Ann Egan; The Astoundment Of Fuamnach, Fuamnach And Midir’s Obsession

The Astoundment Of Fuamnach

The eyes of that moth,

damselfly, whatever it is,

truly astound me.

They’re as bright as gems

 

in the waters of the Barrow

when the sun is at its height and

salmon sleep beneath its bank

where no shadows fall.

 

They shine like amethyst

in the pitch of night when

hazel twigs burst into flames

and red and gold sparks

 

light silence in shadows.

Her wings beat, hum a song

more melancholy than lays of

the harpist at Samhain’s feast.

 

Her wings thrum as lightly

as the dance of an only child

tapping to meet another in

childhood’s lost gallery.

 

The fragrance of this fly

is like being in a garden of

wildflowers and elderberries,

perfume wafting sweetness

 

of a peaceful summer’s evening.

Around here they say she has

a cure for all ills and hardships,

and can create any world

 

the mind ever dreams about.

Look at my husband, Midir,

in search of no other, at home in

himself and a damselfly’s company.

 

*

Fuamnach And Midir’s Obsession 

Midir can’t be parted from her,

wherever he goes, she goes too.

She’s always hovering around him.

If he gallops across the moors

 

on his white horse, the damselfly,

Etain rests on his shouder,

purple of his clothes and her wings

make her appear a royal decoration,

 

the two look like they are one.

When he sleeps at night,

she watches over him from

the bough of the silver birch

 

he’s had replanted in his chamber.

He checks she has all her needs,

dew of the rising sun,

folding sigh of the night star,

 

flutter of the homing swallow,

sweetness of the rowan berry.

She is as well tended indeed as

the baby I dreamed of, never had.

 

Can you imagine a grown man,

one in his position, castles, servants,

fields, plates of gold, silver,

plains, forests and secret terrains,

 

and all he wants by night is

the hum of her wings as

she folds herself in slumber

on the silkened bough by his bed.

 

His eyes close, gently, peacefully

for she will awaken him at once

should the thoughts of an enemy travel

to disturb the sanctity of his sleep.

*

Biography

Ann Egan, a multi-award winning Irish poet, has held many residencies in counties, hospitals, schools, secure residencies and prisons. Her books are:  Landing the Sea (Bradshaw Books); The Wren Women (Black Mountain Press);  Brigit of Kildare (Kildare Library and Arts Services) and Telling Time (Bradshaw Books).  She has edited more than twenty books including, ‘The Midlands Arts and Culture Review,’ 2010. She lives in County Kildare, Ireland. 

Lucie McLaughlin; Palm

Palm 

There is a gap

opposite

it is where Orpheus

used to be.

Yellow diggers carve into

rubble pits

the long pendulum

of a crane sways

slightly from

side to side. 

 

I filmed a part of

Orpheus

before the final

destruction.

The legs of a beautiful

brass staircase 

open to the air

gulls let in to the 

inside of the

stained glass heights.

The lost affair; 

a hard drive broken, 

where once I placed 

the mutilated limbs. 

 

Other films remain 

the flashes weakly 

flickering 

writhing along 

white sides 

of buildings

the ends 

of trees. 

 

Vocalising across 

the forecourt 

and onto the grey storm 

of the Lough.

Smoothing over or 

pressing down

 like the palm of 

the wind does.

Indentations

depressions

caressing the 

surface, 

the flat grey.

 

I touch my lips 

with the tips 

of my fingers

not knowing where 

the texture of 

paper

will take me. 

 

Into the well of its 

disgrace I fell.

It sees good in the 

rain and the space 

of the writing, 

where a voice 

sounds a work

undoes these paths

branches

rivulets

at the lowest ebb.

  

And turning

the crest and swell 

of incalculable waves

there’s a seal’s head 

gawping at me.

When the seal slips, 

wordlessly, under the

robe of invulnerability 

the smooth 

wood of the desk, 

bone dry. 

Within a 

glass walled temptress

shuttering up the 

poured concrete

walls of late,

stairwells whistle 

and shake

*

Biography

Lucie McLaughlin speaks, performs, makes and writes with a fervent rhythm, symptomatic of a way (and multiple ways) of thinking through poetry. She has performed her poetry in London, Paris, Berlin and Belfast and her recently commissioned poem Slime was released by AQNB in 2017. 

Kevin Nolan; Rubious

Rubious   

I fantasize about you, sometimes, 

 fantasize that you are happy, 

realizing yourself 

in a way that was not possible back when  

each morning your eyes thrown from darkness opened to the sunlight  

and gazed, gazed, gazed into mine.    

 

I hope you are in love 

I hope it’s new and dramatic 

and I hope it makes you smile when you’re on you own,  

hanging out the clothes  

or broken down on the roadside, kicking tyres, your mind desperately holding on to  

itself for dear life, suddenly, effortlessly and like in some self affirming salacious  

dream, lets go.     

 

I fantasize the most perfect act of love I could commit  

was to set you free,  

let you grow natural, unbarred,  

let the sunshine warm your skin  

without thoughts of anything else but being you in the world.    

 

I also fantasize that someday we’ll meet haphazardly, we’ll have out-grown our  

difficulties and very, very, very slowly we’ll fall in love again.    

 

Forgive me, I know this last fantasy is just the little bit of you left in me,  

warming me, still believing in me, still wiping tears and whispering I love you into my mouth.  

*

Biography

Kevin Nolan, Dublin born, holds an honours degree in Pure Philosophy from The Milltown Institute, also received a Philosophy through literature diploma there all in all he spent six years studying Philosophy. He then Studied fine art in the National College of Art and Design in conceptual art and film.  His writing has appeared in, Colony, The Galway Review, Skylight 47, Bard, The Shine Newsletter, Studies,Decanto Magazine / Anthology (England), The Jack Kerouac Family Association Newsletter, Yareah Magazine (Italy), among other journals.  Nolan is also a singer/composer and has been played predominantly by John Kelly on The JK Ensemble. His debut album Fredrick & The Golden Dawn on which he deuts with choice award winning singer Julie Feeney received highly acclaimed reviews both in Ireland and abroad. www.kevinnolan.info

Owoh Ugonna Alexander; Our Journey to the City of Light

Our Journey to the City of Light

And the night was a saddened tree in the Amazon, where streets

sang to the rhythms of bullets and bombs.

On a vague street, came a tremendous flock of men, greeting

their bodies with violence.

Because the night was an enemy; mothers fought fears in

darkness; Father kissed their guns cheerio,

Babies filled their beds with tears.

Joan said; we shall set to a place where the gods doesn’t feel naked,

“Where water running over pebbles was the tears of wildness”.

Maybe it became a night when we threw our staffs into the Caribbean, like shepherds of the hilltop.

As daylight kissed the land, so laid a street of death,

As men became cockroaches whose bodies fell into rotten carcass,

And as the morning kissed our bliss, so laid the silent night as it went to bed with several corpses.

Maybe water is a way into love; where seas shall dance to our thirsty throats.

Three days, as we set our path for a virgin land, as nightfall had kissed our blossom, and as the eye of the gods brightened our morning, so shall we found our sweet manner.

And as we set to a land where shelter finds us, lay we crossing the tears of the Nile, as we filled our masque baskets with water.

The border cries for our departure, but we shall never lay in the blossom of perplexity.

Whereas, we shall consume the fires of the mountains, as they baked our bread.

Because we drew across the Kilimanjaro, came the short nightfall; a city of light, where our mysteries shall be found, where our stories be told.

And as daylight kissed our bliss, came “my dreams; A reality” as our feet consoled the lands.

Yes we did arrive to our fantasies, where breads were given to us by eagles, where water kissed our throats and light; our dreams.

And as we kissed the street, came a town of laughter, as men drank their ginger beers to the rhythm of music,

Where women were charitable sellers of gossips, as they gave signs to their lovers, where birds sang lullabies to babies.

Yes we did arrive to our dreams of laughter, our joy and consolations,

And as we sort a place to lay our heads, came I kissing the moonlight with a loving embrace, as I rose by hands to its coldness.

And so came sleep, kissing my eyes “nighty night”, as I laid in happiness to a city where my ears weren’t scared of bullets and bombs.

*

Biography

Owoh Ugonna Alexander is a prolific writer, poet and playwright. He has written many poems, stories, anthologies, articles, and essays. He is a romantic poet who believes in nature as a pious and tremendous creation of God. Born in south eastern Nigeria, he is the author of “ocean of love.”

Neil Slevin; Sewing the Sea, The Storm

Sewing the Sea

Fishing for water,

sewing the sea,

you sit at ease

on a swept, beaten quay,

passing no heed

to time, tide nor

in the distance, me.

 

Shimmering

is your joy,

the sun speckle

bobbing your face

and settling like stardust

in your golden hair embrace.

 

You are at labour, lost

in your working world,

another day’s laissez-faire,

your legs sway with the freedom

of the water’s flow; and where

splashes freckle day’s outlook,

 

life’s all moderate to fair

because you’re free

to stitch your ties,

ones that will exert

their own force,

not now, later,

in due course.

 

And so, unmoved

you return to your post,

fishing for water,

sewing the sea, almost.

*

The Storm

We sheltered from the rain

beneath the diving board

while teenagers watched us

become them, their smiles

knew before we did.

 

I stood between us

and the wind, moved you

from their stares, and saw

how you looked at me,

like you’d never look away.

 

We retreated, hid for hours

in a crowded room

and let our bodies say

what we couldn’t mean

with every breath and pulse.

 

My mind kissed every inch

of you; its fingers traced,

parted your lips, hands

lost themselves in your hair.

The storm raged, us its eye.

*

Biography

Neil Slevin MA, BSc is a writer from Co. Leitrim, based in Galway, Ireland, whose poetry has been published by various Irish publications and international journals, such as Scarlet Leaf Review and Artificium: The Journal. His flash fiction appeared in The Incubator. Neil co-edits Dodging The Rain.

Frances Browner; Leaving Limerick 1950

LEAVING LIMERICK 1950

My flying odyssey began

In a place called Rineanna

Forty hours later,

It ended in Idlewild.

Today, one flies from Shannon

To Kennedy in around six hours

I prefer the old names.

 

It was raining, pouring out of

Low-lying grey-black clouds

That blended seamlessly with

The Shannon estuary.

The tarmac was empty, but surely

My escape would soon appear

Ghostlike out of the overcast?

 

My entourage and I waited

And waited and waited and

Then, an announcement.

Our flight was delayed and

Delayed. After twenty-four hours

We were taken to a nearby hotel.

 

It was still raining the next day

My plane on the ground looming

Monstrous grey in the grey dusk

A flying whale I thought it was.

I made a quick call to Kirby’s,

The local grocery store, and

Someone ran to get my mother.

 

Write soon, son.  I will.

Don’t forget to say the Rosary. I won’t.

Goodbye son. Goodbye mother.

I never heard her voice again.

There’s a maudlin song –I left Ireland

And Mother because we were poor

A cowardly fellow, I should’ve stayed.

 

I trudged towards the plane in my

New suit, new shirt, new tie, new

Overcoat, new blue and white scarf.

New shoes, new haircut, but with the

Same old volcanic acne eruptions

And I flew off to the New World

At twenty years of age.

 

I snuggled into the belly of the

Whale and unlike Jonah had a

Gorgeous stewardess

Smile gorgeously at me.

Then, Ireland disappeared

Under the clouds and I would

Not see her again for ten years.

 

I was air sick, homesick, soul sick.

The steak dinner was not to my

Liking and a German doctor

Suggested I put my head

Between my knees and breathe.

Don’t go there, I craned my neck

Back towards the Treaty Stone.

 

In Gander, sparkling, drifting

Snowflakes replaced the rain.

The lounge was crowded with

Navy blue uniforms, gold wings

Pinned to lapels, braided caps

Rakishly set, manly white smiles

And manly long-legged strides.

 

Stewardesses wore tailored skirts in

A sky blue I had not seen in months

Matching jackets, snowy blouses,

Pertly set work caps. Legs made to

Order in high-heels that were calf

Defining. Red and white smiles

Goddesses to serve the Gods. 

 

The final lap of my journey is not

A blur, it’s a blank except for one

Mesmerizing experience. Back in

The day before metal detectors,

Waving wands, shoeless searches and

Locked cockpit doors, passengers were

Invited to visit that holy of holies.

 

I stood behind the pilot and co-pilot

Staring at a vast array of dimly lit

Instruments. Gazing out into the

Cosmos at a billion pinpoints of light

Some in friendly clusters winking

Others alone, aloof

In their solitary beauty.

 

I diminished, dwindled,

Became a speck, an atom

Vanished. From Ireland, Limerick,

Thomondgate, the Parish, 

From everyone and everything

I had ever known. Without

An anchor in a dangerous ocean.

 

Early next morning, we were safely down.

The whale disgorged me and I was grateful.

Descending into the biting New York cold,

I longed to kiss American soil. But,

On the dirty, slick, oil-stained tarmac,

There was no soil, no gold and no kiss.

*

Biography

Frances Browner was born in Cork; grew up in Dublin; spent twenty years in America, and now resides in Wicklow. Her short fiction & memoir pieces have appeared in magazines and short story anthologies, been short-listed for competitions and broadcast on radio. Poems have been published in the Examiner, the Ogham Stone, Poems on the Edge, the Limerick Poetry Trail and Skylight 47.

JL McCavana; Ormeau

Ormeau

Begin at the beginning.

Begin at what is now an empty space

on Hamilton Street.  House of smoke – and strong

women; and the Sacred Heart on the wall.

 

                                Walk now, onto Cromac Street, beyond the Markets

                                to the beginning of the Ormeau Road.

                                Left – the renewed redbrick of the old Gasworks.

                                Right – Donegall Pass.  See a whitewashed gable end

                                transformed into a giant Union Jack.

                                Walk down and read the paramilitary message –

                                don’t worry, the masked men are in their dens

                                not out on the streets; not here, not today.

 

Move on, up Lower Ormeau, past Fitzroy Avenue,

past Hatfield House, past the black memorial stone

on the gable end of Sean Graham bookies.

It’s OK, there are no gunmen here today,

not today.  Today you walk past Yambo

Food, past Bangla Bazaar, past the Asia

Supermarket on Agincourt Avenue,

which could be your road to Damacus – Street.

 

                                But standing still on Ormeau Bridge –

                                Past!  Past!  Past!  You think you can see it all,

                                in the slow brown gloop of the River Lagan,

                                you think you can see it all – every bloody thing.

 

Move.  Please move.

In Ormeau Park you see a Cherry tree

happening and heavy with bunched blossom.

And beyond Deramore, Rushfield and the long terraced stretch of Haypark Avenue,

stands Ballynafeigh Orange Hall, armoured and closed.

Though once upon a time within those walls,

two young people danced across Belfast’s

divide, and your mother said “yes”.

 

                                Omphalus!  This is your beginning, though

                                it begins, as you know, with a resounding

                                “No! No! No!”  – Yes!

                                Begin again.  Pass the bars: Pavilion,

                                Errigle, Parador.  Pass Ravenhill and Rosetta.

                                Find your way to Knockbreda cemetery

                                and via McCormick, Campbell, Lanyon, McKee,

                                ascend through the standing stones to the brow.

 

Now turn.  Look down over Ormeau, down over

Belfast, till it rises to Cavehill, Napoleon’s Nose

and Antrim’s basalt plateau.  And remember,

that you come from this once volcanic place.

*

Biography

J.L. McCavana lives and writes in County Antrim.  He is currently reading The Strings are False by Louis MacNeice and exploring the wonderful wide world of poetry.

Lorraine Whelan; First Visit To Dingle

First Visit To Dingle

The Atlantic pulsates.
.
Walls of water build up, green
and crash down, white, on brown sand.
The ocean foams.
.
Flotsam disappears in moments of undertow.
.
Smooth boulders embedded with shells
reach into the sea:
limpets and winkles cling to stony fingers
till the next high tide.
.
I climb as far as I dare
fighting the wind along the way.
I return as the tide quickens its pace
and waves wash the ridge
where I had stood
a few moments ago.
.
Clouds sweep the sky,
roll lively with high gales
then diverge
to show blue patches
and pull ragged shapes
from the shadow of a fog.
.
In the distance
the mountains are suddenly clear.

 

 

*

Biography

Lorraine Whelan is a writer and visual artist based in Ireland.

Ann Egan; Fuamnach’s Pool

Etain Is Fuamnach’s Pool

Why do I feel around me

is turning into a lake

in this room of circles where

I, a guest am left all alone.

 

My eyes stay closed.

I barely breathe as shards

invisible as jealousy, crush me.

Light as butterfly’s wings,

 

powerful as silken bonds,

they bind me prisoner.

My heartbeat slows yet

I am flying moonwards.

 

All is spinning so fast,

I cannot look on its kind face,

nor delight in yellow folds

of smiles and welcomes.

 

Now I’m being flung about

like a hurt in the wind,

back to the clouds,

a dark one grasps me

 

in arms like tentacles

of disappearing threads.

They imprison me, then

throw me across the sky,

 

plunge me  to the shallows

of water I think is me –

my eyes, my heart, my head!

Earth, save me from me.

*

Fuamnach’s Pool

Logs burn so brightly,

hiss and spark their way.

Silver spruce are piled high,

flames fill their sorrow.

 

Footsteps, I see no being.

Some power clasps me.

I Etain, new wife of Midir,

I am water. Must I live so?

 

I pray I’ll float to a stream,

beg a wind to hurry me

to a good river’s heart, there

I’ll crave the gods within

 

to restore me to my form.

I hear the fall and sigh again,

timber is consumed by

red hungers of flame.

 

This room fills with heat,

water that is me, disappears,

I cannot grasp it to be still.

Changes from a silver self,

 

vanishes as warm dew

to the air, flees from me.

Flames crackle at me.

I bow to their words,

 

my head is water, barely.

Drop disappears by drop.

Soon silence of spent fire

will be my mind’s darkness.

 

I cannot find my way.

I must succumb for flames

drink water that I am.

*

Biography

Ann Egan, a multi-award winning Irish poet, has held many residencies in counties, hospitals, schools, secure residencies and prisons. Her books are:  Landing the Sea (Bradshaw Books); The Wren Women (Black Mountain Press);  Brigit of Kildare (Kildare Library and Arts Services) and Telling Time (Bradshaw Books).  She has edited more than twenty books including, ‘The Midlands Arts and Culture Review,’ 2010. She lives in County Kildare, Ireland. 

Faye Boland; Home, Lost On The Kerry Way

Home

is a field, stretched over red sandstone

overgrown with ferns, prickled with gorse

where my father dreamed a bungalow would sit

on which stands a peak-white mansion.

I painted its fence tudor black,

varnished floorboards I mop and wax.

 

is doorstep where an aged dog dozes,

rising on stiff legs at the sound of my car,

A view of a clothes line where tiny trousers kick

and frilly dresses swing. Where trumpet-like flowers,

resplendent with colour, peer in from window ledges.

 

is the waltz of garlic and onions

a six seater table, scuffed, with white rings.

The wail of a violin not quite in tune

the hum of a fridge while everyone sleeps.

*

Lost On The Kerry Way

We start our walk at Rossacussane, join

a narrow lane where wren and finch chirp,

shaded from the sun’s rays by beech, birch.  

On exposed hills we follow signs through

struggling lowland grasses speckled with wildflowers:

cowslip, purple star-flowers like edelweiss.

Sheep and horses graze, ignore us as we

snake up and down hill after hill, over

and over again. We take in the azure bay below

cushioned by mountains till the piercing sun

cracks our lips.

 

Hours later, bellies roar with hunger.

Highland ghosts of bogcotton quiver, we stumble

past the charred remains of gorse as ancient rocks

watch us with a wary eye. We are haunted

by the leafless skeleton of a wind-burnt rhododendron,

crimson flower-clusters hanging from its limbs,

startled by a pheasant bouncing from the scrub. 

 

Hearts leap as we see the church spire, relieved

that town is within reach. We clamber across

the last rocky summits, begin the breathtaking

descent into the chocolate box town. At its fringes

foxglove dressed in purple stands dignified while

ragged robin flaps torn petals. With wiry hair, dirt-crusted

toes, we glow with sunburn, two tramps just in time

for a gourmet dinner, long-awaited chilled sauvignon blanc.

*

Biography

Faye Boland has had poems published in Skylight 47, The Yellow Nib, The California Quarterly, The Galway Review, Literature Today, The Shop, Revival, Crannóg, Orbis, Wordlegs, Ropes, Headstuff, Silver Apples, Creature Features, The Blue Max Review and Speaking for Sceine Chapbooks, Vols I and II. In 2014 her poetry was included in ‘Visions: An Anthology of Emerging Kerry Writers’.
 
Her poem ‘Silver Bracelet’ was shortlisted in 2013 for the Poetry on the Lake XIII International Poetry Competition.