thefirstcut #2 by Mike Gallagher

thefirstcut #2

Contents Editorial Making Comments Kevin Graham Mary Lavery Carrig Richard O' Toole Kerrie O' Brien FROM THE ‘GOB’ Kinga Nowak Dominic Taylor Helen Broderick Haiku: An Introduction Anatoly Kudryavitsky John W Sexton Tom Moloney Mary Margaret Gallagher Nicholas Damion Alexander Mari Maxwell Joe Healy Wendy Brosnahan Teri Murray Pauline Fayne Margaret Sheehan Mina Lakshmanan Mary O'Gorman Patsy McDermott

Haiku Guidelines Aural Experience Lines In The Dark of Day Early morning praise Rimmel No. 7 Rhythm of the Scythe Looking for silence Her Own Society 3 Poems Intervention Mountain Fleur It’s a Pity

3 4 5 6 7 8 9,10 11 12 13 14 15 16-19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27-30 31 32,33 34 35

Friday’s Child Mrs Lazarus

36,37 38

Neamh-aire In And Out Of Athens The Railway Gates Our Loss Before We Disappear Axeheads The Emergency

39 40 41-43 44 45 46,47 48,49

Hand The Widow The Scaffolders Wife Empathy 1997 One Way Ticket Seanchai Inspiration

Neil Brosnan

Kevin Griffin Louis Mulcahy kevin taranto Stephen Connaughton P J Kennedy john pinschmidt Kevin Hurley Mattie Lennon Irina Privorotskaya

A View from Granddads Window 50 On Sligo Quay, June 2011 51

John McGrath dippingthepen These We Like Vanessa O'Loughlin Thousand Poets for Change.

52-54 55 Coping With Rejection100 56

Intros, Guidelines and Bios can be found in the 'About Us' Section at:

http://issuu.com/thefirstcut/docs/about_us 2

Editorial In musical terms, this issue of thefirstcut would be the equivalent of the 'difficult' second album. Flushed with the runaway success of our first edition, we were left to speculate on whether we had a one-hit wonder or whether we would be able to make progress in terms of quality and diversity while maintaining our 'writing group' ethos. I think we have succeeded on both scores. Immediately our new submission window opened in June, it was evident that our appeal had spread far beyond our North Kerry hinterland. Work came in from all parts of the globe, including Jamaica, America, Canada, India, Africa and Europe - as well as all the provinces of Ireland. But it was not just the geographical spread that was so satisfying; the diversity of styles and the overall quality of the submissions were most welcome and encouraging. We could easily have filled three journals - indeed, we have felt obliged to increase the size of thefirstcut way beyond what was originally envisaged. Once again we were struck by the generosity of our contributors, both those who made submissions and those whose permission we sought to reproduce previously published articles. This mixture of new writing and well-thought-out work by artists, accomplished in specific fields, will surely help to improve the skills of those readers who are prepared to put in the effort to further hone their craftsmanship. In this regard, we would like to extend special thanks to Anatoly Kudryavitsky, John W Sexton, Pauline Fayne and Vanessa O'Loughlin for their goodwill, friendship and encouragement in the production of this edition. We would also like to thank Kevin Hurley who submitted a volume of work by a group of VSO volunteers working in Addis Ababa. We felt that this work is self-contained and is of a good enough standard to be produced as a stand-alone journal and hope, with their permission, to publish it as such shortly. An important part of thefirstcut, like any writing group, is interaction between participants. With this in mind, we welcome comments, particularily in the form of constructive criticism and especially from writers who appear in a particular edition. Remember you must sign in to ISSUU (google it) to comment. Details on next page. On a more parochial note, we are delighted to announce that the Listowel segment of 100 Thousand Poets for Change, which we are hosting, will be opened by Jimmy Deenihan, appropriately Ireland's Minister for the Department of Arts, Heritage and the Gaeltacht. Of course, this makes it all the more important that we make the event a roaring success. The busy beavers at thefirstcut: Mike Gallagher, Mary Lavery Carrig, John McGrath, Tom Moloney, Margaret Sheehan, Joe Healy.

Making Comments. You must join ISSUU to be able to comment on thefirstcut. It is simple, costs nothing and gives you access to thousands of magazines. 1) Join ISSUU at: http://help.issuu.com/entries/240302-signing-up2) 3) 4) 5)

and-logging-in When you have become a member, you will be given a profile page of your own. At the top of the page there is a Search Issuu box. Type in 'thefirstcut' and click. This will bring up thefirstcut profile page. If you see Subscribe, click thefirstcut link before it. In the Comment box at the bottom of the page, type in a short comment and click 'Post'. You can also click on any 'twin spire' (picture of The Square, Listowel) icon. Please keep your comments short and positive. The ethos of this site is to encourage writers through friendship and constructive criticism.

HELP! You will have noticed by now that we are IT illiterate. Is there any bright young spark - maybe even a spluttering older spark - out there who would be willing to guide us through the many pitfalls that seem to lay in wait for us and then strike us down at the most inopportune moments. We are talking about someone who can explain computer crashes, restore broadband, explain clearly (see above) how to post comments and, perhaps, help us to set up a web site (apparently everyone has them these days). You will earn no money, but think of the experience you will gain and, of course, the job satisfaction (think, dragging reluctant old people across the road).

Submission Guidelines:

http://issuu.com/thefirstcut/docs/about_us

Submit to:

renagown@gmail.com

Contributors Bios:

http://issuu.com/thefirstcut/docs/about_us

Kevin Graham Hand They sit in cafés to consume more pig, their faces sweaty from the pink meat; they don’t look up when the bell dings. The user on the street asks for change, for a handful of clarity, his addiction open like the sky in a tapped vein. Bombs go off across the city’s roof and somewhere a child gives its life away in the arms of a desperate mother. Who was stabbed in the face by the river for the contents of his empty wallet? What news is there that is really new? An underage girl raped in a disco by a boy whose father has cancer won’t make the front headline tomorrow. It is reserved for corrupt politicians (an oxymoron if ever there was one) or presidents with an oversexed libido. Who can comprehend these things? What does love come to at the end of the day? I take your hand and tell you it’s ok.

Mary Lavery Carrig The Widow She drove your punctured wheelbarrow over the ridged step and in the back door. She parked it beside the kitchen stove and threw in the wood you had stacked. It was that dry, it burned without smoke. You'd have laughed at the good of it. Then when the wheelbarrow emptied, she picked the thorn from her thumb. Later she swept, prepared to depart and announced that her winter was gone.

Richard O' Toole The Scaffolders Wife Lip tie box tie through tie Braces Faces Dogs legs Singles Crab Claws Toe Board Clip Twenty foot Tubes Galvanised dipped Doubles Swivels Gin wheels Safety Harness Fall arrest The monday morning test The Scaffolders wife has a secret The truck wont start The forklifts stuck......... Tripods Ladder Beams Boss man screams ”start the forks, load the truck “ The Scaffolders wife has a secret “Have a cofee, come in from the cold “ The Truck Travels-------the men work The scaffolders wife has a secret The Scaffolders wife has a secret Not much longer will she keep it With oil on canvass Painting dreams Colourful scenes Yellow ochre cobalt blue Creating points of view Stuff we Scaffolders could not do 7

Kerrie O' Brien Empathy I lay down my arms My body tells a story You trace each mark Like ogham And try to decipher They only go so deep I let you We are scarred alike When I look hard I see myself in your eyes

FROM THE ‘GOB’ (Grumpy Old Bard) Poetry is bad enough without it being long… (An opinion attributed by some to a well-known Listowel publican and writer and by others of a more cynical disposition to one of his longsuffering customers on being asked to endure yet another epic masterpiece.) Regardless of its origins, the principle of brevity as an ambition for a poet is sound enough as far as I’m concerned. As a veteran of innumerable ‘open mic.’ sessions at this stage, I’ve had it up to the gills with people who insist on force-feeding us their wisdom in vast, indigestible fifteen-minute dollops, often at the expense of wiser men and women waiting in the wings whose words are fewer but more thoughtfully assembled. Personally I’m usually brain-dead by the sixth verse, especially when I can tell that these morons are just getting into their stride, judging by the number of sweaty angxtridden pages still clutched in their egotistical little fists. A glazed look somewhat akin to that sometimes seen waxing in the eye of a dying fish creeps slowly up and over the faces of the audience. Audible groans from the shadows, as previously sane people slowly lose the will to live, are soon drowned out by the rising buzz of conversation from recent converts to poetry, ignoramuses not yet fully conversant with the social etiquette of the open microphone, or ‘The Bearpit’, as it is frequently described. The written poetic word in protracted form can be equally mindnumbing, if we’re honest. Can you truly cast your mind back without yawning, to school-days spent ploughing through Chaucer…or even 9

The Midnight Court for that matter, even if it did have a hint of earthy promise going for it, if I remember rightly! As for T.S. Eliot – has anyone ever actually read The Waste Land all the way through? Even Yeats could be long-winded at times, 1916, for example – 16 lines up to and including the first Terrible Beauty would have been fine Willie, and, dare I suggest, quite appropriate? Why then do some of us assume in our own ‘Collections’ that our ten-page treatise in blank verse on the subject of our grandmother’s toenails might be more riveting than we once found The Ancient Mariner; no offence intended, Mister Coleridge? And so I implore you, my fellow scribblers – keep it short, even if sweet is not in your nature. A good poem in my humble view is one that can be read, absorbed and inwardly digested during a single contemplative visit to the loo. Next issue – The merits of good old-fashioned rhyme.

Kinga Nowak 1997 It was a summer of lust lost on crossed wires in labyrinths sequestered by tombstones and curfews spread over a couch tucked into a wall of greenery, occasionally invaded by a drunken stumbling, or the police When scars were screaming secrets, and the language of our pen knives were understood by the trees by hands that drew that sweet darkness crimson When there were 5 of us and we were infinite and cruel, but we knew who we were. We were conquistadors in dark parks, lording over stray raccoons. We took the fields and bridges with coffee and cigarettes. Our ambitions ambiguous, Our destinies intersecting at Bloor and Royal York. I remember the charred remains of that afternoon spent saving a battered blue couch from the green grips of a dumpster and the sharp snaking pain zipping up my ankle when I played Icarus off a roof-top The maroon and gold Dunhill pack delivered with a blow to the gut broken hearts and cheese sandwiches and the noise of a Polaroid snapping at the heels of Something inevitably left behind

Dominic Taylor One Way Ticket On the bus to Versailles our guide announced that if we looked to our left we could see where the American actor Brad Pitt had his Paris home. We looked half expecting someone to wave from the tower of tiny glass windows. In Versailles the Sun King was also not at home only a glint of light, a vestige of a by-gone era. In Perl Leshase, Chopin, Wilde, Proust, Morrison, all locked away behind time and stone. Finally to Montparnasse and the grave of Beckett, a grey marble sarcophagus and placed on it weighted down by a small stone one Metro ticket.

Helen Broderick Seanchai Inspiration 1. You looked at me With such avid eyes Fairy child, But I being a foolish clever man Broke the bond When all your crime was But love. 2. I saw you wandering through the woods Brown woman. You making your own music always in tune with yourself. Full of warmth and wantonness. While I was lost in the landscape of my mind.

Haiku - An Introduction The haiku is probably the most abused and misunderstood form of verse. It is often seen by newcomers as an easy way into poetry - just jumble seventeen syllables together and hey ho, you have a haiku. I, myself, had penned scores of such efforts before I was thankfully disabused by Anatoly K when I tried to submit some of them to his magazine, Shamrock Haiku. He showed me the error of my ways and purged some of my 'mortal sins', mostly flowery adjectives, before finally publishing a couple of them. Most people new to haiku, are told that it consists of three lines and seventeen syllables. Not necessarily - indeed, only rarely - so. Are they only about nature? Are adjectives allowed? Are rhythm and rhyme allowed? Can haiku be funny, ironic, political? Are haiku easy? Personally, I can only answer the last question. Haiku are not easy but they can be the source of great joy and satisfaction when you get the odd one right. Like all poetry, you have to be prepared to work hard on them and, as ever, to read and re-read the work of other writers. To help clear up some of the misconceptions about haiku, we are reproducing a couple of articles by two Irish based poets who are acknowledged experts in the form. In the following pages, Anatoly Kudryavitsky presents his haiku guidelines and John W Sexton discusses the haiku of Nicholas A. Vergilio in some depth and with admirable clarity. By the time you have absorbed the lessons of these few pages, you should be ready to start on a haiku journey that will give you hour opon hour of rare pleasure. Mike Gallagher

Haiku Guidelines by Anatoly Kudryavitsky ‘Poetry without rules is like a tennis match without a net’ - Robert Frost Haiku without rules is like a tennis match without a ball! 1. Haiku is a short, one to four lines, nature-oriented poem expressing poet’s direct experience of something, giving a description of background/surroundings, and providing an original and deep thought based upon it. 2. The form of 5-7-5 can be used but is not essential. 3. No title should be given to a haiku. 4. Make sure your haiku consists of two distinctive parts, and not of one or three! 5. Time: use verbs only in the present or past continuous tenses. 6. Avoid end rhyme. 7. Avoid using capital letters and punctuation marks, unless you really have to. 8. Avoid turning your haiku into an aphorism or an epigram. 9. Avoid direct metaphors. 10. Use only common language. Further Guidelines 1. Remove any words you can remove without losing the sense of the haiku. 2. Try not to use adverbs, pronouns. Avoid using more than two adjectives with the same noun 3. Avoid using too many ‘ing’ words (usually no more than two!) 4. Vary the articles (‘a’ and ‘the’). Don’t use too many of them (two is usually quite enough). 5. Avoid using conditional clauses, e.g. subjunctive mood. 6. Write about what you see, avoid writing hearsay haiku. 7. If you want to write a real haiku, use a kigo. 8. ‘Choose each word very carefully. Use words that clearly express what you feel’ – JW Hackett 9. ‘Never use obscure allusions: real haiku are intuitive, not abstract or intellectual’– JW Hackett 10. ‘Lifefulness, not beauty, is the real quality of haiku’ – JW Hackett (“Haiku Guidelines” and “Further Guidelines” by Anatoly Kudryavitsky first published in Free Xpression, Vol. XV, Issue 6; Australia, June 2008)

Aural experience: sound and rhythm in the haiku of Nicholas A. Vergilio by John W. Sexton (Ireland) These days Nicholas Virgilio is celebrated for two haiku in particular, both of which, it is universally agreed, helped change the way in which haiku was practiced. Lily:

Bass out of the water... out of itself

picking bugs off the moon

These often-anthologized poems demonstrated how spare haiku could be, and the techniques were imitated and perfected by those many haiku poets who followed. In recent years, however, much else of Virgilio’s work has been neglected, and the mass of it is never reprinted, with the regular exception perhaps of half a dozen pieces. The current, and apparently widespread view amongst many editors, is that the bulk of Virgilio’s haiku lack subtlety to their message and are long and over-wordy in comparison to today's practice. On the surface it is hard to disagree with this view, and many admirers of Virgilio find his body of work sadly and largely disdained as some outdated fossil. Although Virgilio is remembered for these two haiku, both being lean and direct in their execution, the larger corpus of his haiku is wordier, often demonstrative of both rhythm and rhyme, and other aural effects nowadays deemed self-consciously poetic. Within some schools of thought, obvious musicality in haiku is generally considered as inappropriate to contemporary practice. The following brief examination of some of Virgilio’s haiku is to demonstrate that many function, to this writer’s mind at least, as capsule melodies, and to pose the question: is it really necessary to reject overt music in haiku in order to maintain its integrity and purity of form? Virgilio’s first appearance in American Haiku, 1963, was with a poem obvious in its rhythm and rhyme: Spring wind frees the full moon tangled in leafless trees But rhyme and rhythm was something he retained throughout his haiku career, deepening the sophistication of its practice as he progressed as a poet: one wild apple ripples the rain puddle: evening sun The combination of those fluid consonants (the conjoined p’s, d’s and l’s) gives us a tonal rippling that’s physically palpable. Although the word ripple is said only once, the reader experiences three ripplings, in the words apple, ripples, puddle. Interesting, also, is how the poem begins and ends on the same resonantly hard consonant of the en sound; like something being struck – although in this case water. This effect is further added to by the placement of that same hard consonant towards the end of the middle line. The governance of speed is such that the spacing of all those intermediary open vowels allows a breathing between each rippling. Such balanced chiming as occurs in this 16

haiku reveals beyond any doubt an ear sensitive to tonal effect. A similar effect of sound, but far more subtle, is achieved in the knifegrinder’s bell fades in the afternoon heat: cicada The word bell is embedded, lost almost, between knifegrinder and afternoon heat. Tonal distance, the time it takes for the word bell to appear and then be left behind, adds to the effect of sound-loss described in the haiku. And that final word, cicada, with its soft echoic qualities, accentuates the idea of a fading bell. All this works side by side with the actual expressed meaning of the poem: a bell’s sound fades in the afternoon heat, while the cicada resonates, becomes the new chiming. always returning to the turd on the tombstone: cemetery flies In this we observe not just the obvious alliteration of turd and tombstone, but also the wonderfully balanced ticking of those t-sounds in the first and final lines. Because of the preceding weak stresses the four initial t-sounds in returning, turd, tombstone and cemetary are equally placed, with tombstone containing that extra, riding t. In many current haiku schools of thought such overt rhythmic and alliterative usage is largely frowned upon. This following haiku in particular would be very easy to dismiss by today’s standards of composition, because it contains very obvious alliteration and rhyme: her photograph fades: the widower at the window shadows the torn shade A further negative would be that it’s 5-7-5. (I’m making an educated guess here that Virgilio intended the pronunciation of widower to be elided, otherwise the haiku becomes hypersyllabic.) However, at what point can we safely discard poetic effect in any body of poetics? Looking again at this haiku we cannot but fail to be aware of its atmospheric resonance. Because of the very language employed, the very obviously poetic devices, and the retarded speed in which it’s delivered, the slow motion, the slurring caused by that alliteration, this haiku is haunted by its central image. And as we read it we are as haunted by that dead woman as the widower is. Hauntings were something that Virgilio was quite good at, and they reappear throughout his work. Little wonder, really, for he was haunted himself: my dead brother... hearing his laugh in my laughter A perfect senryu, I would venture, managing to be both bitter and joyous in the one breath. This is a poem that wouldn’t be remiss in any contemporary haiku journal, but let us not ignore the fact that it 17

contains both rhyme and repetition, some of the things we’ve learnt in our apprenticeships to discard. The trick of the craft, however, is to know when it’s right to retain something. In structure this particular senryu is syllabically symmetrical, being 4-4-4, and its stresses are fairly regular. And that symmetry, I would argue, helps to convey the shock that’s experienced by the reader who starts with an encounter of death and ends with the sound of laughter. The effect is accentuated because the poem is confined in such a tight, enclosed box. The death of Virgilio’s younger brother in Viet Nam had a profound consequence on his work. His poetry became darker, nature appeared less innocent. beneath the coffin at the edge of the open grave: the crushed young grass Metaphor is inescapable here, yet the metaphor is strengthened by the sounds running through the poem: beneath the coffin is soft, insidious; and that final line, the crushed young grass is sibilant, oozing betrayal. Control of speed, a timed steering of his poetry, is evident in yet another of his elegies to his lost brother: my dead brother... wearing his gloves and boots I step into deep snow All poems end where they end, as do all sentences, all things. But this haiku doesn’t merely end. It is end-stopped. And it stops us up. The rhythm of the second line is such that it delivers itself quickly to the reader, yet with step and deep we are held up, until finally, with the word snow, the poem literally sinks. In reading the final line we take those steps, interpenetrate with Virgilio’s stopping. Language not only has meaning, not only rhythm, but its sounds often suggest movement, for many words mimic what they describe. rising and falling... a blanket of blackbirds feeds on the snowy slope Here the alliteration, Virgilio’s favourite effect, as well as the rhythm, caused by the groupings of weak and strong stresses, suggests movement, covering, and finally (with snowy slope) soft, temporary ground. In this haiku everything is in motion, yet Virgilio manages to end on an image of stillness, without, it should be said, actually stating that anything has stopped. Not all of his haiku were presented in three lines, but his usage of devices was, admittedly, much the same throughout most of his work: her shadow shaving the hair from its legs: the heat The most common criticism aimed at him, however, is that his devices can be obvious, and the haiku compromised as a result: approaching autumn: the warehouse watchdog’s bark

weakens in the wind If the above haiku was presented at a poetry workshop in these more sophisticated times it would probably be edited mercilessly. The alliteration would more than likely be toned down, if not eradicated completely. That would be a pity, for we would be depriving ourselves of a small song. Virgilio’s work is peppered with such songs, all following a tradition of haiku practice that in times gone by was considered quite normal. In the attempt to objectify the capturing of the “haiku moment” such approaches as Virgilio’s were abandoned. In our age, it seems, we see no need to return to them. In his introduction to Virgilo’s Selected Haiku (1988), Rod Willmot picks out the above haiku to point up how the alliterative w suggests the woof of the barking dog, but also (Willmot falling prone to alliteration himself) how it further suggests “something weak and whining” about the creature in question. None of this can be denied, and there is an innocent and indulgent pleasure in enjoying the effects of sound in this wonderful little poem. The same pleasure we find in most popular song and verse. Which brings us to another of Virgilio’s perceived sins: his facility of craft, his ease of accessibility to a general readership. Rod Willmot quotes a later, and much sharper haiku that uses similar effect: barking its breath into the rat-hole: bitter cold As Willmot, and not fancifully I think, points out, the repeated alliterative b here also denotes a snapping bark. Here we have a haiku that wouldn’t be out of place in a modern journal, but one that still utilizes the poetic effect and devices of sound. Of course, one must not forget that Virgilio also experimented with minimalism, which he could employ quite effectively for political satire: spentagon pentagony repentagon or as an expression of transformation, as in: Hiroshimagined And even in minimalism he did not abandon the roots of haiku as nature poem: nowl However, it is neither in such minimalism, nor in the tight constructions of the anthology favourites, that Virgilio’s work typically resides, but in the small songs, the one-verse alliterative hymns to nature and to experience, his tiny sculptures of sound and atmosphere. It is in these that we find his true legacy. the first snowfall: down the cellar staircase my father calls *************************************************

First published in Frogpond, Winter 2009 19

Tom Moloney Lines Who do you think is taken aback Every morning old lodgers have the neck To wink at her? Her stock of mature lines; As if her nature could ever choose To bypass the gaping colonizers, ‘God forgive me, look at all those feckers’; Layered in a lair, an erotic outpost once, Wiped now from her map, her Atlantis And what’s left behind looks like her old man’s After-effects when he drilled into rocks At the bottom of the garden, made overlays As best he could, a sanctuary of sorts In the face (and neck) of nature’s battle. But she keeps telling him, its horrible.

Mary Margaret Gallagher In The Dark of Day She sits with me in my kitchen. The tea in her cup gone cold. She is alone although we are sharing the same space. A moment passes - I am aware it is just a moment. She believes it was an hour and becomes anxious worrying she will now be late for an appointment we went to yesterday. I wonder, as our eyes meet across the table, what she wonders as she struggles to find the door that will open the prison her mind has become. She looks at me with a glimmer of hope, which gives me hope, as I slowly open her clenched hand and hold it in mine, the same way she held my hand when I was small child sitting in her kitchen anxious and confused.

Nicholas Damion Alexander Early morning praise Voices through leaves echo hollow like half-remembered dreams of the night before where pipe-sprung water like Hopkins' sprung meter lubricate my parched city-subconscious. Above me a cutlass sings sweet serenade to the morning after the night before my first experience. My spirit stretches heaven-ward like these trees ascending to God flown like birds squawking early morning praises to the fresh open air.

Mari Maxwell Rimmel No. 7 This one was surely a bronze. Or maybe an ivory? The skin was taut, a few spiderlike wrinkles webbing in the corners of her eyes. Marcus swept the glitter from brow to eyelid and down. "There now love," he whispered, "aren't you exquisite." He blew her a kiss and tucked the wide silk sash beneath her chin, the scent of bubble gum delicate in the air. It took forever. Unyielding neck, slippery silk. Cold it was. Stiffer since first begun. Not everyone had their makeup done at first blush, before the cold set in. Some days, Marcus just hated embalming. But today, he was grateful to preserve young Ginny. Sometimes those prom deaths were closed coffins. But today Ginny would beam HomeComing Queen forever.

Joe Healy Rhythm of the Scythe With fingers long practiced He glided the edging stone Along the blade of the scythe The boy stared, fascinated by his father Just half an inch separated steel from flesh. Any second he expected A rainbow of blood to spray droplets On the warm South wall of the old barn Where the tomatoes were grown But it was just the swish, swish, swish As hand followed curve. Later that Summer in the back kitchen Boiling water exploded a bottle, Glass danced on the tiles His Dad really lived on the edge. They say he walked just like him When they strode to the bookies. But the boy could never master The rhythm of the scythe. Leaving stems of grass like a First shave. Months were cut into years. Last week in the old barn The boy now man, Putting petrol in his new strimmer While kneeling on one knee Like men at the back of the Church of His fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s generation Spotted his fathers scythe. Swung the old rusting blade. The worn timber handles Were set for another man, So he laid it back in the corner Where death had left it. (First published in 'Sextet Anthology' by Revival Press)

Wendy Brosnahan Looking for silence Legs like jelly, head banging and aspirin not working Madness is weird, when all hope is lost Arms ache, body is weak No one to tell, pretend all is well Mind in a muddle, confused and tormented Surreal is the world when viewed from inside Helpless and stupid, rationality gone, paranoia is here No where to go, no where to run, everything spinning Fly faster and faster looking for freedom Wild voices master the mind of despair Foot to the ground. Turn up the music Don’t want to think, don’t want to blink Step harder on the pedal And ……………silence

Teri Murray Her Own Society for Pauline Fayne Do you remember the post-card from Emily Dickinsonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house that I sent to all those years ago? My mind travels backwards and I see the tassel-hemmed coverlet a pillowcase edged with lace pages scattered on the bed a crust of rust on a nib ink stabs wounding the spaces between her words and heart given to a clergyman whom she met in Philadelphia when she was just twenty-four a chaste kiss on her hand blighted hopes of anything but platonic regard yet her hoard of words made him immortal not squandered after passions spent Do I hear the echo of footfalls tapping iambic meters on the planed maple floor before she steps through an open door a recluse on fifteen acres of meadows and woodlands replenished by Massachusetts rain Is it a trick of the light or do I see her shadow garbed in white always white Veil shawl high-buttoned gloves holding an armful of lilies her bridal gift for the Risen Christ. 26

Our Featured Poet. The Question. People often ask me why I write poetry. Many years ago I was asked this question by a radio producer who seemed rather taken aback by my reply. Perhaps he expected a long and involved answer about the validity of the artistic experience or my deep spiritual need to philosophise on the meaning of life. My reply was that ‘it is what I do best ‘. I am not suggesting that there would have been anything wrong with the replies I mentioned above, simply that they do not apply to me. Today, if I am asked that question I am a little more forthcoming. My reasons for writing are twofold. It is true to say that I feel it is what I do best, but my main reason is simply to communicate. I have always felt that I have poor conversational skills, and that I have a tendency to place my foot firmly in my mouth. I worry that my words give the wrong impression or that I cannot put my ideas across clearly. If it takes me six months to hone and distil words into a poem I can be almost sure that I am conveying exactly what I want to say. I say ‘almost’ because audiences at poetry readings can be quite unpredictable .I have been surprised when people laughed at what I considered to be a serious poem and shocked when they were moved by words I uttered light heartedly. I am grateful for their reactions. They help me to re-consider the implications of my words, to work harder to write the kind of poetry that communicates clearly and directly with the reader. It is both my aim and the theme of my work. Pauline Fayne.

Pauline Fayne Mowing In The Dark Mother found poetry in places others never fathomed Summer days spent in the close comfort of city centre cinemas Seaside trips in winter, -foot stomp on the icy stones of empty beaches Mowing grass under an inky pre-dawn sky the rising green scent Of invisible verse, seeping through our open window seeding our dreams.

Pauline Fayne A Desperate Man He whispers his need of her at dusk, at dawn, in supermarkets, in car parks in friends kitchens at parties. To strangers, to neighbours, to children, to bus conductors, to barmen, to bouncers, to sparrows in hedges. And once in the middle of Mass wailed his desperation as the consecrated host shook in the priests pale fingers. That day he ‘went away’ returned with stumbling gait, eyes darting in constant search of some unknown lover. And still we sometimes hear his soft voice loud with longing as darkness drenches the trees, ‘I should have married her’.

Pauline Fayne Family Outing 1963 The worst part is not the odour of rotting seaweed and stewed tea as we picnic among the grey rocks and bleached scotch grass of a misnamed beach But the sight of fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shrinking throat, starched Sunday shirt draping his fading frame like the borrowed clothes of a stranger. (All three poems are from 'Mowing in the darkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; published by Revival Press)

Margaret Sheehan Intervention Crash bang feet rushing by Run run run like youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never run before shut the door in my face Sweep aside pull tear bare do whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to be done push to the limit shrivelled skin bone blood muscle cell bells ringing in her head electrify pump pummel belt things to be said memories to share need you there give me time an interval or two or three places in the heart we must reach you and I teach me all you know movement of hands minds in collective effort dash down corridors once twice thrice throw the dice in the air see how it lands constant ebb and flow I know more than you I knew you would not win flat-lined defeat heart beat 31

Mina Lakshmanan Mountain. Away from the measures of drills and the comings of townsmen, there was a certain stillness in the mountain. I had grown to understand this as I had watched her shift her sands. Mountains have their ways in telling their tales. Tales that come and go and rumble when the moonbeams reflects its anger on the village folk. Folk that ignore the claim that the mountain never wants to go dry and waits for the rains to wet its harsh dry skin from the beaten heat that the sun prolongs on a summer day of so many degrees. As a boy of much awe, I watched the mountain from afar. Father didn't allow me to climb its grace. “She’s a pretty woman son, and must be respected for that,” he'd explain. Then, one evening when I watched the moonbeam shine its light upon the mountains head - I realised what father meant Glory was the thicket of green that steamed from the rushes. Glory was the streams that ran through her skirted lace, which frilled itself into a gown of immeasurable lengths with so many flounces. The waters drew its lightness from above and the sky smiled as the mountain entered into her womanhood and accepted this reverence into her inner frame. She was now a woman. Acceptable to the cattle herds, acceptable to the Shepard’s that grazed their flock, acceptable to my father now to grace upon this revered mountain and gallop upon the brace of our small donkey. Many a time I had watched the stars beams light. It shone a million flecks like diamonds that glistened a prism of brilliance. Splendours of speckled light. Red...Blue...Purple. An array of wonderment that flocked its' sky. And I, in my amazement watched in magnificence as the mountain now, not so arid and dry - but rich with the beginnings of a graceful lass had in her realms of beauty layers of stories to unfold as she willingly allowed those that habituated her to take their reap and bestow her with respect. “When the mountain has lived a million years the ancestors come to rebless her soil. Now, as the oracle proclaims we light the spirit of her masters, feed her streams with fresh saplings and new fish, and allow the river that we bathe in to propagate a new freshness in its taste that only the mind will experience and the body will ignore. So, we must fill her stomach with the first arrack - that her saplings have given birth to. But there is another - as she has graced multitudes and needs to be favoured: The trees that have brought its froth in coconut arrack needs its initiation to gather momentum into a million more and for that, the villagers reap and feed the first flush into the ravines of the mountains earth.

And, when she has had enough, she will then burst into a signifying storm - when the Gods proclaim their thanks with a cloudburst that rumbles into thundershowers – thereof to wetten the now drunk soil and appease all the dead who have also had their share of drink. It’s a blessing,” Father had warned. She had been blessed twice. For, as the mountain lifted its riches in the froth of her bellowing skirt which lifted itself to the rushes of streams and water. She gushed sweetness in taste. But the villagers forgot. Drunk in their happiness and the outcome of their harvest they forgot to nature such beliefs. And when the moon lit itself and the streams at night reflected her shadow; the mountain thirsty for its blessed drink rumbled to announce signs to the elders. They slept through. Drunk with the liquid that had quenched their belly full. And so, A majestic moon overshadowed the village and enveloped the tribe into a darkness which when they slept, brought the breeze of the southward winds with the drizzles from the clouds above. Signs to remind them of their lapse before she rumbled and vanished. She waited in patience and when the moons slide into its wane beneath the shine of the first light of sun her temper in her arrogance took root. In her fit of being ignored for the goodness that she had given in fruit, grain, flowers, and more that fed the cattle - she over shook her skirts allowing its flounces to wind up into a balloon. She undid her hair allowing the leaves to fall in heaps. She moved with the torrid sway of the new winds and blew the dust off her own. Mud, rivers and sand. Pebbles and fish. She emptied her streams, rivers and all that she had natured into an empty abyss. And then, when she was done, she swooped her head enveloping her entire self into a nought of nothing sucking herself in - into the terrain that was. I am seated on a clump watching below where once was that mountain. I smell the fragrance of another kind of wet rain – almost welcoming the seasons to a new birth. I look into the sky. Clouds of rain begin to gather. I look ahead searching for where that mountain stood when I was a boy. It’s flat. Dry and parched. Not a shoot springs forth. Rains begin with the slightness of a tropical drizzle. It drips onto that parched,cracked flatness and refuses to sponge into the soils of so many fortunes.and stays flat in a non-moving puddle – Sadly. (And,, I had never climbed that mountain…)

Mary O'Gorman FLEUR She waits again â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a little girl in a big bed, hears the switch, the opening door, the measured tread.

She cuddles her dolls, whispers letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s play dead.

Patsy McDermott

It’s a Pity For over 20 years I’ve gone to Dennings Through rain and hail and fog and sometimes snow But the country pubs are bet - we might be sorry yet Some of them are closing down and it’s a pity It was there my father partied when he was 80 Met his old mates and the crack was 90 No smoking ban back then they just lit up now and again But the smoking’s over now and it’s a pity We had a country market in the car park You could get your eggs or spuds there after dark But the bureaucrats in the EU like to tell us what not to do And the market is closing down and it’s a pity Some of the lads went up there to play pool Put down their little marker and joined the queue There’s no need for a marker now not even an odd good row The pool table is nearly idle and it’s a pity For over 20 years up to Dennings I did drive Drank a brave few pints and still got home alive But since Gay Byrne & his crew would have us bagged at Ardlow School The driving is over now and it’s a pity We had an old singsong almost nightly The talent it was good some were mighty Although it started late that singsong was always great The one singing now is bad and it’s a pity So come all you country folk and have your say Don’t let the dictators get their way When at night you’ve had your grub head for your local pub Don’t let them close it down ‘twould be a pity And ‘its nearly closing time now and it’s a pity

Neil Brosnan

Friday’s Child Dusting the array of photographs on the living room sideboard, his eyes misted: his parents’ wedding day; his father’s mortuary card; the family communions and confirmations; his elder brother’s ordination; the youngest lad’s graduation; the girls’ weddings; their children’s christenings… “It’s only me,” a voice called as the hall door clicked shut. “How’re things, Willie?” “The same, Mrs Mac; and yourself?” “Ah, the same, Willie, the same. Will I make a sup of tea?” She asked, slipping her jacket off. “Work away; I’d better go.” “Do so, Willie. You’ll bring back all the news?” “I will.” He returned his dusting cloth to the press beneath the kitchen sink, before stuffing two folded shopping bags into the pocket of his anorak. In the Post Office queue, Willie acknowledged an occasional enquiry or greeting before collecting his payment and resuming his weekly ritual. In the Aldi store at the far end of town, he bought bread, butter, milk, eggs, sugar, tea and a few tins of peas and beans. Returning to the town centre, Willie treated himself to a take-away tea and settled into his favourite seat on the fringe of the open-air farmers’ market. Here he could watch the town come and go, his averted gaze holding no threat to the female conversations that buzzed around his ears. Unnoticed, he listened for almost an hour, recognising many of the speakers, not just from their voices but from the slanders they traded. Grimacing at a final cold swallow, he checked his wristwatch before hefting his grocery bag and taking his reluctant leave of the companionable spring scene. “How’re things, Willie?” The publican greeted about five minutes later. “The same, Jim,” Willie indicated his shopping. “Can I leave this for a few minutes?” “Of course, Willie; no problem. I suppose that same is something...” “Thanks, Jim.” Willie said, turning towards the door. In the Eurospar store opposite, Willie bought lamb chops, mincemeat, rashers and sausages, ham and two packets of digestive biscuits, briefly glancing at her favourite sugared jellies. “The usual?” The publican asked on Willie’s return. “I’ll bring it over.” He added at Willie’s nod. To the tinkling of ice cubes, Jim delivered a glass of sparkling water and the previous week’s 36

local paper. “I’m afraid someone took the sport section.” Jim said, eyeing Willie closely. “No matter; thanks again, Jim.” Willie said, pretending to scan the headlines while his ears homed in on the hushed tones from a nearby table. Once or twice, he almost looked up when a particularly tasty snippet filtered through from the bar counter. Isn’t it always the same? He mused. Just when the drink starts to loosen them up, it’s time for me to go. “Another?” Jim asked, surprised to see Willie approach the counter a second time. “No, no thanks. Jim, can I buy a bottle of whiskey?” “Whiskey?” Jim gaped. “A baby or a noggin?” “A big bottle, please.” “I thought you were looking tired, Willie; maybe ‘twill help you sleep.” “Maybe.” Willie agreed, pocketing his change; his two o’clock deadline fast approaching. “She never made a sound.” Mrs Mac said, donning her jacket and zipping her wages into a pocket. “You look tired, Willie; I hope she’ll sleep for you tonight. See you next Friday.” She pulled the door shut. Once he’d stored the groceries and washed and dried Mrs Mac’s teacups, Willie started up the stairs. He knew he’d have to start phoning people soon but his mother deserved one last day’s gossip before they’d take her away… forever.

Kevin Griffin Mrs Lazarus. He was always a little restless, uneasy, shuffling alot, often pacing about, talking to himself.

He prayed a lot too, was always righteous, but not overcooking it.

But he did expect a share of any divine merit that was to be had.

No doubt what eventually transpired would leave him fairly up-beatthat was to be expected.

He was different after that, more settled, less jumpy, more in charge.

He would now break his bread deliberately, unrushed as if he had all the answers.

Later he got into the habit 38

Louis Mulcahy Neamh-aire Cinniúint na gcarad is gaire dúinn ar nós mitín nó stoca gan cheann tógtha dóibh, go dtí go bhfuilid stracaithe stollta; go mbraithimíd easpa comhluadair, nó bagairt na caille. Easpa aird ar dhilghrách ar nós cuid den chorp gan aithint fiú lárnach i ngach corraí comhfhiosach, mar láimh nó méar gan mhothú. ag brath ar a chéile chomh mór is a bhrathann an lá ar an ngrian. Ní hé gur frithchosúlacht an mhearghrá ná saint leithleasach é, ach míorúilt dhoiléir. Scéim dhiamhair fhochomhfhiosach a aithníonn, a chuireann luach leis, a bhogann i gcóngar na tine, agus, ó am go ham, nuair a dhruideann an ghríosach chun múchta, contúirt ón bfuacht a’ bagairt, tagann fonn freastail. Neglect Is often the fate of those we cherish; like vest or glove noticed only when unravelled or in the wound of loss. The dearest unnoticed, like limb or digit overlooked, ignored, though centrally involved in every waking act. Not obsession’s passion, but a singularity, obscure within the deeper wirings, that knows, appreciates, draws near the glowing fire and when at last, the embers’ blush declines, alerted by the cold, lifts head in mild surprise, desires to tend.

kevin taranto.

In And Out Of Athens Lady, Rosary,bedcurl magic my congested Queen stuck in midday traffic blowing her nose on fast-food napkins staying calm through all the madness I will lay with you in and out of Athens! Coffee cup,gypsy plastic Alexzanders barbie doll a seed of an original classic spreading her legs in westcoast fasion she nonchalantly moans and groans! I will return to you always from mundane actions I will bring you flowers and satin I will lick your ears and rip your pajamas and lay with you in and out of Athens My eveball girl with her eveyline antics Ikaria flys in her circled dances tuff luck honey you have tasted madness step on craks and skip your stones My toothless tiger stareing sadly tell me what you think you see? with your fathers pride and you mothers nagging are you as happy as they said youd be? lady, rosary,bedcurl magic nothings shocking,nothings tragic! lady,rosary,bedcurl magic everywhere we tread is Athens everywhere we lay is Athens!

Stephen Connaughton The Railway Gates If you had known my friend Martin you would never have accompanied him on a fishing trip to the midlands - at least not with him driving. And if he was a dreadful driver, then he was an even worse navigator with an inclination towards panic. So, when he requested the aforementioned trip, alarm bells rang loudly in my ears. However, Martin was one of nature’s gentlemen, shy, generous to a fault, and one who rarely asked a favour. A sixty years old bachelor farmer, he was wonderful company, and anyway, what could possibly go wrong on a short trip to the midlands? What indeed! We set off one Sunday morning in mid September, with the rich pastures of County Meath on one side and those of Kildare on the other. As we glided along, Martin regaled me with tales of the big houses that we passed - gossip being his only real vice. The green fields soon turned to peaty brown, and in no time at all we were snugly ensconced on the banks of a silvery lake deep in the heart of the Irish midlands. Martin’s cousin owned the ground so there was no problem about permission. It was a wonderful day, the kind that makes one feel great to be alive, and though we caught nothing, we abandoned the lake that evening in high spirits. After a sumptuous meal in a local hostelry we set out for home. It was only on the way home that the devil entered Martin, and he suddenly took a left turn off the highway for a shortcut cross country. My heart sank. He had a weakness for shortcuts, a reluctance to retrace his course, which always resulted in some minor disaster or other. Soon we were hopelessly lost in bogland where there was neither sight nor light of a house. The road got progressively narrower with thorn hedges overhanging from either side, and presently we came to a complete halt at a level crossing gate. There was little sign of life at the gatekeeper’s cottage but we knocked on the door anyway. Although there was no reply we knocked again, this time a little louder. After all it was just past 11 o clock and rural people don’t go to bed too early, we rationalized. We thought we heard a faint sound from inside, then a more definite squeak, when suddenly a window opened. “Yes” It was a gruff male voice and welcome we were not. “could hear the creaking of old fashioned bed springs from inside but Martin had gone past the point of no return. He felt responsible for getting us into this mess and he wasn’t giving up so easily. “If you throw us out the keys, we’ll do the rest ourselves and put them in through the letter box,” coaxed Martin. There was a prolonged pause as the gatekeeper weighed up his chances of getting a night’s sleep. Then the bed squeaked a little more, and a muffled sound of cursing followed. Eventually, he emerged, half dressed, still swearing, and complaining vigorously under his breath. I got a brief glimpse of a shotgun standing in the corner of his back kitchen, which I hoped Martin missed in the faint light. The keeper walked past us carrying a key the size of a shovel and by now muttering loudly. Words such as stupid, ignorant and inconsiderate to mention the merely polite ones - peppered the diatribe, but this was no time for taking offence. Martin offered a crisp bank note,

which, though still mumbling, our friend accepted. “Thanks, thanks,” said Martin ever the gentleman in all situations. “Don’t mention it,” replied the angry one, “and may I never see you again.” We departed chastened but confident of now hitting the highway quickly, as road and railway ran almost parallel and were never more than a mile or two apart. We came to a crossroads and followed the main course straight on. Half an hour later there was still no sign of the highway, and the narrowing cow-track on which we were driving had a familiar look about it. A few hundred yards further on there was the same level crossing gates again. Somehow, we had crossed back over the railway by bridge without noticing and completed the circle. “What on earth will we do now?” asked Martin pensively. Well, of course, we could have turned back and ended up totally lost somewhere on the western seaboard. “Or, we can make a further attempt at finding the main road, which, after all, has to be within two miles of where we are sitting,” said Martin trying to build up enthusiasm. “No Martin, I’d prefer to walk." But Martin was made of sterner stuff, and even though there was a hint of panic in his face he knocked loudly on the door again. If the gate keeper was gruff and rude on the first occasion, he was livid, even frantic, on the second. He showered us with abuse and droplets of saliva in equal measure, the latter spraying generously from between his clenched teeth. His vocabulary of foul words and damning expressions knew no bounds, and he could out-curse the ancient druids without pausing for breath. This man was an imprecation machine! The thought of kicking him hard on the shin, thereby interrupting the flow for a few seconds, crossed one’s mind, but the idea of spending the night lost in a midlands bog soon banished any such notion. Having dealt with ourselves, he moved on to our parentage, our ancestors, and even our successors. By the time he’d inserted the key into the gate he was approaching apoplexy. He kicked the huge bolt open with all his might, and then nearly tore the gate from its hinges - big and all as they were. Eventually he paused. He had gone beyond anger. “Are youse a limb of the devil, or what?” he inquired. “God spare you the health,” interrupted the nervous but ever placatory Martin. With as much calm as he could muster the gatekeeper replied: “You’ll understand if I don’t wish you the same.” Even further chastened, we set out again, by which time our friend had reverted to merely mumbling. This time we turned left at the cross roads - eastwards towards home. Signposts, apparently, had not been invented in this part of the country for minor roads. Martin asserted that it couldn’t possibly be the westwards road to the right, as that led back towards the midlands. Fifteen minutes later he was not so sure, and by twenty that familiar narrowing road with the thorn hedges meeting came into view. “Glory be to god he’ll kill us,” exclaimed Martin beginning to panic, adding: “ I’d swear I saw a shotgun in the back-kitchen.” “Nonsense, stop the car Martin and we’ll weigh up the options.” Martin had shaved the top off a tractor cab, when driving into his lean-to shed in a less stressful state, so this was simply a device to calm the situation. The said options had not changed but we went through them again anyway. Before we restarted we had agreed that as

the railway traveled east-west and we were approaching it at right angles, then we must have been facing either north or south. As the North Star and the Plough were shining brightly behind us we were heading, correctly, southwards towards the highway. Q.E.D. But... We proceeded onwards towards the gates, the bushes scraping the roof of the car, and our hearts in our mouths. There were the gates again, but this time they looked a little... “Different,” I ventured. “Yes, they’re open,” Martin almost shouted. “What the devil?” The gates were not exactly open. There was a huge “bite” gone out of the middle of each. As we proceeded through, only slowing sufficiently to survey the scene, there was the familiar configuration of tractor tail lights faintly in the distance ahead. On the doorstep, we got a brief glimpse of the keeper standing in his long johns and scratching his head, scarcely visible from the internal light. What had happened to cause the “tractor rage” we did not wait to find out, and there was no sign of anyone when we reached the crossroads. We took the only remaining option, turned right, hit the main road within half a mile, and were in our beds within the hour. The ordeal with the gatekeeper, particularly the glimpse of the shotgun, however, had a lasting effect on Martin. Not only did it put him off shortcuts and navigating for life, he practically gave up driving also. Having been over forty when he learned to drive, he was never completely comfortable behind the wheel and had several minor accidents over the years. Now This was the last straw and he had finally learned his lesson. This did not restrict his travel however. Far from it. Selling his cows he effectively became semi-retired, and was available to all his many friends as a passenger, on business and social trips. We had subsequently many a journey together and never once did Martin suggest a short-cut. Who was the phantom tractor driver? Had he divine powers? We just didn’t know, but he had worked three miracles: He magically rescued us from our dilemma, he silenced the man of a thousand curses, but more importantly he had changed Martin’s life for ever. * * * * Postscript A few months after the event Martin’s cousin sent him the following cutting from a local midlands weekly newspaper. Westmeath Herald Court Snippets At Moate District Court James Thomas Dunne (29) of Newtown, Mullingar, pleaded guilty to criminal damage of a pair of railway gates at Oughaboy on Sept 13th. Mr Dunne, who agreed to pay full compensation maintained that exceptional circumstances applied in the case. He had been harvesting for over 36 hours continuously, and the keeper, who was known to him, had adopted a most unreasonably aggressive attitude, and refused to open the gates.. Counsel stated that his client had never been in trouble before, and had excellent character references. Justice Smith warned Dunne as to his future behaviour but applied the Probation Act. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek, asserted the judge.

P J Kennedy Our Loss From that concrete chair the council pump served us for sixty years. When people wagged its cow-tail handle the pump crooned. "Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub," as it gushed cool clear water from the arteries of God's estate. Water for washing ourselves. It served us. Water for washing our dead. It served us. Water for washing our wellingtons. It served us. Water for washing our clothes. It served us. Water for washing our creamery cans. It served us. Water for cooliong our cow's milk. It served us Water for making our meals. It served us. Water for our men in the meadows. It served us. Water for spraying our potatoes. It served us. Water for mixing our pigs' mash. It served us. Water for dipping our sheep. It served us. Water for blending our whitewash. It served us. Water for Charley's mare. It served us. A squirt of water from the people's pump revived many's a newborn donny calf or lamb. On Ascension Night 2002, the robbers came, hacked the flange nuts, cut the ligament. Only stumps of bare bolts and a crusty dowel remain. 44

john pinschmidt

Before We Disappear The Japanese film we saw a few weeks ago Unfolded fitfully, but had such a moving premise: After we die, but before we disappear We must each declare a moment from our life To live with eternally. Mine would be one with Teasie Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Dwyer That first summer, that winter in Ireland. Before me now is a picture of you, In a blue coat, wrapped against the cold December of â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;68 here in Ballinard, cattle grazing The green pasture, the lichen-covered Stone wall, the leafless chestnut trees, Your brown hair gathered behind with a red scarf Your left glove off Surely to hold my hand As we slowly walked along that quiet road, Happy. That moment will do.

Kevin Hurley Axeheads (Inspired by the sight – as I walked to and from work in Addis Ababa – of a young woman whose daily round was passed, in all weathers on some plinth-like object at the weed-filled margins of a rutted pathway where she husbanded the most frugal of provisions. I am but a scribble on the blank margin of the hallow’d Ethiomanuscript I live unchangingly on the rancid edge of a rutted, suburban, minor way. In the long, empty night I replicate the sibilant S, doubled up foetuslike. In the long, throbbing day I am nothing more than the bent e all hunched-up, watchful, one. The overarching sky is my only roof. On a clear night moon and stars are like chat. 46

The ceaseless to and fro of ones, twos and threes my company day by day but distant. Some stay their march near me to send the great sign to their good God. To them I must seem mire. Dark all my poor wrappings, Not unlike the shroud. Bleak, ascetic, dismal, lot of hard fate. Once I was young, open. Then fistula and baby un-did me for life. Margins home. ‘Lucy’, the ferengis said as they went past, nudging, chuckling,. Whoever Lucy be. What to do but husband those coins thrown my way. Vision fails me. No vade mecum. Void. Notes: Chat is a light narcotic not unlike cannabis (apparently!). Lucy is the name given to Australopitecus, a hominid discovered in Ethiopia. At the time her remains were uncovered the archaelogists were playing ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Lucy is one of the oldest hominids ever discovered, if not the oldest. Ferenge is the word for a non-African foreigner.

Mattie Lennon The Emergency Is it smugness or insurgency, That makes them say "Emergency"? I feel it lacks the urgency Of "World War Two." Arthur Riordan. "Hitler was running riot through Poland with very little opposition. The cream of the British Army, battered and broken, had their backs to the sandy walls of Dunkirk. The Listowel Grenadiers of the LDF were gathered in Eddie Scanlon's pub making feverish plans to invade Russia....." While seated on Blessington bridge, reading the above, written by the late Sean McCarthy, it struck me that the men of Kylebeg, Lacken and Carrig who were prepared to defend our little country during the "Emergency" have been air-brushed from history. Nowhere do they feature in either song or (written) story. Yet, straight ahead of me on Gyves's Hill stood, stark and weather-beaten as a reminder of that period in Irish history, a little fortress known in Military parlance as a "Pillbox". As part of the defence plan an LDF machine-gunner would take up position in the mass concrete box. The minute a Swastika-decorated sleeve or a Jackbooted foot appeared on "the new bridge" it would have been lights out and a watery grave in the Poulaphouca Reservoir. On the other hand if the Furor and his men came through Manor-Kilbride our man, through a second aperture in the mini citadel, would get them in the back before they could take Knockereann. ( With remarkable insight on the part of the Powers- that- were all signposts had been removed....some would say that Wicklow County Council forgot to ever replace them). As I read the Finuge Bard's colourful account of :"The beribboned officers of the LDF ... planning the route from Market Street to Moscow". I began to recall local stories of our Local Defence Force and their plans in the event of an invasion. The LDF was formed in January 1941 in accordance with Emergency Powers order No.61. Throughout the country it was based on the previous Garda District and Division system. A member of the Garda was assigned 48

as District Administration Officer to assist in the day- to- day administration of the force. The man with this task, in the Blessington area, had his work cut out, as there was little or no military tradition in the area. Also the Career-Officer from the Curragh was in for a few surprises while taking the local volunteers through their paces in the yard of Lacken school. This man who was looked up to and respected among the rank and file of Eastern Command was less than impressed by an answer to one of his questions. "Have any of you a suggestion as to the most suitable and effective weapon in urban warfare?" he boomed. "The stone in the sock" from a lanky youth from Ballinastockan did not impress. I'm sure he would have been similarly disappointed with the muttered and inaudible reply from the end of the rank, " It's hard to bate the dung-fork." The LDF units were first of all supplied with brown denim battledress but there was major objection to this- ostensibly because the combat clobber used in warmer climates was not suitable for Irish weather. But I wonder did the suitability of the heavy overcoat for duplication as an eiderdown have any bearing on the decision to reject the initial issue. The studs, heel-plates and toe-plates, of the ox-blood red boots, designed to knock sparks out of the barrack square spent much time in the more comfortable environment of fields of Kerr's Pinks. The alternative standardised livery wasn't what you would call "tailored". When one young volunteer from Lugnagun expressed delight that every item of issued clothing fitted him perfectly, the officer dispensing the sartorial items commented, "You must be a very badly made man". We were not invaded. The boots and overcoats are long worn out. Many of those who wore them have gone to that great Barrack Square in the sky. Tin helmets and Ration-Books are collectors items. The mini citadel on Gyves's hill has been redundant for six decades. But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you about Sean McCarthy's article. In conclusion he tells us that; "The Listowel LDF after much liquid discussion, in Eddie Scanlon's Bar, decided not to invade Russia after all".

Irina Privorotskaya A View from Granddads Window Like pupae browned as result of rain in trashcans, drowning in mere inches, or that unnatural frog they found, eyes in its mouth, two membraned, glistening balls above forked tongue---so is loneliness: the walnut-shelled men in pre-war caps, hands folded over their canes' cobra heads as if for alms or prayer. Under their eyes, bags hoard what's left of their whole lives' possessions: their strange and steady calm, a night's worth of the bathroom journeys, waiting for minutes over the bowl water; a life of scaling stairs, moving from bench to bench, remembering pilot days, not speaking, I think of them, gutfuls of toads, forgotten oaths, muscles unravelled fibers, flies from an open window tending shyly to diabetic sugar in their piss. Nights spent with wars, dead wives, the loss of all that's supple; as if all water drained from them through secret widening channels into a streetside ditch to swell up roots. (First published in JAMA)

John McGrath On Sligo Quay, June 2011 The dead are not far from us… They sing in some strange way to what is most still and deep within us. (W.B. Yeats – quoted on Niall Bruton’s Famine sculpture, Sligo Quay) Thirty thousand sailed from Sligo Quay in Famine times. Now swans sleep on the slipway and mallards feed between the sunken bones of some dead ship. Out on the silver bay, small boats drift at anchor. Here on the quay a Famine sculpture stands. Three ragged souls, bereft of flesh and hope, cling to each other. A Subway sandwich in a paper bag lies at their feet half-eaten. I listen in stillness for the singing of the dead, but all I can hear is the wailing of gulls and murmurings of traffic from afar.

dippingthepen This section is for writers who are, maybe, new to writing and who would like to see their work in print with a view to further developing their skills.

Charlotte Vial First You were my old time Prince Charming My first love I carried our dreams in my heart. All at once you dropped them. As they shattered to the floor I learned to walk alone.

Granda I do not hear your voice I see you in the waves or behind a tree. Contently sitting in your chair, lost in thoughts. Your creative mind filled my Childhood with adventure. We searched for the leprechaun in the woods. Explored the sandy beaches for hidden treasure.

Moss Moriarty JOT IT DOWN As I rambled around the streets of beautiful Listowel I think I caught the bug I could hear it in my head Jot it down Jot it down Jot it down The voice would not go away until I got pen to paper I think it was the spirit of those gone urging me to carry on. Though in my wildest dreams I could not hope to follow in the masters league But in a humble way I will continue to jot things down and hope I can encourage a smile maybe bring a little cheer to someone's day. Of that I think the masters would approve. MY NAME IS MORI--R--I-T I am back for a tour of the lovely county of Kerry While filling up at a petrol station in the village of Ballylongford I heard a loud voice 'Is that you. Mori--r--i--t?' I glanced around to see a fine blonde crossing the road towards me. She looked familiar. I cracked a little smile. 'So tis my bold Mori--r--i--t' says she. 'My name is Kay, in case you've forgotten' How could I forget that lovely smile? Just then a young lady joined us. 'Who is this Mammy?' 'Do you remember all the times I said I would shoot a man the next time I'd meet him and called him all those rude names?' 'Mammy why are you talking like this in front of a stranger?' 'This fellow is no stranger. Say hello to Mori--r--i--t. Or maybe you should call him Daddy' Written by Moss Moriarty THE BALLYMAN

Johnny Block MURPHY’S GLEN Murphy’ glen on a mid summers morning Pottery river flows gently through Brown trout leap For the new born flie And black bird sings her song for me The bright yellow butter cups Dancing in the summer sun The purple bell shaped flower Of the fox glove Stands tall and elegant in the summer sun Butter flies and honey bees Move gracefully along From wild flower to wild flower For these are some of the reasons Why Murphy’s glen Meant every thing To Danny Paddy and now me

THE THISTLE SEED FEEDER As I look out my kitchen window On a cold November’s day And watch the finches Feed on the thistle seed feeder Hanging from the horse chestnut tree It would bring you joy And happiness To watch the finches Chirp and dance From twig to twig Waiting for their turn on the thistle seed feeder Hanging from the horse chestnut tree Summer is a beautiful time of year But winter can be the same If you have time to stop And watch the finches Feed on the thistle seed feeder Hanging from the horse chestnut tree

THESE WE LIKE http://hortensiaanderson.blogspot.com/

THE PLENITUDE OF EMPTINESS Hortensia Anderson's brilliant haibun site. An oasis of calm, yet always invigorating. Better still, buy the book at: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/the-plenitude-of-emptiness/10293919

http://www.sonnets.org/index.htm If fourteen-liners are your thing, Sonnet Central is the place for you. http://writing.ie/ A wonderful resource for writers, driven by the dynamic Vanessa O’Loughlin Pauline Fayne's gustoesque reinditions - some would say restatements - of Jacques Brel standards in The Kingdom Bar after Poet's Corner. http://www.erikadreifus.com/blogs/practicing-writing/ Erica Dreifus's blog is full of writing related chat and practical advice. http://www.lishanu.com/index.htm Yet another masterpiece from the Norman Darlington stable. Drop in for a minute, but be warned - hours later you will still be relishing its shapes, its sounds, its clean-cut beauty. The performance of the Three Kerry Poets at Listowel Writer's Week. Noel and John restrained, Eileen so measured. Grown-up poetry. http://writerscentre.ie/blog/?p=318: Nuala Ní Chonchúir's Article on SelfPromotion. sounds like hard work; still, if you are not prepared to do it........

https://sites.google.com/site/existencearts/httpssitesgooglecomsitee xistenceartshaiga2 anya's moonsite: Be bewildered, bedazzled, bedazed by the mistress of haiku. 55

COPING WITH REJECTION BY VANESSA O'LOUGHLIN If they are honest, even the greatest writers will admit that they have been rejected at some time (or many times!) during their careers. Indeed, one of the first rules of becoming a writer is learning to face rejection courageously, positively and often! It might make it easier to know that:

 Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was rejected 14 times.  Johnathan Livingstone Seagull was rejected 18 times.  Carrie by Stephen King had over 30 rejections.  A Time to Kill by John Grisham was rejected 45 times.  Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell was rejected 38 times.

 The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter was so completely rejected, that Ms. Potter decided to self-publish.

 George Orwell’s Animal Farm was rejected with the words: ‘It is impossible to sell animal stories in the USA’  Rudyard Kipling was told by the San Francisco Examiner ‘I’m sorry Mr. Kipling, but you just don’t know how to use the English Language.’

 The Diary of Anne Frank was rejected on the basis that ‘the girl doesn’t, it seems to me, to have a special perception or feeling which would lift that book above the curiosity level.’ Three tips for coping with those inevitable rejections:

1. Laugh at them. Those who missed out on Harry Potter are still kicking themselves.

2. Learn from every rejection. Did you send your manuscript to the right person? Does the opening chapter need more work to grab an agent or publisher's attention? Did you get any feedback you can act on? 3. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Have a submission strategy, plan the next move before you’ve even posted your submission and always have the next project underway. Be positive, be forward thinking. Remember, literature is subjective. The first agents or publishers you try may not like what you write, but somewhere out there, there is someone who will. Vanessa O'Loughlin is the founder of writing.ie, runs Inkwell Writers Workshops and is a scout for leading UK and Irish Literary Agents.

Reproduced by permission

LISTOWEL EVENT TO BE OPENED BY JIMMY DEENIHAN (Minister, Department of Arts, Heritage and the Gaeltacht)

Fancy the craic? Writers, Dancers, Singers, Musicians Community Groups If you want to join in, contact:

renagown@gmail.com Poets around the world are planning individual events to take place simultaneously on September 24th in a demonstration/celebration of poetry to promote social and political change. So far over 335 cities representing 68 countries have signed up to make this global initiative a success through poetry readings, political demonstrations, community picnics, awareness events, parades, and more!

For event details and locations visit

100 Thousand Poets for Change at:

http://www.100tpc.org (We are adding new cities and countries daily)

Join Us! 57

Pauline Fayne with Michael Hartnett at the launch of the 'Square Peg Anthology in 1991. (Thanks to Teri Murray for the photo)

Front cover: Moore Hall; photo and poem by Mike Gallagher

We give you our welcome, we welcome your genius. Submissions to: renaagown@gmail.com 58