*
Biography
Lorcan Cassidy is a recent graduate of the National College of Art and Design in Dublin. Although he studied Fine Art Sculpture in college, drawing and illustration have been lifelong passions for him. Most of the sculptures he has produced have an illustrative nature to them. As for his subject matter it is oftentimes macabre and strange. One of his tutors described it as, ‘Quirky with a touch of darkness.’
Black-driven, chaos-bent, breathing brute cacophonies,
It lumbers up the wooded slope at midnight, swamped in moonlight,
Flanked with fervent wind-blown limbs of green grown black with shadow,
Comes from heaven’s darkest hollow, clambers, clutches mountain, draws
Breath on black-blown breath, claws
Air, imagines skin, bare –
Null-brained, we swim
Under lulling sun,
Our cool, succulent nothingness
Trembling at its fat, black root.
*
Biography
Féilim James is a young writer from Dublin, Ireland, currently an undergraduate of English Literature and Psychology in Trinity College, Dublin. A writer of both poetry and prose, his works have been previously published in various literary journals such as Icarus, Rant + Rave, and Trinity Journal of Literary Translation. His poetry through Irish has won five Oireachtas literary awards from 2011-2015, as well as earning publication in the journals Feasta, Comhar, Comhar Óg, and An Scríbhneoir Óg. Féilim has also twice been selected for Fóras na Gaeilge’s Tutor Scheme.
*
Part One: Unshakable Shadows
For want of things needful, men cry;
The ancient springs have all run dry.
For flowing brooks, the people pine;
Each time they look, they see a sign.
The sons and daughters of song sing low,
No more replete with lust;
About the streets of sorrow they go,
About the streets of dust.
The wheel of the well is broken now;
The golden bowl is bust.
So none repeat any token vow,
For it’s too late to trust.
With hearts that pretend to have hope but sag,
They start, at the ends of their ropes, to drag
The various enchantments they take:
Shadows of dreams they can’t seem to shake.
*
Part Two: Over the Brook of the Willows
Failing, languishing is the vine,
So, without song, men savor wine.
Wailing, anguishing is each tribe,
Devoid of strong drink to imbibe.
The flower faileth, then drops;
The hour aileth, then stops,
But still the rook, through its bill, crows:
Over the Brook of the Willows.
Their loss they swallow and thus carry,
Across the hollow to the prairie,
Traveling heavy or light
To a place e’er out of sight,
Where wolves and bears with cattle lie
And none have heard one battle cry,
Where, in a nook, green grass still grows:
Over the Brook of the Willows.
*
Part Three: The Burden of the Desert of the Sea
They cannot stay but have a plan,
Though traumatized and weak;
They’ll make their way, as best they can,
Across old Willow Creek.
With their gold, silver and tears, they leave,
For nothing has grown for years;
They pack what they hold most dear and grieve
O’er the rest that disappears.
By hand and foot they carry it,
The rich by horse and chariot,
Through lands of desert seas of sand
To start all over, somewhere grand.
They chart a course to save the day,
By which they plan to travel,
To cart their junk and pave a way
To stitch dream-seams unraveled.
With spirits sunk so very low,
They’re looking for the lea;
The caravan can barely go
Across the desert sea.
*
Part Four: Under the Shadow of Her Wings
Through lands of fire, brimstone, distress,
The darting snake and flying dragon,
Through lands of lion and lioness,
They cart their stake, the rich by wagon,
The poor by blistered hand and foot,
With palms and soles as black as soot,
To where grass still grows free:
Beneath the willow tree.
They’re going where the sparrows sing,
Over the hills and far away,
Where no one, ever, was crowned king
Or had his fill denied each day,
Where human graveyards can’t be found,
Where none have paved the naked ground,
Where the owl shades her hatchlings
Under the shadow of her wings.
*
To Be Continued
*
Biography
Erik Nelson was born in Madison, WI, in 1974, grew up in British Columbia, Canada, as well as several states in the United States, before obtaining a Masters degree in Literary Theory from the University of Dalarna, in Falun, Sweden; he then taught English at the college level in the deep south of the United States for ten years, before moving to the high plains of Colorado, where he currently lives, lucubrates and works as a librarian.
not the kind you think of
It hangs like a terrible tapestry
In the throne room of your house
You receive your exalted guests
Beneath its colorful folds,
Less blue and green than pastel shades
But the swirls of cartographic art
Embed in my mind the legend
‘Here be monsters’
*
Biography
Dermot (Diarmaid) Hurley is an aspiring (read unpublished) poet, former professional bodhrán player (other instruments are available), and a language enthusiast from County Sligo. After a few years living in the artistic hub that is Galway city, writing as Gaeilge, and a brief stint in Dublin, Dermot relocated to sunny Valencia, on the east coast of Spain, where he lives with his partner and baby son, writing in whatever language comes closest (which means lots of bad Spanish rhyme).
First you feel them writhe
as they feed in your sleep:
peccadilloes furrowing —
wriggling through the mind’s
mire, burrowing deeper
every night…until
they metamorphose,
A sensory deluge of hair,
dust, and scales
flutters, — no strikes —
at the back of your throat
and can’t be coughed away.
You’ll wake from choking
on their powdery residue.
You drink your coffee so strong
that you’re sick—smoke
your scut-bitten nails yellow,
and keep a candle lighted
to burn them wing by wing.
Tonight’s fight is over but
you still can’t shake their taste.
Don’t look in the mirror
while you brush your teeth.
Daylight isn’t all it seems;
something twitches in your optic nerves
controlling your every blink:
it’s the moths flitting back and forth
puncturing the darkness of your pupils…
that’s how they escape your dreams
*
Biography
Trish Delaney is originally from Wexford but currently lives in Dublin where she works in programmatic ad operations for an Irish advertising agency. She writes her poetry as an escape from the world of maths and calculations that dominate her working day. Some of her previous work has been published in Skylight 47,Spontaneity.org, increature.com, Oddball Magazine and as poem of the week on Headstuff.org
Amsterdam
Amsterdam you humid bastard
all my clothes are soaked
but I bought more in the second hand market
on Haarlemmer Road.
I fell in love with Vincent Van Gogh
he was just as fucked up as me
and I feel an affinity with anyone on the periphery.
I faced my childhood on the side of the road by the river down in Amsterdam.
Me and my mother, we took a plane
we went back again.
I met my mother, we got on the yellow tram line.
We were talking about Summer
a little girl who was a friend of mine.
We walked the old streets I played on
I was just a child then
we ended up at the old apartment
it used to be a heroin den.
Oh what’s worse is the silence that happened then
*
North Donegal
There is a place, north Donegal
some of my memories are there
the blonde and the brunette
the girl with the short hair.
It’s the place where I made
some of my earliest mistakes
the best thing that I ever did
was getting out of that place.
I remember the winter
the springtime and the autumn
but most of all those summer nights
we spent in her garden
and I’m going back there
no matter what you say
I’ve been invited
to her wedding day.
Stones’ throw from you.
It’s the lying, it’s the wasting
it’s the cheating on yourself
I’ll wait for love.
It’s the drugs, it’s the late nights
it’s the bottle I love the most
I’ll wait for love.
The autumn, the fading light
the darkening day, the compensating night.
I walked home, left it unsaid
with pounding heart I died a distant death.
The days draw down, dwindle, scatter
it all ends and none of it matters.
I linger on, become undone
I learn my fate is to always be in love.
Slip and slow down, square one again
I’ve made mistakes that I deeply regret
I’ve made mistakes again, again, again.
*
Biography
Born in Dublin in 1984, David Boland spent his childhood variously in Amsterdam, Dublin, Limerick, Shannon and Donegal. He has lived in Galway for the last decade where he is Artistic Director of An Áit Eile and curates the popular Citóg night in the Róisín Dubh. He also makes music under the name New Pope.
In early hatcheries
the fry lived in a pool,
over which a dead cow’s
head was hung. The maggots
that devoured the cow’s head
dropped off in the water
and became salmon food.
This taught the baby fish
to wait for food to drop
from the sky. They lost their
instinct to fear shadows
of predators above.
Mothers, remember this
when you are preparing
to feed your little ones.
*
Biography
G.B. Ryan was born in Ireland and graduated from University College Dublin. He is a ghostwriter in New York City. Elkhound published his SURPRISED BY GULLS in May 2015.
There’s nothing to fear but fear itself;
I don’t believe those words myself.
What about monsters, the devil himself?
I could be disembowelled by some evil elf!
Every night before I sleep,
I check beneath the bed and sheets.
For horrible beasts with razor sharp teeth.
They’ll rip me apart while I’m counting sheep!
With my bed side light I can sleep without fright.
My room is so bright, I’ll survive the night.
For the ghosts can’t hide away from my sight.
But tonight I’ll be brave and turn off the light…
A creak, a crack
I’m under attack!
My dreams are breaking, I find myself waking.
The devil is snaking; it’s me he’ll be taking!
Under the sheets in the dark, I’m quaking.
I need to find a way to stop shaking.
I look up and see teeth, shiny and sharp.
I’m their target, alone in the dark!
Take my torch in hand to steady my heart,
With a shine of the light, tear the evil apart!
I must be strong, and oh so brave.
I can’t let the monsters make me their slave.
If I don’t fight back, I won’t be saved.
I must send those beasts to their endless grave!
I devised a plan to take control;
To vanquish every ogre and troll!
I need a torch, and a sturdy bowl;
A sweeping brush to save my soul.
Now, each night before I rest in my nest:
I recheck the bed and do my best
To settle my nerves and calm my chest,
To find the pests; wherever they rest.
The bowl’s a helmet; in case of attack.
With torch in hand I lay down flat.
And poke with the brush where the monsters are at;
They scatter from light like a vampire bat.
I’ve waged my war, I move to the drawer.
I’ve never thought to check here before,
But shine my torch and lift clothing galore.
I see nothing there, but I had to be sure.
With my check nearly done, my panic abates.
I take my torch, bowl and brush to the drapes.
My torch goes dim, I hear claws scrape…
I must be ready when the ghosts take shape!
I bash with my brush,
Turn the fiends to mush,
Shine my light in a rush,
Till the monsters are crushed!
I don’t have a wardrobe, but you should check there,
You don’t want to wake to a terrible scare!
With the brush in your hand; demons beware!
With my check now done, I can rest without care.
There’s nothing to fear but fear, I see:
With torch and brush, the devil fears me!
I scare the elves, the monsters flee,
With my torch held close, I can finally sleep.
*
Biography
David Edwards is a Dublin based writer. His writing path started with stage plays and has slowly meandered towards children’s poetry and novels. For most of his life, he felt like he never would, and never wanted to grow up, and although life has forced some change to that, writing for children has been the his tie to youth. Over the years, he has tried to find any outlet for his creativity, from music to circus arts, from stand up comedy to theatre, but the focus has always been the same: make someone’s day that little bit brighter. Many of David’s plays have been put on to large and small crowds and one of his puppet shows is currently on display in the Wax Museum. He is always looking for new projects to work on, which led him to completing the NaNoWriMo challenge in 2015. Since then, he has become focused on completing his first novel, balancing his time between writing books and studying for his software development degree.
Mark Hill is an illustrator/photographer living in Dublin. He is self taught illustrator and went to IADT to study a degree in photography. He now splits his time between professional photography and illustrating. Mark lives with Kate and his two cats Nymeria and Pippin. “I enjoy the other worldly. Creating stories using beautiful, unnerving images. I get a lot out of collaborating with other artists and their works of any medium. I find that when two great art forms collide you always have the opportunity to create something special.”
Calibos takes Andromeda from her sleep,
The Clash of the Titans, 1981
The steel playground slide collects at its base
rainwater that is warm as a pool
of seawater in the sunlight
left over by the tide.
Lush green trees are heavy with hawthorn;
perfect pearl throws.
On the electricity pole
the single crow
on a corner of wire that forms a square;
the north, the south, the east and the west.
The swallows dive pulling heart chariots;
theatrical daredevils.
The sky vacantly journeys aided by twilight
and abetted by the moon.
In the middle of the night I awaken
to scurrying sounds that rise up
from below through the open window.
“Who is it?” the owl calls. “What do you want?”
Paralysis starts in the feet, travels
upwards coldly gripping calves.
Tumbling through darkness
I disturb fixed stars that startled
fall in glitter showers
in a world where trees drag their roots
across the swamp,
where voices are echoes,
where he fawns over his own reflection
in a pool adorned with vines
that are caressed by his arm’s stump.
When the fire dawn birds call
I am picked up in talons
and returned to the cauldron of morning.
And I never remember who he was,
my captor, nor what he wanted
except that some dark part
of my soul questioned
and he answered.
*
Biography
Orla Fay is the editor of Boyne Berries Magazine. Her poetry has been published in Boyne Berries, Crannog, Abridged, The SHOp, North West Words, The Linnet’s Wings, The Stony Thursday Book, Orbis, Carillon, Shot Glass Journal and Silver Blade Magazine, among others. She is a Forward prize nominee and she keeps a blog at http://www/orlafay.blogspot.ie
Tales From The Forest 