbs such “sculpt,” “construct,” “plant,” “wield,” and “forge.” These are all active descriptions. So, always try to use interesting, action verbs. Vague vs. concrete images. Consider the phrase “impossibilities recede.” It’s weak and vague as an image. But compare it to “tangled, threaded flesh,” which is stronger and more concrete. Always try to use strong, descriptive, and concrete images. Repetition vs. variations in sentence structures. In the first poem, all the sentence structures are repetitions of a noun and then a verb: “The light reflects,” “I trace,” “You 39

are,” etc. The second poem experiments with this structure, and in the last stanza, it uses gerunds as a way to break up the sentences some. So think about your sentence structures and try some variations. Wordiness vs. brevity. This sentence, “I am here with you right now, praying that you will stay” is wordy. Not only could I have used conjunctions—“I’m” and “you’ll”—but “that” is unnecessary. In the second poem, you’ll notice the language is more concise. Words you can often avoid are “that,” “which,” prepositions, and articles. Always try to create concise wording in your poems. Unoriginal vs. original rhyme. The first poem uses end rhyme, meaning that the final word of one line rhymes with the final word of another line (i.e. “skin” and “been,” “recede” and “knead”). Also, the rhyme scheme is abab cdcd, efef, etc., meaning every other line rhymes. This rhyme scheme is very common and very easy to compose. However, it’s also unoriginal and uninteresting. Many poets eschew end-rhyme altogether, but that’s not really the point. The point is to find interesting ways to rhyme. Internal rhymes can be interesting and subtle, such as “fields and wield” and “unseemly seam” in the second poem. When first starting out, try to avoid predictable and repetitive end rhymes. Too much (or too little) vs. balanced alliteration. Alliteration is the repetition of consonant sounds in two or more words that are relatively close together. For instance, in the second poem, “crystal composites” is an example of alliteration. So is “forest ferns.” In the first poem, “knots and knead” is another example. Definitely use alliteration, but use it sparingly. For instance, “the rascally rabbit runs” is terrible alliteration for any serious poem. Deadening vs. lively line breaks. Line breaks are tricky. A simple rule is to avoid breaking a line after a preposition, an article, a conjunction, or a pronoun. Certainly, like all rules, that one is made to be broken; but if you’re first starting out, try to adhere to it until you get a better sense of line breaks. Each line in a poem should be an interesting image or phrase. When first starting out, some poets break lines according to how they hear a poem. What this means is that instead of “Stories create things.” You might be tempted to break the line like this: “Stories/create/things.” None of those lines are 40

particularly interesting, even if they do suggest some dramatic reading of the sentence. Also, you’ll notice in the first poem that there is no enjambment. Enjambment is the continuation of a sentence or thought beyond a predictable line break. For instance, in the first poem, each line breaks in a predictable way. Consider what happens when I shift the first line to read, “The light reflects your skin. Impossibilities…” That’s a little more interesting. The problem with not using enjambment is that each line starts to sound the same and has a deadening effect on the ear. So, think carefully about line breaks and try a little enjambment. Telling vs. showing. Finally, a good poem shows us what’s happening rather than telling us. For a beginner, this might seem a subtle distinction, but it’s not. In the first poem, “as you walk away” is “telling.” Now, if I’d found a metaphor to suggest how the person was walking away, that’d be “showing.” As another example, in the second poem, “Poetry takes things apart” is telling. “Unstitching the unseemly seam” is showing. So, try to be creative and show us what’s happening rather than telling us. Hopefully, these few characteristics will give you a place to start in improving your poetry. However, Poetry is a very complex craft that requires lots of practice and experience to master. If you’re interested in studying poetry, then I recommend a class, which you can find at art centers, universities and colleges, and even online. If you want to do some self-study, then an excellent place to begin is with The Poet’s Companion by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux. But the best way to learn how to write poetry that doesn’t suck is to read lots of great poetry. So, check out your public library and read some poetry by well-known, great poets.

Love Your Sucky Poetry Expressing yourself, enjoying the pleasure that language has to offer, and articulating your own truths are the most significant reasons for writing poetry. So, when you’re first starting out, don’t worry too much about whether or not your poetry sucks. Rather, try to have some fun— experiment with words and play with meanings.

If you write enough poetry, then you’re bound to write sucky poetry occasionally. As this article suggests, every poet does. Bad poetry clears the way for great poetry. However, if your poetry gives you comfort, if it gives you pleasure, or if it manages to speak the truth of your experience or observations, then it doesn’t suck at all. Rather, it’s an expression of your creativity. So, try not to judge your poetry too harshly and learn to love it some. When you love your poetry, you’ll want to make it better. And if you want to make it better, you’ll want to practice, experiment, and play; and by doing so, you’ll gain the necessary experience to improve and maybe write a lot less sucky poetry. Reproduced from Amy Mattison's site at poetryNprogress.com

poetryNprogress is created and written byAmi Mattison. Visit Ami on Facebook,Myspace, and Youtube.

Tatjana Debeljački THERE IS Someone is cracking the branch?! Hang on till morning. Here it is inside of me, Innocent, thirsty Still waiting for the bread and milk, Sipping the mint tea. Bring the peace without the aim And the flowers for the vase. Doesn’t know that her soul is freezing, so she takes her time. Every now and then she sees her but never anything happens. Starting to believe in miracles. Is there the heavenly love and Such a flame That it never turns into ashes? Always ripe like an apple! Eh, my quest for the fire... I’m intoxicated by the poem, not wine! Your words are the wind Blowing my love Away!!!

Tatjana DebeljaÄ?ki TREES OF JAPAN In some mysterious and wonderful way we are part of everything. And in that same mysterious and wonderful way, everything is a part .In order to experience this, we must be aware of how limited our senses are eyes, ears touch, smell, taste. These senses help us to function in the Seen World. What we see is interpreted by our minds and put inside our belief system, and this can become our reality. But there also exists an Unseen World. In this world we experience connectedness; we experience the mystery; and we experience another whole point of view. If we pay attention to both the Unseen World and the Seen World, our belief systems will print in our mind a new and wonderful reality. We will see and know we are a part of everything trees of japan

Michael Corrigan Childhood Photograph 1962 A sepia shot a family pose a little boy in black and white a scrubbed clean soul in perfect clothes a pudgy face a freckled nose.

Donal Mahoney Honeydew Sherbet Down the patio walk, white stones, through the garden, under the trellis toward me yellow frock, yellow hair rising and falling I lie in my lawn chair, spoon honeydew sherbet, sip pink ade from a tall glass, cubes circling She is almost upon me I look up and I tell her I have sand, sea, skies, laughs, all paid for and nothing nothing at all to do.

Donal Mahoney One of the Ha-Ha’s from Old Staball Hill Ballyheigue County Kerry Ireland That man over there with his head in the well, his thumbs in his ears and his arse in the air like a zeppelin at moor, if he can write poems the Ha-Ha’s will read, all of the Ha-Ha’s, no matter the breed, even the Ha-Ha’s from Old Staball Hill, if he can write poems, then poems he will.

Matt Mooney No Looking Back. Destination in the distance For another Irish daughter On a long haul flight Seven miles above Malaysia: An eager girl, her mind fixed On a new dawn in Australia. You'll try to turn it all Upside down to suit you For a while in Sydney But you'll yearn too For the old hometown, Now turned into daydreams.

Susan Tepper Autumnal This time of year the darkness before real when light's not shadow Grass still burns at noon you watch the sorrows begin

Susan Tepper

Migratory Everything will comeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; its time its place the receding paradigm we go on fracturing the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s essence a lost key obscure as far off planets Things here diffuse into waves, wires, some faulty transmission that could be migratory

Susan Tepper

Rest (for Sylvia Plath) Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no secret Why You left a food tray Opened the window Kissed them goodbye Shut the door Taped its cracks. Sat in front of the stove.

Peter Goulding There will be redundancies Larry, his BO wafting like fear through the huddled crowd, was the first to reach the first line of the third paragraph of the notice that had been attached to the baize with primary colour thumb tacks. “Unfortunately, there will be redundancies,” he intoned, contemptuously. “That’s me gone, anyway, boys.” That was the solar plexus line, the line that would break friendships, cause bitter feuds, divide the factory into factions; the line that made us watch who was talking to management, who was reporting transgressions, who had received instructions from home to hang onto their job whatever; the line that did us forever. There will be redundancies. Not ‘people will be made redundant’ nor ‘we will be making people redundant.’ This was intransitive redundancy, an industrial deux ex machina that visited randomly on the unchosen few. It reeked of the HR manual on how to break bad news to employees and, many of us remarked later, we preferred the smell of Larry’s BO.

Mick Rooney Mick Rooney was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1968. He has been writing fiction for nearly thirty years and has published nine books. His first book, Arcadia, was published in 1990. It is a poetic novella of the mind and was followed by The Eternal, Hybrid, Thais, and a book of collected shorter fiction in 1995, entitled, Oceanic. Academy was Mick Rooneyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first full length novel. His second, Filigree & Shadow, was published in November 2008. His last novel, The Memory of Trees, was published by Book Republic, an imprint of Maverick House Publishing, in September, 2011. He is a publishing consultant and has written many informative and illuminating articles about the changing and complex world of the publishing industry, including the book, To Self-Publishing or Not to Self-Publish. He is currently editor and researcher at The Independent Publishing Magazine and writes a monthly column for the UK's largest magazine on writing, Writers' Forum.

Editors note: Mick Rooney wrote this article some years ago, but it is amazingly prescient in the context of what has happened in the meantime. Mick's site is the place to visit if you wnt to know about publishing today.

Publishing Industry - Change or be Damned? Mick Rooney Over the past month, there has been considerable debate about the current state and future of the publishing industry across the internet on writer’s forums and blogsites. Some of the discussion was sparked by Boris Kachka’s recent article in the New York Magazine.

A lot of the criticism of Kachka’s article seems to centre on his depressing analysis expressed from speaking with industry insiders about the current predicament in publishing across the globe. One of the key quotes he uses in his article is from statistician, Philip Roth;

“...there were at most 120,000 serious readers—those who read every night—and that the number was dropping by half every decade.”

Many avid readers will naturally disagree with the Roth quote, and, in fact, I also disagree, but with this caveat. There are perhaps more people reading now, than at any point in the history of mankind. It is time that the publishing industry started to more accurately look at ‘what’ is being read, and more to the point, ‘where’ and ‘how’ it is being read.

Let me digress for just a while before returning to Mr. Roth’s quote.

I think before we can access what state the publishing industry is in right now, we must first look at where it has been and the reasons why it has reached such a pivotal and directionless state. It is not surprising that the industry, like many, has pedalled along and mirrored the rises and falls in the standard of living and economic recessions.

Let us not forget that some of us still living can remember when competent literacy was not always the accepted given that it is now. Let us also not forget that the vast amount of information we take in on a day to day basis is through the written word. Whether that is reading the morning newspaper; the billboards and road signs on the way to work in the car or train; opening our work 54

emails; reading countless memos, reports; studying the lunchtime menu in the cafeteria; browsing the evening newspapers; the recipe for our dinner in the evening; our favourite websites and blogsites; not to mention the countless text messages we receive every day on our mobiles; right to the very point when we fall into bed with the latest bedtime read; they all confront us as part of everyday life.

The fact is, day in, day out, we are reading to overload point. Much of it may be seen as a chore, and some of it may be seen as pleasure. True, pleasurable reading, whether it is Barbara Cartland or James Joyce, Raol Dahl or Stephen Hawkins, will always have the common denominator of shared experience and the identification of a writer to his true reader, and the reader to their favourite writer.

You cannot accurately define the relationship of author/reader in any theoretical form or publishing model. This is even beyond the best publisherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s entrepreneur or even the greatest and most entertaining of writers, because it is fluid, ethereal, and constantly affected by public trends and the personal moods of mankind.

This is not to say that the publishing industry cannot set itself up in a way that gives it the best chance of flourishing, rather than floundering aimlessly amid its printed words and marketing blurbs.

I do not think it is a coincidence that the industry inherently began to seriously change in the economic recession of the 1980â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. The book publishing world followed the mark of the newspaper empires of Murdock and Maxwell, where a handful of media companies controlled the entire national world newsprint output. Throughout the 1980â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, large commercial publishers consumed smaller commercial and independent publishers. We watched large publishers dance around like politicians, desperate to tell us all how different they were from each other, yet, all the while, the centre stage became evermore crowded and the publishing model they used became steadily narrower.

The following are the reasons why I believe the publishing industry has reached its current state of being.

1. Consumption of smaller presses/publishers by large internationally owed publishers. 2. Inherent conservative nature of the commercial business model. 3. Economic recession of the 1980’s and the current impending recession. 4. Explosion of the ‘celebrity status’ writer, perpetrated by commercial publishers trying to find the winning marketable book every time. 5. The increased trend for enormous advances and bidding wars between large publishers for the most sought after writers. 6. The growth in the internet as an information resource and the rise of social networking. 7. The expanded saturation of multi-channel TV and digital entertainment products. 8. The development of Print-on-demand technology allowing printers to become publishers. 9. The slow, but steady development of E-Books and E-Readers. 10. The continued use of the ‘Traditional Model’ of the publishing industry. 11. The increasingly crowded arena for market space and consumer attention.

Let me return to the Roth quote. Why does he feel that readers are declining by the decade? I think to be fair to Roth, he is perhaps referring to what he sees in his eyes as the ‘true’ reader. He may even be tending toward what would be considered the ‘literary reader’. And if he is solely referring to the ‘literary reader’, then, he is probably correct. Yes, our poor literary reader is like most general readers—punch drunk from an industry publishing more titles that at any time ever before, and trying to market and reach out to its consumer in a media market saturated to the brim with messages and products we can’t live without.

A little more subtly may be required. Imagine our avid reader in this sorry publishing mess, not as a reader, but a skilled hunter of wild and exotic animals. At the moment, most traditional publishers still follow a rigid model of business, and so, they will more often send our hunter to the zoo to quench his or her needs, rather than send them out into the wild plains of Africa or Asia. At heart, I don’t blame large publishers for pursuing an already captivated audience, but it does demonstrate 56

how far removed their ‘model’ of publishing has become over the years. It also demonstrates how in reality they have removed themselves so far away from the common reader that they can no longer define who the reader is or what makes them excited about the experience of reading.

From the writer’s point of view—and most publishers seem to have forgotten that all writers are first and foremost readers—publishers will not read unsolicited manuscripts; they will expect an agent to deliver an ms as close to the publishable book as possible; give the author little input into the design and production process; give many of their published books less of a print run and lifespan than is really needed. More and more new writers to a publishing contract, even many of the major publishing houses, expect the new author to take on much of the marketing and promotion for their book with little recompense to their time, energy and effort expended. The comparisons between traditional publishing and self-publishing/subsidy publishing are becoming far more blurred. There is still a stigma attached to publishing through any method other than traditional publishing, and the greatest slight on subsidy publishing is that it is purely driven by vanity, hence the tag of ‘vanity presses’. Perhaps the truest form of vanity is the arrogant author who lands a traditional publishing deal and boasts about his grand success while the self published and subsidy authors hawk their few copies from store to store without an arse in their trousers. I think I know where true vanity lies, and it is not with the alternative methods of publishing. The music business got over this stigma of ‘self recording/publishing’ many, many years ago. Traditional publishing has a lot of catching up to do.

If anything, the digital technology which has lead to the growth of self/subsidy publishing--printon-demand (POD)--has now been utilised by some traditional publishers to revitalise their back catalogue of books which did not warrant a large offset print run. Many publishers still remain lacklustre in embracing new online marketing ideas, electronic formats via e-readers, e-books and the use of blogsites and writer forums. Publishers have spent more than a century viewing the physical format of a book as sacred.

For the past two decades, publishers have allowed wholesalers, distributors and retailers to dictate the terms of their own industry, from pricing agreements, wholesale discounts of 50% and a 57

ludicrous returns policy that should only exist in the industry of fresh food manufacturing and supply. At heart, from top to bottom, the industry needs to learn how to properly and fairly regulate itself and think beyond its own imposed confines.

It is for many of the above reasons that we have seen the rise and growth of the online retail monolith Amazon. Amazon has come in for much criticism particularly over the past year among authors and publishers alike, and while I am not a fan of their strident and heavy handed business conglomerate tactics; who can blame them? The publishing industry has provided the platform for Amazon wanting to be ‘all things to all mankind’, excuse my tongue being firmly embedded in my cheek! Amazon want to be publisher, printer, distributor and wholesaler all rolled into one. True self publishers cast the first stone in a landmark change to the publishing industry decades ago by eliminating ‘the publisher’. While online sales of book formats still remains in its infancy, time and technology marches on to a point in the not too distant future when the traditional publisher as we know them now finally bolts the last door on their brick and mortar houses.

If things continue without a refreshing change in the current ‘publishing model’, then all authors alike may be dealing directly with online businesses like Amazon--self published authors are already doing it--and I do not believe this is the best path forward for publishers or authors.

So where should we go from here?

There is a chink of light ahead already. There does seem to be a minor shift at the moment, both by smaller traditional publishers and their imprints and some subsidy publishers. It has to do with their ‘publishing models’. If you like, we are seeing publishers move a little both ways. Earlier this year HarperCollins appointed Bob Miller to head up a new imprint, HarperStudio. This eclectic imprint offers authors advances of no more than $100,000, but offsets 'the pain' by offering a much larger royalty. The imprint involves the author in the process of the book from production right through to hands-on marketing. Effectively, we 58

are looking at a kind of partnership publishing. On the other side of the coin, we have subsidy publishers like Cold Tree Press who are now moving away from out and out subsidy publishing toward the traditional model of publishing. Troubador in England are another example. They operate a sister imprint called Matador, (run by Jeremy Thompson, one of the most successful self publishing authors in the last twenty years) who self/subsidy and partnership publish depending on their evaluation of a book. I believe long term success lies somewhere in between self/subsidy and partnership publishing, and several publishers are starting to see this, both in the UK and United States. I would be nice to believe that this change is driven by entrepreneurism and independence, but the reality is economics.

I think there is also a lot more going on as well in the marketing of authors by these independently thinking publishers. They realise if you are a large traditional publisher you cannot warrant small print runs of books destined never to be best sellers, nor can you try to market lesser known authors globally. For that, you need a global budget and even some luck. The new independent thinking publishers, be they an imprint of a large publisher or reputable subsidy publisher being selective about what they take on, are taking a leaf out of the self publisher’s manual. You market new and lesser know authors at grass roots level, in their local or online community. You invest and build slowly with your author alongside you all the time. You invest for the medium to long term over several years with your list of authors. It is a partnership which does not leave too much room for the Manhattan or Mayfair agent. It is low volume distribution which does not necessarily require large companies like Baker & Taylor or Ingrams to be involved. It is a band of authors from one publisher who ‘tours’ their publishing wares throughout the country(s). It is the publisher who can feel their reading and buying public at the ends of their fingertips.

Some of these changes will grow in the book publishing industry, but for any new 59

model to succeed, we must take back some of the control given away. Writers must accept that the days of advances from publishers are numbered and that the real ‘work’ of a book is only born when it is printed and they cannot run and hide to pen their next magnum opus in the shed at the end of the garden. This is not too big a price to pay. The reality is that less than 90% of authors receive an advance of $10,000 or less. It is time for large publishers to stop paying out exorbitant advances to fading TV celebrities for a quick return. It is time for publishers to start reconnecting with the reader as well as their authors. It is time the publishers took back the business of publishing from the hands of wholesalers and high street retailers. It is time our retailers stopped selling books on a ‘no risk, sure we can return them to the wholesalers in three months’ basis, and, perhaps then, they might invest more time into the buying needs and comforts of the public when they enter a bookstore to experience the gift of reading.

And to the readers...let us all not forget we are also the authors, publishers, and retailers as well.

Tom Moloney New Year’s Eve You were expecting nothing. It struck me just the same, We were as well off to stay put, Winter rain pouring down. The day passed, Eventually turned to night. You went for a drag, your last one Before the countdown. Looking back, I remember You left yourself out, The latch giving you away; suppose You felt no need to shout upstairs To let me know that you were leaving, That you’d be gone for some time; But you’d return before midnight And next year we’d hug and kiss again (Amongst other acts of love) just Like last year, not dwelling on the last day. To tell the truth, You were expecting nothing.

Hem Raj Bastola Why not! Stampeding like the wind Spirit that fly on foot Listening to the trail we climb Steps were asking some time The fire that we ignite, For our electric pace. The stick that long may not last Whom I carve for you And the memory that we left today Shared food and cared thought Will remind the friendship we made.

John Saunders It Was Here that it Happened, my introduction to subversion, the seduction of the spirit that glimmered to nothing in one night, replaced by the weight of wrong hanging heavily. Those who have fallen have no calibration of the soulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s colour making it impossible to walk the good ground, instead the sharp stones cut.

John Saunders

September Wasp A lonely creature, last of your kind this year, in front of you the shortest part of your life. I watch you crawl across the windscreen your yellow jacket a warning, full stinger underbelly, loaded with pain. The rain drops splash so heavy I cannot see. One flick would be enough. I stop, not out of kindness more to watch you on your last journey seeking out some sweet fruit, a final smear of nectar, before the end.

Patrick Walsh Remembering Summer Terrace-Houses Windy in May,sunday afternoon blows Dry dust like alien bacteria or old rose bloom Through straight-as-die terraced housing. The young women ,sporting tracksuit bottoms On their broad motherly bodies are fortresses, And both bespectacled to rule their house-in-house. So unconcerned, they're elbow leaning The low boundary wall like big ranchers Of the old west surveying dust devils.Confidently Knowing those cool white tablecloths are static On the prosperity of their tables. The vagueness of their husbands, Shiftworkers like their fathers before them, A stick,a rod.a hopeful rune,still so Still in diviners mist of their electric hands. Boredom flutters an idea or two To be brushed away wispily by mother hands. Nothing has a notion to be done now More than the dreaming of dry dust.

George Harding Call It Stillness

Sometimes a branch will fall In the dead of a wood No one will notice. Sometimes a curlew will call In the mist of a bog No one will notice. Sometimes a spider will wrestle With a bluebottle in furze No one will notice. Sometimes an otter will nestle In a badgers den. Trusting. No one will notice. Sometimes in the grooves Of a silent stream, eels slither. No one will notice. And sometimes nothing moves. The wind sleeps. No leaves stir. Someone will notice.

Shauna Gilligan Brushstroke You’ve slept on the floor again. Fighting with the brush. You can hear your mother knocking on the door. “Come on, time to get up, Jesus, you’re worse than a child!” You shake your head and stand up, stretching your arms in the air, yawning. “Yeah,” you shout back. You stare at the door, its freshly painted gloss willing you to go at it with the brush. “You’re not the only one who can take a brush in his hand,” she said a few weeks ago. “At least my painting is useful,” she added, an edge to her voice. You could just see her painting those doors again. You chose not to respond to that edge in her voice and instead savaged the canvas, the brushes scattered on the floor as you felt your way with the paint, just as you did when you were a boy. It was the same feeling you got when you swam in the sea on the first day of the New Year. You’d only done it once – as a dare – but there was something magical about it. Like a reminder that you were alive. Now you look at what you’d stayed up until after five in the morning for – a canvas painted black. Black nail marks. Broad, black brushstrokes done with fist and fingers. In art class, you were told to drop the black. And you loved writing in green pen, but in English class, they wouldn’t let you. You haven’t changed and as you run your fingers over the welts of black, you feel cheated. Balance does not come easy.

You cooked a fry just because you remembered the taste of the salt on your skin, just because you suddenly felt like you needed to remind her that you were alive. You weren’t just there. Or some sort of thing to be put up with. You love her. Because she is your mother. But it is beyond duty, this love. It is something you try not to think about. But she didn’t know how to take the cooked breakfast complete with napkin. She ate it as if it was poison. Still, you could tell she was 67

happy. It was a silent apology for your weeks of speechlessness. * A few months ago your best friend told you he’d rid you of it. Soon you’d be relieved of this burden of books and purgatory of painting (it was all through you, that much you could feel) and in its place, you’d have fun. He promised to knock it out of you in no time. Your girlfriend said it set you apart, this earnestness. She didn’t have to try as hard with you – you were so accepting of who she was. You were smiling as she said it, glad of it, happy it was you she had picked. And when she kissed you on the cheek you caught the smell of her lipstick. Suddenly you felt less male. The best thing, you decided, was to get out. Out of the house and start afresh. You bought a new sketchpad and a set of fancy pencils. You hopped on the bus to Tallaght and walked the rest of the way. There would hardly be anyone there, you’d reasoned. But as you started your ascent up Montpelier Hill, you spotted another man, tall, thin and alone. So you followed him. Up the mountain path. He found some sort of herb on the banks of a tiny river. You took him in, his wholeness, his solidity. He ate some; he bagged some. And you stood, a few feet behind, your sketchbook becoming marked with your sweat. You watched him, your mouth chewing as he ate, your legs twitching because you were still. “Want some?” he turned and asked, a leaf dangling down his chin. “What is it?” “Watercress. Gorgeous in salads.” He flicked his long fringe away from his face. So you ate some; you drew some. “Not bad,” he conceded, eyeing the paper. “I’m an artist,” you said. “So it would seem.” He smiled. “Well, nice to meet you but I’ve got to get going.” When his bobbing head was out of sight you waved after him. You continued the climb and reached the ruins of the Hell Fire Club. Even in its silence, it didn’t speak. And you left with a sketchbook half-full of images of watercress. 68

* You’d spent most of your life avoiding labels but you’d taken this one on quite willingly. Artist. Then, once you had said it, it was gone. Now, every day, you keep the pencil moving across the paper as you write the stories of the pictures you will paint. You write to keep the strokes even and measured. You look at a pile of books in the corner and pull out one that you haven’t read in years. You hold it up to the light. The pages are peppered with greasy fingerprints, transparent, a reminder of a connection long gone. A reminder of when there was joy. When eating chipper chips and turning the pages of a book was all you hoped for. You look for a sign. A glint of silver catches your eye. And you take it. And you slash your way through the canvas, the sound of the knife pleasing. You stand back and look. Artist, you whisper. You smile at your reflection in the knife. Now the canvas has a definite look of equilibrium.

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Useful advice from a master. http://writing.ie/ A wonderful resource for writers, driven by the dynamic Vanessa O’Loughlin http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/dec/18/fifty-literary-life-robert-mccrum

Robert McCrum tells it as it is. http://www.iyume.com/kacian/ Jim Kacian's thoughts and useful information on haiku http://www.poewar.com/four-ways-to-publish-your-poetry/

And the best way...in thefirstcut. http://www.bigbridge.org/100thousandpoetsforchange/?p=452 Our poems and photos for the 100 Thousand Poets for Change Listowel event.

http://www.saltpublishing.com/horizon/issues/05/text/Petrucci_M ario_Poetry_and_Poetry_Competitions.htm Read this before you enter.

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We give you our welcome, we welcome your genius.