149655329 burning-bush-2-issue-5

The Burning Bush 2, issue five, June 2013

The
Burning
Bush2
issue # 5
June 2013

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The Burning Bush 2
issue five
contents
Editorial
Brian Kirk

Neil McCarthy
Kathy D’Arcy
Denise Blake
Morgan Harlow
Hugh Fulham-McQuillan

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6
7
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10
11
13
14
15

Eileen Ní Shuillebháin
Jessica Traynor
Emily Cullen
Evan Costigan
Chris Murray
Graham Connors
Nancy Anne Miller
Doireann Ní Ghroífa
Michael Gallagher
John Saunders
Keith Payne
Marion Clarke

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18
20
22
23
24
26
27
29
30
31
32

Stephanie Conn

Nell Regan
Gréagóir Ó Dúill
Anthony Hegarty
Noel Duffy
Kevin Conroy
Tyler Farrell
Anjumon Sahin

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35
36
37
39
40
42
43
45

Food Lover
Town Foxes
Absolute Desert
Lepus
Jungle of the Bourgeois Pig
Pregnant 4-6 Weeks
Lighting the Flame
Valerie
Themes on the Character
and the Actor
The Mountain
The Water Table
Amaryllis
Udders
Dark Pool
Real Words
World Fair 1957
Elegy for a City Tree
Smoker
Out of Date
The Yellow Paisley Scarf
Cantrer Gwaelod: The lowland
one hundred
Haiku 1
Limen
Dawn Birds
Movement
To This of the Other I Am Too
Old Shoes
On Light
Odonata Lampyridae
Three Family Rummage
Some Useless Notes or the Two Voices

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Chimera Lay
Francis O’Hare
Afric McGlinchey
Susan Sweetland Garay
David Murphy
Neil Banks
Éamon Mag Uidhir
James Chapson
Kenneth Keating
Mary Madec

47
48
50
52
54
56
58
60
62
63
64
65

No Translation
Street Music
Astral Weeks
Walls
The Interpretation of Dreams
Files in Amber
Unsaid
Maisie
The Royals
What I’m Looking For
The Peccable I
Persephone: Coming of Age

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Editorial
The revival of the Burning Bush, as Burning Bush 2, under the editorship of
Alan Jude Moore, is important. It provides a venue for new and emerging
poets as well as continuing to reaffirm with on-line work throughout the
world the viability of a global literary culture that does not create any sort
of empire. Where the internet failed to become the great equalizer we had
hoped for twenty years ago, it has become the great feelie for social media
and information availability to the point of obfuscation and isolation if
we’re not careful consumers and readers.
So, why bother contributing to the mess and publishing in an on-line
literary journal like Burning Bush 2? Because it is a part of the emerging
global literary culture -- at least for those fortunate to have access to the
internet as many throughout the globe still do not. Within the May issue of
Burning Bush 2 we feature works from writers throughout Ireland as well
as Australia, India, Spain, Bermuda and the U.S. These include past and
present winners of prestigious poetry awards as well as emerging writers.
Self-congratulation is rampant on the web, so it’s worth casting a brief eye
over some of the “facts” of institutional and global investment in
endeavours such as ours. Just a few years ago, Oxford Journals users at ten
institutions visited just 61 journals a quarter of a million times, and viewed
two-thirds of a million pages. Based on the study of this usage alone, UK
universities and colleges spent £79.8m on licenses for e-journals as early
as 2006/07 (out of a total serials expenditure of £112.7m). Four years ago,
it was estimated that 86.5 per cent of titles in the arts, humanities and
social sciences are now available online. Ten years ago, Ulrich's listed over
34,500 online, active periodicals of all types. Active academic/scholarly ejournals weigh in at nearly 43,500. (Ten years ago.) Of course, none of this
takes into account on-line poetry journals, blogs, writers’ sites, and so on
that continue to shape the creative milieu and for which an accurate
cataloguing algorithm has yet to be found.
There is a lot of money and a lot of traffic in on-line journals. Unfortunately,
none of us see it...yet. That is, the grassroots publications like Burning Bush
2 that are slowly, surely and significantly altering the literary landscape
are flying under the radar until the point at which we pacifists end up
“accidentally” knocking over the ivory tower upon which the radar sits.

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As guest editor, it was my great pleasure to work for Alan and enjoy his
diligence and professionalism. In keeping with the open nature of the
journal, works were forwarded blindly and correspondence took place
between us regarding many of the acceptances. (Perhaps too much
discussion or this would have been out a few weeks ago.) Now that we’re
live, we hope that you enjoy the lives presented in the current issue and
encourage you to continue to contribute to both the journal and its life.

David Gardiner
Chicago

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Brian Kirk
Food Lover
It rained all day, the hours began to drag,
I fed the dog and tried to eat something
But since you left each mouthful makes me gag.
The bottles on the shelf to me they nag,
But wine will only make my stomach spin,
All food now only tastes of stubbed out fags.
I want to eat, I know I must be starving
Drink only ever makes me fight or brag,
It never kills the pain or soothes the sting.
It rained all day, the hours began to drag.
Before the open fridge my spirits flag,
The pasta and linguini taste like string
Till you come back to me the time will lag
I miss you love and (of course) your cooking,

6


Town Foxes
How did we get here, knowing what we are
and what we need to live?
This place that we call home
offers us nothing but still we remain,
scavenging and cowering by turns
among hostile hosts.
Vermin they call us, rabid plague-ridden curs,
and would have us slaughtered,
where once they named us noble,
cunning, wily, even sly.
We are foreign to our natures, delirious,
fearful to the last,
unwanted immigrants.

Brian Kirk is a poet and short story writer from Clondalkin, Dublin. He
was shortlisted for Hennessy Awards in 2008 and 2011 and the Over The
Edge New Writer of the Year Awards in 2008 and 2009. He won the
inaugural Writing Spirit Award in 2009. He has been highly commended in
the iYeats Poetry Competition in 2011 and 2012 and the 2012 Bare Hands
Poetry Competition. His work has appeared in The Sunday Tribune, The
Stony Thursday Book, Southword, Crannóg, Burning Bush 2, Revival, Boyne
Berries, Wordlegs, Bare Hands Poetry, Cancan Poezine, The First Cut,
Abridged, Shot Glass Journal and various anthologies. He blogs
at http://briankirkwriter.com

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Stephanie Conn
Absolute Desert
It has been pouring for days and in a country such as this
it is hard to imagine the driest place on earth,
but at Atacama’s centre the loose lying sediment
proclaims a lack of that which might wash it all away –
millions of years without a single drop of rain.
Here nothing rots, the dead remain preserved forever dead
between the barren hills and freezing desert nights.
Yet further south, algae and lichen make the most
of marine fog and perennials, and woody scrub
suck on clouds entrapped by faulted mountains.
And though the arid plains are littered with abandoned
nitrate mining towns, the Peruvian song-sparrows sing
and lemons still grow on the shores of the salt marshes
while the villagers in Chungungo catch fog in mesh nets
that moisture may condense and trickle into copper troughs.

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Lepus
Their collective noun is ‘drove’
though they mostly live alone,
content with a solitary life,
or become one of a pair,
growing brave in the spring;
chests puffed out, as if
fluid has filled the cavities
and dropsy has caused a long-forgotten
frenzy, that gives rise
to a meadow dash in daylight
or a moonlit boxing match
below the moon hare’s dark patches;
that ancient celestial ancestor,
as a distant cousin is driven south
by the hunter and his dogs.

Stephanie Conn is a primary school teacher from County Antrim. Her
poetry has been published in a wide range of magazines and journals.
Recently, she was shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Prize and
her short collection Talking to Tsvetayeva was highly commended in the
Mslexia Pamplet Competition. She is in the final stages of her MA in
Creative Writing at the Seamus Heaney Centre, QUB.

9


Neil McCarthy
Jungle of the Bourgeois Pig
for Denisa Pisçu

Your father talked me down from a high window ledge
the morning he lit a cigarette in the kitchen, poured
me cold coffee, and told me of how alien it felt to have
had the freedom to lie in the grass in a park in Vienna.
This choice of action is something I’d never thought of,
like so many things I have taken for granted to date.
I furrowed my brow and jiggled memories in my head
looking for a comparison to believe in when I heard
you recite to your court at Café Kafka the feeling you
had, and the watchful eyes upon you, the first time
you tasted a banana. Those of us in attendance smiled
as we looked for the comedy in such an odd situation,
conned by every thin comparison that sprung to mind.
We are watered down by choices, caught pants around
our ankles at a crossroads with no signs, everyday staring
inanely at giant menu boards and convincing ourselves
that an iced lemon mocha with whipped cream and vanilla
is just what the doctor ordered. We have no use for effort
like we have no use for maps, our geography beamed from
satellites to the palms of our hands to whatever jungle we
choose. And I am blown away by distance, sitting listening
to a man from Moldavia recant for me his translations of
Eminescu in a bar in Los Angeles, the clientele shrill as an
orchestra tuning up; his index finger pendulating gracefully,
assertively, as if a flouted conductor’s baton.

Neil McCarthy is an Irish poet currently living in financial exile in Los
Angeles where he teaches English and complains about the heat. In recent
years his poems have appeared online and in print in journals such as
Magma (UK), Poetry Salzburg Review (Austria), Popshot (UK) and The SHOp
(Ireland).

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Kathy D’Arcy
Pregnant 4-6 weeks
After sitting on the cold tiled floor for a few minutes I think that might be
bad and get up. I look at my face in the mirror. My mother was ten years
younger than me when she had my brother Michael. Did she look like
this? It was so normal for them, but she must have felt something, the first
time at least. I put on makeup – not enough to be obvious, just to make
myself look flushed with pleasure – and go next door. It smells like boy
after the makeup. He's face down, twisted with a cold, white arm hanging
over the side. The Father. We made a baby. I push his shoulder gently. He
grunts. I do it again.
'Ah leave it will you, I'll get up when I'm ready!'
I leave it.
Downstairs I make toast and jam and a cup of tea, and sit in the cold kitchen
chewing, reading yesterday's paper. We'll need to have the heating on
more, it can't be cold like this. I think? We'll need to get a proper rubbish
collection. And a baby seat. He'll need to get his driving license. He'll need
to drink less. He'll need to give up smoking – in the house, at least. No –
altogether. It stays on your hands and on the walls and things. We'll need
to move house. We'll need to find a school, you have to enrol very
early. Should we homeschool? Would I be able? I think so. But then he
wouldn't be socialised. I could put him in lots of groups. But that costs
money and school is free. More or less. It would still be cheaper to keep
him at home than to send him to school, and then we could use the extra
money for the groups. We will have no extra money, ever again.
I don't know how I feel about it, I mean I'm over the moon, I can't believe
it, I'm overjoyed, you know? I'm the happiest man on the planet! But you
know, it's such a huge thing, I mean I know people do it every day, you
know, but it's my first time and it's a big thing, you know? I want to be . . .
I want to be the best father I can possibly be, you know? I want to give her
the world, I want to spoil her rotten. I want her to have everything. I'm
going to give up smoking. But in the meantime can I bum one of yours?

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Kathy D’Arcy is writer in residence with Tigh Fili Cultural Centre, Cork,
and has published two poetry collections: Encounter (Lapwing 2010) and
The Wild Pupil (Bradshaw 2012). She studies and teaches Irish women's
literature with UCC's MA in Women's Studies programme, and also teaches
creative writing. She originally qualified as a doctor, and now works with
homeless young people in Cork city.

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Denise Blake
Lighting the Flame
The paraffin lamp was a wedding present.
A working ornament: a base of polished
bronze to hold the oil, a small dial to control
the level of cotton wick, a pronged metal cric
held the glass chimney for flame and light.
The pair of us, in our early twenties,
setting up home with matches, kerosene
and open flame in our small living space.
Neither of us willing to ask the elders
for advice on how to make the lamp work.
We caused smoke, and soot and nearly, a fire.
The low yellow flame brought a dim glow
under the frosted-glass shade and no heat.
We cast the lantern aside until we learned
of the net mantle hanging like a tiny birdcage.
We needed to place the mantle equidistant over
the base, strike a match, flash oxides off the surface.
What remained was a delicate meshing,
strong enough to contain fire and white-hot heat,
create incandescent light from a small blue flame.

Denise Blake’s second poetry collection, How to Spin Without Getting
Dizzy is published by Summer Palace Press. She is a regular contributor
to Sunday Miscellany RTE radio 1. She is on Poetry Ireland's Writers in
Schools Directory.

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Morgan Harlow
Valerie
Valerie died before we reached the end of second grade. She lived at the
end of a dead end road; a slope crowned with oak trees behind the house
fell off on the other side into a sandy quarry, giving us the feeling we had
the whole world to ourselves. On Valentine's Day of that year a heavy
packing snow fell, and we built an igloo around the trunk of a locust tree in
her backyard. In the course of our excavations in the snow we came upon
the leathery bodies of fallen locust pods. As if wresting them by hand from
the icy Arctic Ocean, we pounced on them with our wet mittens and they
clung there, biting. We alternated coming to each other's rescue and being
saved until the monsters were defeated and then pressed, Simon Rodiaesque, into the walls of our domed hut.
Our boots never thoroughly dried overnight or during the day in our
school lockers. By the end of the week, Valerie came down with a kind of
croup. I wasn't allowed to visit her but her mother let her talk on the phone.
Valerie said she was tired of Eeyore-ing as she called it, that heaving
donkey-like breathing that can oddly enough be a source of pride, a
privileged hallmark of sickness to an otherwise happy child.
Her voice was weak, and I asked What? What? and she started to cry.
After our last conversation, her mother got on the line. "Valerie is too sick
to talk," she said. I heard Valerie in the background coughing and crying,
and her father saying, "when you feel better."
That night I dreamed Valerie, thin and always cold, stepped through her
bedroom wall, floated mid-air outside the window, and at last drifted over
the road barricade at the end of the dead end street, leaving the house and
its surroundings--curled silver maple leaves blown against the front door,
daffodils beginning to flower around the trunk of the locust tree--as though
her existence there had been something not to be believed in, after all.

Morgan Harlow’s poems and other writing have appeared in Washington
Square, Seneca Review, The Tusculum Review, The Moth, and elsewhere. A
debut poetry collection, Midwest Ritual Burning (2012), is published in the
UK by Eyewear Publishing.

14


Hugh Fulham-McQuillan
Theme on the Character and the Actor
Consider three deaths: the historical assassination of the Roman Emperor
Julius Caesar, the fictional recreation of that assassination in Shakespeare's
Julius Caesar, and the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.
Three principals feature. The first is Marcus Junius Brutus, the original
political assassin. To avoid confusion, we'll refer to him by the name Caesar
is said to have uttered with his last, blood drowned, breath: Brutus.
The second and third principals are among the greatest Shakespearean
actors in 19th century America: Junius Brutus Booth, and his son, John
Wilkes Booth. There will be no attempts to round out their characters in
order to empathise with them and/or better understand pivotal moments
in history. Aspects of their lives will be discussed, but only briefly and in
relation to events that are bigger than men. They will remain photographs,
left in the sun for too long.
The centripetal force which propels these three principals and three
deaths is a fictional character. It is the Shakespearean role of Marcus Junius
Brutus. It is the spider at the centre of this web that manages, with its sticky
strands, to pull together and compress vast tracts of time and geography.
This character contains aspects of the historical Brutus, for it is a role based
on his deeds. These aspects may be psychological, or physical. We are made
of atoms and molecules. They continue after we die and become parts of
other things or beings, until they die or are destroyed and so on. It is not
inconceivable that these particles have a sort of memory, or that they may
gravitate to that which is similar to one of their previous structures: the
role of Marcus Junius Brutus, played by both Junius Brutus Booth, and his
son, John. This is one possibility.
Another: popular psychology books state, “to be confident, you have to fake
it till you make it.” If this is true, then the minds of men who are paid to
pretend to be other people must be questioned. I cannot provide answers.
I can only provide two excerpts and a quote.
The first is found in a letter from Junius to President Andrew Jackson in
1852: “You damn'd old scoundrel... I will cut your throat while you are
sleeping” (he didn't).

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The second is taken from the diary of his son, John Wilkes Booth, a lesser
actor but more successful assassin. It was written in 1865, days after killing
Lincoln: “...I am here in despair. And why; For doing what Brutus was
honored for ... And yet I for striking down a greater tyrant than they ever
knew, am looked upon as a common cutthroat.”
When John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln, he repeated a line, first uttered by
Brutus, that echoes through centuries and continents: “Sic semper
tyrannis.” It is a cursed line. Tyrants -those who treat men like puppetsare rarely defeated. In fictionalising the Roman assassination, Shakespeare
fastened reality to fiction, creating a möbius strip, a trap from which Junius
Booth escaped. His son was less fortunate.

Hugh Fulham-McQuillan is from Dublin and is currently pursuing a PhD
in psychology. He has previously been published in The Irish Times, Word
Riot and Power's 2012 Book of Short Stories.

16


Eileen Ní Shuilleabháin
The Mountain
In my dreams
I still hear the wind
scorch the mountain side
peeling granite ridges bare.
Night sooths the bruising
seeping black slickened oil
into crevices
distilling into air.
I listen to an ancient
breathing
buried here beneath this creaking world.
I light a bonfire on the hillside
kindling made of ragged scars.
Flames fever at first then burst
fall to embers.
Heather and thistle
loneliness like a death
bristles underfoot.
Ghosts of children
play among ruins.
Family faces familiar
yet strange.
Women barefoot
wash clothes in streams.
In my dreams
I still see the mountain.

Eileen Ní Shuilleabháin grew up in Carna in the Connemara Gaeltacht
area of Galway. She currently lives and works in Galway city as a social
worker and psychotherapist. Her work was previously published in The
Galway Review, Apercus Quarterly, Boyne Berries, Scissors and Spackle, and
Emerge Literary Journal.

17


Jessica Traynor
The Water Table
On my night-walk to the city
I taste water in the air;
the river has escaped again.
Below me the vengeful sea
forms water-table committees
that mutter in the shores
and the approaching shadow,
hood up, shoulders rolling,
could be the death of me –
like the man who’d stood
in Henry’s Street that afternoon,
crack-addled, screaming his love
for the children of Dublin.
Shores shudder beneath my feet
as the city forms new cracks
along fault lines I can’t see;
as water rises through
hundred-year-old drains,
shell-shocked, frostbitten;
as it pours through catacombed rivers
flooding our venom back to us.
The shadow lunges, laughs, is gone.
Beneath us, the sea sleeps
before the next great push.

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Jessica Traynor is from Dublin. Her poems have featured in Southword,
Poetry 24, the SHOp, New Irish Writing and The Stinging Fly among others.
She has won the Listowel Single Poem Prize and has been shortlisted for
the Patrick Kavanagh Award, the UCD Anthology Award and the
Strokestown International Poetry Competition and has had poems highly
commended at the iYeats Competition and the Fish Poetry Prize. She was
awarded a literature bursary from Dublin City Council in 2010 and
featured in the 2009 Poetry Ireland Introduction Series. She was the
winner earlier this year of the Hennessy Literary Award.

19


Emily Cullen
Amaryllis
for Kevin

I descend the stairs to behold
your Amaryllis, finally open.
Morning light floods in
upon the kitchen table
where two proud stalks
are gallant sentinels.
Bewitched, I touch
their elative petals:
trefoils of carmine red,
blooms of burnished wax.
I recall your gestures:
how you raced round the city
to buy these flowers for our guest.
We three sat drinking tea,
willing their bulbs to sprout,
but she had to leave last night,
before their world unfolded.
The amaryllis amplify
how complete I feel
to be loved by you
from the inside out.
Six yellow stamen whisper
of your attention to detail,
alertness to the natural world.
Soon they will be pendulous,
shedding, one by one.
But I will remember
how they hold their heads
on this stark December morning;
how their sturdy elegance
irradiates everything.

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Emily Cullen is a writer, arts manager, harpist and scholar, currently
based in Melbourne. In 2004 she curated the national Patrick Kavanagh
Centenary celebrations and was selected for the Poetry Ireland
Introductions series. Her poem 'Primavera', which features in her second
collection of poetry, forthcoming soon, was recently chosen as 'poem of the
week' by the Australian Poetry organisation.

21


Evan Costigan
Udders
Unsure which way to look when the Mongolian
mother lifted her top on the bus, he fixed on
the puckering space between baby and breast,
appreciating the shape and size of bottle teats,
until breasts flopped from everywhere.
He was back to topless models under teenage mattresses,
reflections of boys with busy elbows in the rewound
and replayed shower scene in Playmates of the Year 1990;
when two-dimensional breasts in textbooks drew titters,
and the rumour that girls with curls had bigger nipples
eventually proved unfounded.
Uncurling her top, she stared his way with a smile,
but he looked away with a shudder of shame
where a herdsman was driving sheep and goats
through pampas grass towards humpy hills,
and resolved to stay on in this landscape—
until thoughts had pasteurised, and he could look
upon the breast as just another udder.

Evan Costigan has had poems published in New Irish Writing, Cyphers, The
Moth, Cúirt Annual and elsewhere. He won the 2012 Francis Ledwidge
Poetry Award and has been shortlisted in several competitions, including
the 2013 Listowel Writers’ Week Single Poem Competition. The recipient of
a poetry bursary award from Kildare County Council Arts Office in 2012,
he was a featured reader at the Art Bar Poetry series in Toronto, Canada
recently.

22


Chris Murray
Dark Pool
Ripple-skiffed by bird and stone
Tree is held in
Dark-water,
The flowers fight up.

Chris Murray is a City and Guilds stone-cutter. Her poetry is published in
Ropes Magazine, Crannóg Magazine, The Burning Bush Online Revival
Meeting (Issue 1), Carty's Poetry Journal, Caper Literary Journal, CanCan
(WurminApfel), Bone Orchard Poetry, Women Writers Women Books,
Southword Literary Journal, and the Diversity Blog (PIWWC, PEN
International Women Writer's Committee). She has reviewed poetry for
Post (Mater Dei Institute), Poetry Ireland Review and Writing.ie. Her poetry
blog is Poethead. She is a member of the PEN international Women Writers
Committee, and is web-developer for the Irish PEN Committee.

23


Graham Connors
Real Words
for Colm

He told me with words,
his own words, the real words
‘unhappy’ and ‘scared.’
I didn’t have to glean
meaning from a look
or a half-cocked smile.
He didn’t try to hide it,
he didn’t lie about it
or how he felt.
But I didn’t believe him.
I dismissed his words
as just that - words.
I laughed it off
‘you’ll be fine, buck-up,
get back on the horse.’
What a thing to say
to a friend who was asking
for my help, for my hand.
Three weeks later he was gone.
And what I wouldn’t give
for that hand right now?
If I had those three weeks
I’d listen and I’d tell him
that he is so important
and I would be using
real words.

24


Graham Connors has previously been published in wordlegs magazine, 30
Under 30 Anthology, Allegory magazine, Under Thirty magazine, The
Bohemyth, The Lit Garden, Link magazine and long-listed for the Doire
Press International Chapbook competition. He is the founder and editor of
Number Eleven Magazine as well as contributing editor for the Dublin
Informer newspaper. He successfully staged his first play, ‘The Mortal
Pitch’, in both Wexford and Dublin. Originally from Gorey, Co. Wexford, he
has lived in Dublin for the last ten years.

25


Nancy Anne Miller
World Fair 1957
The large globe showing
only continents on a wire mesh
of circles, so modern in the 50’s,
today looks like a large baseball
coming undone as I travel Route 8.
I remember attending, tasting
my first cotton candy, a dyed
pink bee hive hairdo, mimicked
the peak my locks streaked up
into as I rode the roller coaster
down. The merry go round steel
ponies chromed as American cars
and just as flashy, eyes bright as
headlights, stirrups trailed leather
like mud flaps on trucks passing.
I won a teddy I was too old for.
My father relived his USA childhood while we ate popcorn so
delicately, as if it was foam packaging his memories were boxed in.

Nancy Anne Miller is a Bermudian poet with an MLitt in Creative Writing
from University of Glasgow. Somersault, a poetry collection about Bermuda
is forthcoming from Guernica Editions(CA). Her poems have appeared in
Edinburgh Review (UK), The International Literary Quarterly (UK), Stand
(UK), Mslexia (UK), The Moth (IE), A New Ulster (IE), The Fiddlehead (CA),
The Dalhousie Review (CA), The Caribbean Writer (VI), Journal of Caribbean
Literatures (USA), The Caribbean Quarterly (JA), Postcolonial Text (CA)
Sargasso: A Journal of Caribbean Language, Literature and Culture (PR), and
tongues of the ocean (BS) among others with poems forthcoming in Agenda
(UK) and Magma (UK). She is a MacDowell Fellow and teaches workshops
in Bermuda.

26


Doireann Ní Ghríofa
Elegy for a City Tree*
“Nearly every morning I go to the attic to blow the stuffy air out of my lungs. From my
favourite spot on the floor, I look up at the blue sky and the chestnut tree.”
— Diary of Anne Frank, 23rd February 1944.

Behind the bookcase in an airless annexe,
Anne sits on the floor. Cold creeps into her bones.
Through magpie eyes, she stares at the sky,
imagining the whispered symphony of leaves.
Above, treetops swing and sway.
The flutter of a leaf is a beckoning finger,
a green key. She imagines herself becoming
a wooden woman, sinking toes like roots
to drink deep of soil, to squirm among worms.
Each night she dreams of green:
the caresses of sunlight and starlight,
the squawking quarrels of crows,
the swell and growth of glossy nuts
like the prickle of a first adolescent blush.
Under a harsh bark, spiral rings spin
as concentric circles hum like a heartbeat within.
Tattoos of time revolve around her sapling core.
She can almost hear the swirling spin of stories told
echoing silently around those that are yet to unfold.

*The tree Anne Frank saw was a white horse chestnut, over 170 years old. On August
23rd 2012, the tree fell.

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Doireann Ní Ghríofa’s poems have appeared in many literary journals in
Ireland and internationally, most recently in France, Mexico, USA, Scotland
and England. The Arts Council of Ireland has twice
awarded her a literature bursary (2011 and 2013). She was a winner of
Wigtown Gaelic poetry contest, the Scottish National Poetry Prize in 2012,
shortlisted for the Jonathan Swift Award and Comórtas Uí Néill both in
2011 and 2012. She was selected for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series.
Doireann’s Irish collections Résheoid and Dúlasair are both published by
Coiscéim. Her pamphlet of English poems Ouroboros has recently been
selected for the longlist of The Venture Award (UK). Her website is
www.doireannnighriofa.com

28


Mike Gallagher
Smoker
It was the way she asked, I suppose,
casual like - yeah, that's what caught us
by surprise: Kathleen, giz a fag. Not one
of her own brood, note - wouldn't give us the
satisfaction. She had never smoked, railed
against it, and all of us smoking like troopers.
No, she asked the daughter-in-law. Light!
Strange that, not even a splutter; didn't inhale, mind,
(we could tell), but still, not the splutter you'd
expect. Just sat there, casual like, in her chair by
the fire while all around her the laying of
table, the grandkid's scribbles, the reading of paper,
even the nine o'clock news, stopped. Dead.
No one spoke. Oh, we all glanced - askance at her, quizzically
at each other. Some raised eyebrows. Half way through,
she flicked it fire-ward. Pressed the pause button.
Life re-started.
I'm glad I stole the photo. Still look at it. Glad I caught
the mischief in the eye, the fun-of-it-all curl of the lip,
the rebellion on the tongue, unspoken, daring a challenge:
Feck ye all, I could smoke, too, if I wanted to.

Mike Gallagher was born on Achill Island, Co. Mayo but now resides in
Lyreacrompane, Co. Kerry. His poetry, stories, songs and haiku have been
published in Ireland, throughout Europe and in America, Canada, Japan,
India, Thailand, Nepal and Australia. His work has been translated into
Chinese, Croatian, Dutch, German and Japanese. He won the Eigse Michael
Hartnett ‘viva voce’ contest in 2010, was shortlisted for the Hennessy
Award in 2011 and for the Desmond O'Grady International Poetry
competition in 2013. He is the editor of thefirstcut, an online literary
journal. His first collection Stick on Stone was recently published by Revival
Press.

29


John Saunders
Out of Date
We are huddled in a grassy hollow
where some beast has left its shape.
The clouds are a whirlpool of confusion,
what blue we can see is filled with emptiness.
Wrapped in the worth of each other
we try to mend our threads of imperfection,
brush out the matted yarn of history.
Your bones press against me like daggers.
I wish I knew now what I once knew
when I was lit by the light of youth,
before I became another memory,
a one man band of out of date stories.

John Saunders’ first collection After the Accident was published in 2010
by Lapwing Press, Belfast. His poems have appeared in Revival, The Moth
Magazine, Crannog, Prairie Schooner Literary Journal (Nebraska), Sharp
Review, The Stony Thursday Book, Boyne Berries, Riposte, and on line, The
Smoking Poet, Minus Nine Squared, The First Cut, The Weary Blues, Burning
Bush 2, Weekenders, Poetry Bus and poetry 24. He is one of three featured
poets in Measuring, Dedalus New Writers published by Dedalus Press in
May 2012. He is a member of the Hibernian Poetry Workshop and a
graduate of the Faber Becoming a Poet 2010 course. His second collection
was recently published by New Binary Press.

30


Keith Payne
The yellow paisley scarf
You’re sitting on a rock by the side of the road
I know you from the fag crutched in your hand,
the faded gold packet of Benson & Hedges you offer me.
I catch the cast of your eye and know you’re not there,
you’re elsewhere
where you’re life wasn’t stopped in its tracks.
Instead of falling to the floor that Sunday morning
- as they tell it
you picked up your paisley scarf,
patted your breast pocket for your smokes,
placed a kiss on your wife’s cheek
- your kids’ crowns
stepped across the threshold and out the door.
But something had to give –
that beat that your heart skipped
that dropped you to the ground
and with the hundred pound you left me
I took Spanish grinds
trying to work out the difference between the simple
and imperfect past.
And this paisley scarf I wear about town.

Keith Payne lives in Salamanca, Spain. His poems have appeared in
Alimentum, Incorrigbly Plural, Mombaça, The SHOp and The Stinging Fly,
among other publications. Most recently, poetry translations appeared in
Forked Tongues: Galician, Catalan and Basque Women’s Poetry in
Translations by Irish Writers, Ed. Manuela Palacios, (Shearsman, 2012,) and
The Trinity Journal of Literary Translation. He has also translated stories by
Argentine Alan Pauls for Mountain-Islandglacier, (Broken Dimanche Press,
2012,) and Catalan Victor Balcells Matas from his collection Yo mataré
monstrous por ti, (I will kill monsters for you, Delirio, 2010,) one of which
is forthcoming in The Stinging Fly Translation special edition, Summer,
2013.

31


Marion Clarke
Cantrer Gwaelod: The lowland one hundred (A Haibun)
According to legend, between the islands of Bardsey and Ramsey on the west
coast of Wales, a sunken kingdom lies twenty miles from the shore. In an early
version of the tale that appeared in Llyfer du Caerfyrddin, the Black Book of
Carmarthen, the land was lost to floodwater when Mererid, the maiden of the
well, succumbed to lust and neglected her duties.
stream of moonlight
from the lip of the well
water gushes
A later story attributes blame to the keeper of the sluice gates, Seithennin,
who was a notorious merrymaker. One night, at spring tide, a storm blew up
and huge waves pummelled the sea wall, but Seithennin did not stir from his
drunken stupor and the sea swept through the open sluice gates, submerging
the land.
heavy rain….
beside the rockpool,
a limpet ticks
Contemporary explanations cite the memory of gradually rising sea levels after
the ice age as the cause for such folklore, although the sunken forest at Borth
and Sarn Badrig seem to suggest that some great tragedy did overcome a
community there, giving rise to the myth.  
frosty night
all the stars in the sky
in the sea
Today, local people say that if you listen closely you can hear the bells of the
lost city ringing out from beneath the water of Cardigan Bay.
Sunday morning
my father's voice
calling us for mass

32


holiday breakup ...
her cheeks bruised 
by the breeze

Marion Clarke is a writer and artist from Warrenpoint, Northern Ireland.
She is a member of the Irish Haiku Society and her poetry and fiction has
featured in several print anthologies and online journals including The
Linnet's Wings, theviewfromhere, The Heron's Nest, A Hundred Gourds, Notes
from the Gean, Shamrock, Alight Here: The London Tube Project, The Poet's
Place, Issa’s Untidy Hut, The One Word Challenge Anthology, AHA Anthology
of the American Haiku Association and most recently Bamboo Dreams. In
summer 2012 she received a Sakura award in the annual Vancouver
Cherry Blossom Festival haiku contest.

33


Nell Regan
Limen
Rain has bitten away much of this month
but left us this foot-lifting morning,  glistening, with its evening like an
opening palm or attenuated mind. Above us, ridges
where each next sighted peak promises  renewal, the city a coastling in its
bays and  sight of the sea recalls a father on the strand, his last child  in
his arms. Look - waves.
Thinks. Like this. He extends and moves his arm.  They stand at the water’s
edge,  wrists flexing over thresholds of meaning.

Nell Regan has published two collections of poetry, Preparing for
Spring and Bound for Home, both with Arlen House. Her work has appeared
in Poetry Ireland Review, Cyphers, The Iowa Review and Poetry Daily and
been translated into Russian and Chinese. She has also published nonfiction. She was an Fellow at the International Writing Programme, Iowa
University
in 2011 & lives and works in Dublin. See also
www.nellregan.com.

34


Gréagóir Ó Dúill
Dawn Birds
For Alfred J. Hitchcock

Night ebbs to a limewash lie, warm duvet of sleep and its memories
slip down to the floor. Hooded crows rap my window
with imperious caw, with a hate I cannot fathom. There is no reason in
this.
I lie there, try to understand, put some parts together,
co-ordinate response - catapult, poison, needles pushed in window frame
–
all tried before (this is not their first campaign), all failing.
How can I hold to some semblance of my sanity as their smears
opaque my window with their slime – spit, faeces, semen or is it blood? They go on some crow message in their smart black shirts,
leave me, failed scarecrow lying there,
checking my responses, physical, emotional.
Then comes low, below my radar,
belling nightmare call the owl.

35


Movement
Wind moves in a golden harvest field,
each ear admits the sway, moves in slow swing.
Small cloud-shadows on the shining surface of the bay
a prussian blue, the sea foams with remaindered lace;
Sky is not alive above the moving clouds
though vapour trails gash eastward
and the burnished sun goes west.
Distance driving on good roads,
your thigh in parallel some inches from my own,
your hand restless as I tend the wheel,
shift the gears.
Too long, and silence
stiffens like cloth unwashed.
Too much.
The road grows small and twists
through purple hills
around a bend; then, attent on roadside fencepost, watchful,
a sparrowhawk at an angle from the transverse wire,
from the vertical.
I slow to stop, he looks at me through the screen,
shows me how to fly.

Gréagóir Ó Dúill teaches contemporary Irish poetry in the University
of Ulster, is a much-published poet in Irish with a recent second
collection in English – Outward and Return, (Doghouse).

36


Anthony Hegarty
To This of the Other I Am Too: Another Psalm for David
How surely gravity’s law,
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of the smallest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world.
Rainer Maria Rilke.

Our embrace as beings is so huge,
So Spirit held,
To this of the other I am too,
And therefore safe.
It’s not yet light.
Just a few hours since we touched
To discover distancing, a moving away,
Not a culmination but a draining down, an emptying out
Into this not-dawn-departure for your flight.
And will we hug before you go?
You dressed for the street I in my underwear
And this canal-side room
At the top of the steep stair
Narrow, closing in, a losing of all space,
Of that space it never really had.
Too tight even to trim your toenails in.
And will we kiss before you go?
Just that gentle token of touched breath
I have come to know,
But you, already light years on,
Are expanding outward whispering,
(Softly as you can)
“It isn’t necessary”.

37


The Rilke that you read,
Seated in that timbered room,
(Though I thought you should have stood)
With its old leaking roof
Blest by the summer sun,
You read surely, how surely,
Gravity’s law takes hold,
And pulls us towards its heart.
And I suppose with that embrace
Beyond this,
Beyond all of this,
What need have I of this declined kiss?
Surely I have that “hug” of gravity,
That safe pull towards the heart.
To this of the other I am too.
But safe no, shortly it may let go
With all that unexpected lightness of flight
Unravelling, unbraiding and whispering,
(Softly as she can)
“It isn’t necessary”.
And somewhere at my spine’s end
I feel a lessening, a chill,
To this of the other I am too.

Anthony Hegarty is an ecopsychologist and writer living in County
Galway. He has written for The British Psychological Society Transpersonal
Psychology Review (Spring 2012) but this is his first attempt at publishing
his poetry. His Master’s degree thesis was about the therapeutic effects of
swimming with dolphins off the West Coast of Ireland.

38


Noel Duffy
Old Shoes
I hadn’t seen you in three years, your visit
to Dublin from rural south Devon marked
a holiday as much for me as you.
We met in Rathmines where we once lived
and went for coffee to escape the rain
that drove you from this country and my days.
You had a box with new boots, bought
to replace the worn out shoes that you had
when we were still together. On our way to my flat
the rain returned and your feet got wet.
You threw off your old shoes for the new,
and asked me to toss them in the bin –
these shoes that had that had taken you
to Guatemala, Oman, the dark woods
of Wisconsin and the darker streets
of London till, finally, your wanderlust spent,
the refuge of rural England. It lashed again
the morning you left, your new boots keeping you
safe against the elements and, I sensed, me.
We parted with an unconvincing embrace
and promise to speak, whatever love we once had
having walked its course and reached its end,
the feeling worn out like your old shoes in my bin.
I was relieved when the garbage men came.

39


On Light
‘Truth is sought for its own sake... Finding it is very difficult
and the road to it is rough. For truths are plunged in obscurity.’
– Alhazen (965CE/354AH – 1040CE/430AH), Doubts Concerning Ptolemy

Ibn al-Haytham, known to all as Alhazen,
sits in his chair looking at the window
opposite him, the rectangle of light revealing
the jasmine tree in his small garden, finally in blossom.
He’s been under house arrest for nearly ten
years, this window and its light particularly
familiar to him. He had once promised
the sixth Fatimid caliphate and their Caliph,
Al Hakim, that he could regulate the floodwaters
of the Great Nile by means of a dam. Al Hakim
believed him and gave him everything he needed
both in terms of materials and men yet even the great
Alhazen soon recognised that it was a doomed
plan and feigned insanity of mind and purpose
there in the heat of the delta to have his life
spared as the water flowed by him, unstoppable.
And thus he sits here in his chair opposite
a window he knows too well. Yet when he looks
at it he doesn’t feel anger or regret
for the years lost in this room; no, for Alhazen
has used this time well, conducting many
experiments on the nature of light, the daylight
from this window the only source he needed.
Here he has written his masterpiece on optics
outlining research and offering experimental proofs
on refraction, reflection, spherical aberration,
parabolic mirrors and the magnifying power of lens.
Yet, one experiment stands above them all,

40


evidence to overthrow a millennium of opinion.
Alhazen had simply placed a thick, black fabric
across the window and secured it tightly, then made
a small aperture at its centre, the rooftops
and mosques of the city suddenly projected
upside down on the wall opposite, showing
for certain that light travels from an object
to our eyes in straight lines and by no other means...
Alhazen, though, feels different today.
He has just heard of the Caliph’s death
and with that news he is free to leave this enclosure.
So he sits in his chair looking at this window
for the final time, nostalgic for all it has
given him. He stands at last and turns to the door.
He thinks he might like to go to the market
and buy fresh pomegranates.

Noel Duffy studied Experimental Physics at Trinity College, Dublin, before
turning his hand to writing. He co-edited with Theo Dorgan Watching the
River Flow: A Century in Irish Poetry (Poetry Ireland/Poetry Society, 1999),
and was the winner of the START Chapbook Prize for his collection The
Silence After in 2003. His collection In the Library of Lost Objects was
published by Ward Wood, London, in 2011 and was shortlisted for the
Strong Award for best debut by an Irish Poet. His second collection, On
Light & Carbon will appear in autumn 2013, again with Ward Wood.

41


Kevin Conroy
Odonata Lampyridae *
There were glow-worms in the ghostly bushes,
fireflies flashed in synch, as you pulsed
the humid air with words – my lightening lucifer –
touching, just enough, now here now there.
There were dragonflies along the river,
blue-bright tandems in tight embrace,
as I winged it humming in the jewel-bright air
seeking a touch, a thrill, a chase.
You were lightning fire, a big eyed dragon I
out to euphemise an Odonata and Lampyridae;
your cryptic light in words I cannot match
in any way our worlds can ever touch.

*Fireflies (Lampyridae) or glow worms are beetles that use synchronous flashing
pulses in courtship communication to select compatible mates; Dragonflies (Odonata
or ‘toothed one’) are insects of a different order – top predators of insects.

Kevin Conroy lives in Naas, Co. Kildare and has published in The SHOp and
The Moth. He was also the recipient of the inaugural 2012 Poetry Ireland /
Trocaire poetry competition award.

42


Tyler Farrell
Three Family Rummage
Signs sang locals up the crest of Hill Cr.
with the deal hungry who looked and sought
what and where did those hubcaps come from
while we sat grandma’s lap on the davenport
green for sale the back porch, in and out of kitchens
garage boxes filled with old shirts and coats
toys and useless trinkets, dishes priced at top dollar.
My mother, my aunts tailoring every one time need
counting the money in the box, joy to squelch
the haggler. “Well…I couldn’t take anything lower
than twenty dollars for that coat. It’s brand new
and the seed company patch is quite unique.”
And the kids are looking at the toys and I am
trying on an old shirt of my grandfather’s
while the poker face people hit the pavement
with some old junk for a few dollars here and
springs Veronica pushed on an elderly lady
with a walker thinking her neighbor boy could
fix her bed with them. And Father Upanup
out of his classics lurking in the books
ready to ask for them, a donation to the church
perhaps. All the while my aunt’s holding onto
stuff out of spite. She laughed at the ridiculous offer
of fifty cents for a Monopoly game. And here
I thought the idea of a rummage sale was
to get rid of stuff, to clean house, to unburden.
But, as always, my family would consider
the money angle, greed over clutter. A thought
glory flash of timing and profit, old supply sold
to the poor and the needy, the selfish and greedy.

43


Tyler Farrell was born in Illinois and grew up in Milwaukee. He has
published poems, essays, and reviews in many periodicals, and a
biographical essay for James Liddy’s Selected Poems (Arlen House, 2011).
He teaches writing and literature at Marquette University and currently
lives in Madison, Wisconsin with his wife Joan and their two sons. He has
published two collections of poetry with Salmon, Tethered to the Earth
(2008) and, his most recent, The Land of Give and Take (2012).

44


Anjumon Sahin
Some useless notes or the two voices
Notes from a night walker once I found
In the dark green bottom drawer of my old apartment.
I walk in the black of the night day after day and find you day after day.
It was time to move; time to scrape what was needed and discard the
useless.
So it does not matter that you are not the same for I am not the same either.
In three years how did I never see these loose brown sheets?
I sit in the bright light of the day night after night and I am invisible to you
night after night
Did she know me? Did she know that I was gonna be there?
So it does not matter that you can’t see me for I can’t see my reflection often
enough.
I am sure they were meant for me, meant for me to be read and meant for
me to be read sooner.
To my dearest me,
I had to read them, know the story that they tell and know it now.
Emily did not relent till she found the old-little boy, why should I?
The way my tongue rolls and the way it goes back all the way to my throat
and releases itself creating the vibration that makes the ear drums dance.
There is no name, it just says me.
Gauguin gagua or was it linguine, I do not understand the words but I like
the rhythm
My room’s never been this naked before; not even the painting of the black
lilies is left here.
I concentrate on the smells in my room not on you and when I can’t buy them
I draw them.
Am I the me she is referring to?
I draw them in all colours and shapes and imagine their smells floating in my
head.
Pages of obtuse commentary on clouds followed what I could vaguely
decipher
I kept his red sock, they remind me of the day when I had a Blueberry kulfi,
saw the water and did not climb the stairs.
Maybe it is time to go, leave behind the sheets just like the old place
New Year is new when old people are with you.
But we do have to begin anew
I restore it to where I found it, no receivers to find here.
I knew you would leave me, I knew it was only a matter of time,

45


So it does not matter for I remember only the smells and the colours and the
words.
The last line that the right corner of my left eye caught was written
In the bottom left corner, a tiny note: Use Silk threads instead of dental floss.
She was a no one.
I will still be me, eating Kulfis, sitting here swimming in the sea of my own
story.
No mystery, no history, no story. It was a waste of time.

Anjumon Sahin is originally from Assam, Northeast India but has lived in
Delhi since 2007. She is currently pursuing her M.Phil degree in English
literature at the University of Delhi where she also works as an assistant
professor.

46


Chimera Lay
No translation
I want to live where rain strikes hard,
but doesn’t sting my face if I talk back.
Where clouds have holes for climbing
through to escape from everything
once good that you have broken.
I have a secret place between
my ear and neck, where it is soft
and knows a language you cannot translate.
It’s been touched many times before
but on the way to something else.
I wonder sometimes
if my skin will forget
your carelessness.
When you come close,
to watch the tears
spill from my eyes,
run down crow’s feet,
into my ears; your words
wash far from comprehension
and I know it’s best to say nothing.
Like lonely men perched along
the bar, hands wrapped
around a beer grown
warm; like sitting
with a song that keeps
me in the car long
after the engine
has stopped
running.

Chimera Lay can occasionally be found panning for answers
in the mountains of the Beara peninsula.

47


Francis O’Hare
Street Music
O cold, wet streets of Newry,
on a rainy Friday night,
glistening with mystery,
under streetlamps, starlight,
your names compose a litany,
a prayer, a lonely flight
beyond the valley-vapour,
chip shop, taxi-rank,
night-club, pub, river,
canal, cathedral, bank,
town-hall, courthouse, Ulsterbus station, dank
small-town air pervading
my soul like John Coltrane
on Spiritual, the tinkling
jazz-piano strain
gently harmonising
with horn, like wind and rain
that blows and falls through all
these streets, this town, this me alert, observant, neutral,
aware of history
and Wallace Stevens’ angel
of necessity; poetry
in tune with what is here;
lovers’ late night rows,
shouts for taxis, laughter
spilling out of shadows
like rain from a shop-front gutter
around midnight… now’s

48


the time for me to listen,
in this almost-silence,
to the sound of falling rain
on wet streets, its soft opulence
a rich drip-drop refrain
heard after the last note ends;
River, Quay, Canal,
Mary, Mill, O’ Hagan,
Dominic, Talbot, Castle,
Baggot, Barrack, Catherine,
Chapel, Church, John Mitchell,
Kiln, Kildare, Monaghan….

49


Astral Weeks
A sweetheart from another life floats there W B Yeats

As long as this music exists
I’ll be twenty-two and wandering through
a cherry-blossomed avenue
in leafy-with-love that loves to love Belfast,
an impromptu symphony
of starlings and skylarks constantly singing
soul-paeans to the sunshine, church bells ringing
out in epiphany
the sweet, sweet, summertime of the past,
until out of sea-mystical evening, mysteriously, you shimmer,
vision-like, sauntering, your perfume drifting
through my mind like guitars,
the first silent stars
in sapphire skies glistening, heavenly, listening
to the wind and the rain in my soul, sense-transcendent
of, ballerina-like, pain,
to breathe in your hair, to be born again,
my arm round your waist in that pure instant
in the lilac and blue
wonder of being, in cool night air,
and we forget who we were
before we were here, wet with raindrops and dew,
in the eternal now,
cherry-blossoms falling weaving arabesques of feeling
as we stand at a railing,
a train blowing out its harmonica solo,

50


and then we’ll have kissed
as we watch the moon shine
over Shalimar, feeling almost divine
as long as this music exists.

Francis O’Hare, born in 1970 in Newry, Co. Down, was educated at
Queen’s University Belfast, and University of Ulster, Coleraine; he now
works as a teacher. He co-authored Outside the Walls (An Clochan Press)
with Frank Sewell in 1997. A selection of poetry was included in Poetry
Introductions 1 (Lagan Press, 2004). His poetry collections include: Outside
the Walls (An Clochan Press 1997); Falling into an O (Lagan Press 2007)
Alphaville (Lagan Press 2009): Somewhere Else (Lagan 2011) and Home
and Other Elsewheres (Evening Street Press, US 2011). His forthcoming
work, My Bohemian Fantasy, will shortly be published by Lagan. His work
has been widely published in magazines in Britain and Ireland.

51


Afric McGlinchey
Walls
That roar might be the ocean outside, but just as often
it seems to be occupying your head like echoes
of last night’s dream
And no matter how hard you rub, the windows won’t clear
and anyhow, there’s all that rain, and wind battering and yesterday
it was hailstones, piled up against the front door like leaves in autumn
We’re incubated, while walls shake and pipes rattle
– perhaps the house will grow a prow and stern,
set sail on these floods
Soaked socks, soaked boots, soggy laundry cloaking
every piece of furniture and steam rising,
fire spitting, kettle hissing fourteen times a day
We make the treacherous journey to the creamery
for wood and plasterboard to put up a wall,
create a new study for writing
and even the men out in their yellows and spades
digging ditches for the run off
are wellie-deep in it, floundering
and it roaring down the fields, breaking through walls
that have stood there for hundreds;
feels like a planet that’s changing its mind
and we take to bed early, sleep on late, our world shrinking
to six feet of safety, twined legs warm,
wrapping us up like a package
but my body is seizing, the wheels barely turning,
and yesterday you couldn’t reach
down to the ground

52


and our only comfort’s a bottle of wine and dinner
in front of the fire, the clothes, the sawdust,
long planks of wood piled on the carpet
The night talks in its sleep, the soggy house drowning,
the charm of crystal, the swallow,
wearing thin
The day sealed in its grey blur, flits to a darkness
– was that it? Again? What did we do?
Pressure building, like elephants pacing a room
And still it persists, between hailing and lashing, hands running on walls,
the scream that’s kept down, like a dog clamouring
just for a walk....a walk...a walk.....

Afric McGlinchey grew up in Ireland and Africa. She is a workshop
facilitator, editor and reviewer and tutors poetry online at
www.africmcglinchey.com. Her work has appeared in various journals,
including The SHOp, Southword, Poetry Ireland Review, Tears in the Fence,
Acumen, and Magma. Her debut collection, The lucky star of hidden things,
was published in 2012 by Salmon Poetry. She won the Hennessy Award for
Emerging Poetry in 2011 and the Northern Liberties Poetry Prize (USA) in
2012. She lives in West Cork.

53


Susie Sweetland Garay
The interpretation of dreams
I look out the window
surrounded by naked vines
and fog so thick I can no longer
see the birds who used to
swarm so joyfully.
It feels like it’s been ages
since I walked under a blue sky.
I read a book once that said
as humans when we feel an emotion,
while we are feeling it
we can’t imagine there
ever being a time when we
no longer feel that thing.
Though logically we know
it’s not true, we feel that
it will last forever,
the good or the bad.
It’s that kind of fog.
When I was young friends
would come to me for
an interpretation of dreams.
It was not hard.
There was meaning
waiting
right below
the surface,
asking me to reach down
and pull it up into the air.

54


I wonder if I reach up
into the fog
what kind of truth
will drip down on me.

Born and raised in Portland Oregon, Susan Sweetland Garay received a
Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University,
spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the
Willamette Valley with her husband where she works in the vineyard
industry. She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of
journals, online and in print, and is a founding editor of The Blue Hour
Literary Magazine and Press, http://thebluehourmagazine.com/.

55


David Murphy
Files in Amber
According to those with knowledge
– frogmen, policemen, coroners –
certain factors prevent bodies
returning to the surface: river temperature,
tidal flow, clothing density, water depth.
Experts all agree: in winter conditions
a human body builds enough putrefied gasses
to float after five hundred hours or so.
Five hundred hours – a three week period
when the moon matures from new to old,
when a small mammal gestates,
when a hen’s egg evolves into a chick.
Twenty-one days – the duration
of a multi-stop, island-hop cruise
– the trip of a lifetime never won;
longer than nine miles submerged
between jump and beach; a rate of
one two-hundredth of a mile per hour,
by my dead and grim reckoning.
When she jumped at sunset
the water must have been breathtaking.
Gold flowed in veils above her head.
Her eyes stared up: one fleeting look
at honey-layered eternity
colouring the river flowing down
from Lady’s Well, nectaring the water
with amber tears of goddesses,
of demons and nightmares.
Did her whole life flash in front of her?

56


That life I know so well flows
before me now, licks the soles of my feet,
the base of my spine, ruffles the hairs on my head.
Never-ending ripples in the river
nudged her body to the shore;
randomness of colliding tides
resulted in her discovery,
the removal from beach to mortuary.
A nun in civvies covered the devoured
side of her face. She dimmed the lights.
I stepped forward to bend my head
in mute act of identification.
I recognised her in silhouette.
Three weeks, twenty-one days, five hundred
hours – one minute might have been enough
to heal the scars – a word.
The past is more substantial these days.
Memories float in pools beneath my eyes
– denser, heavier, soggier.
Memories weighed down, embedded
– everlasting remembrances flowing in
an alluvial computer; crystalised, glowing.
Incorruptible files in memory’s softest amber.

David Murphy’s poetry has been published in various magazines and
anthologies in Ireland and abroad, including The Poetry Bus, Stony
Thursday Book, Every Day Poets, Boyne Berries, Minus Nine Squared,
Revival, About Place Journal and Indigo Rising. He is also a short story
writer and novelist. His website is www.davidmurph.wordpress.com

57


Neil Banks
Unsaid
I expected, being out the pier so early, and the storm already through its
gears to fourth, that I’d meet no one, let alone himself.
Waves rushed in like row on row of white anger. I imagined them being the
enraged souls of infantrymen sent over the top, gallantly advancing
towards oblivion – doomed – dashed against a wall of enemy fire. Each
wave’s end was like another shell exploding.
The view beyond was largely whited out in a veil of spray and cloud, with
the island visible through it only in outline, like the future, or the face of a
bride.
Himself saw me and nodded, took out a fag. He tried to light up with his
shoulders hunched over, his hands cupped round match after match. The
wind triumphed every time.
He approached me then. I’d asked nothing but he shouted to be heard
above the noise – that non-stop noise – bouncing off the low sky, like the
roar that hoors up the flue when air sucks under the fire and flames grow
fierce. That noise fairly bellows. Out there the sound was similar, but cold.
He was, he said, at the edge of despair. He’d traced his troubles back to a
day last summer when he stood with you, looking out to the island. Out of
nowhere some demon made him wonder aloud how well he knew you, and
you – he told me – said with a sad certainty that you didn’t think you and
he were quite the match, but that you’d wait and see.
He was hunting this evil spirit now, hoping to throttle it and thus regain
the moment a second before he’d opened his gob at all.
I can’t forget his windblown head, his face red and wet from the cold and
wind and spray. His small eyes – gas-flame blue – were mad with passion,
alive with sparks like wartime nights. He told me ever since your queer
exchange that things were tempestuous – a good word, don’t you think?
Demented, he maintained, was the only word suited to him after so much
searching for a way back to where his own words and yours could be
unsaid.

58


Unable to hate him, I held open my coat, nodded at the matches in his hand.
He leaned his head into my makeshift shelter. We were like soldiers
ourselves, chums. The sight of him there bowed before me and the start of
a bald patch on his crown almost cleaved my heart. He drew back, lit, and
asked me what diabolical cause had me abroad on such a wild morning,
and was I demented too?
I left him yonder, smoking, sniffing around for demons. Back at the harbour
all the boats – held by strong moorings – rolled this way and that, and thus
mimicked your indecision.
This is your war, really; not mine, not his. When the battle’s done though,
when your mind – like that storm – has settled, you will roll this way or
that, and one of us will have lost.

Neil Banks lives in Bray, County Wicklow. His poems have appeared in The
Stinging Fly and Shot Glass Journal. His fiction has been broadcast by RTE
Radio and published by New Irish Writing, Crannóg Magazine and others.

59


Éamon Mag Uidhir
Maisie
So he said

there's not much good
in having a bee-loud glade and
keeping the double-glazing shut.

And I said

you won't find me
putting up with a draught.

Then he said

you should just listen
to the bees and the birds.

And I said

there's no birds
out there, only crows.

And he said

crows are birds.

Then I thought what can I knit
him for his birthday that he
won't like, that I can scold him
for not wearing, ungrateful pig,
for the rest of his days?
And I said

hand me down
me knitting basket, will you?

And I thought

I'll have the house
off of him if he doesn't
watch out.

Then he said

I've a thirst on me
that'd cut a throat.

And I thought

if only it'd cut yours.

But I said

why don't you pop over
for a jar and see if your pals are in?

60


And he said

yeah I might in a while.

And I thought

they're like children
really, though with a child you
can always look forward to
them leaving home for good.

Éamon Mag Uidhir is a Dubliner living in County Kildare. He has had
poems published recently in Cyphers, The Moth, Crannóg, Revival, and
online in Misty Mountain Review. He edited Icarus while attending TCD
during the 1970s and currently maintains an online shrine to the sonnet
form at www.sonnetserver.com

61


James Chapson
The Royals
I used to think that the interesting issue was whether we should have a monarchy or not.
But now I think that question is rather like, should we have pandas or not? . . . pandas and
royal persons alike are expensive to conserve and ill-adapted to any modern environment.
But aren’t they interesting? Aren’t they nice to look at?
—Hilary Mantel
LRB Vol. 35 No. 4 · 21 February 2013

Come quickly, children! Look!
It’s feeding time!
See how the Royals pace about!
That black stuff the keepers are shoveling
into the trough? That’s caviar.
Watch how the Royals lap it up!
There’s a shortage of it now, you know,
and when it’s gone the Royals might
become extinct—a shame, just when new
breeding stock’s been introduced.
Enjoy them while you can. Those grizzled
old ones won’t be around much longer,
and the darling young ones I’m afraid
are accident-prone. They’ll never reach
the grave demeanor of the old,
which is what they’re valued for; otherwise
they’re just one more endangered species
no one cares about.
Oh my! The young ones are at it again!
Come along, children; we’ve seen enough.

Jim Chapson was born and raised in Honolulu. He has for many years been
living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where his work is known only to a small
and rapidly dwindling cult. His most recent book of poems is Plotinus
Blushed, from Arlen House, 2013.

62


Kenneth Keating
What I’m Looking For
for Mr. Gillis
I'm talking to myself at night because I can't forget
dancing to electric pop like a robot from 1984
I said ‘You look so fine that I really want to make you mine’.
I thought that I heard you laughing.
All my life I've been searching for something
a bitter sweet symphony, it wasn't me,
when we touch, when we kiss
don't tell me cos it hurts.
Touching you, god you're touching me,
I love it but I hate the taste.
I know that I should let go, but I can't
I got something to put in you, my empire of dirt.
By now you should have somehow realised
ashamed, lying naked on the floor,
I'm into having sex I ain't into making love so
I'm done, done, and I'm on to the next one.
Dancing to electro pop like a robot from 1984
and I still haven't found what I'm looking for.

63


The Peccable I
Marengo soon leads the me to a lake,
Lac du Bourget, where the you occupied
gone out into the flaccid fixed outside financial or perhaps economic the guilty I swim in the your absence
floating and drowning peacefully beneath the our sheets
submerged in temporary infinite
held comfortingly, ensconced, dug in
enveloped and posted to Land Foreign, Distant Position Thebur - quasi nostalgic and real
covers cover the my face, the my body
embracing in suffocation of self.
Head swollen hard with thoughts
thoughts indescribable, indigestible
fingering, implicating the me
the they it burst forward uncontrolled but desired from the mess the I is driven out
Blondi and Bella swimming-snapping at my heels
naked masculine confused
the usual uniqueness unaltered and altered
but the I will revert to normal.
The uncleansing shower, the implication
the class, the you leaving for the work
the I sitting at the our home
the death the rebirth
the breakfast the penitent I eats
the she and the you
indescribable, indigestible
skin enveloped, exiles exiled
and the peccable I tacitly sit and dream.

Kenneth Keating is a poet and academic. Originally from Navan, Co.
Meath, he now lives in Dublin and has published in various journals.

64


Mary Madec
Persephone: Coming of Age
At the end of the Spring season, she plays in the ragged grasses
clumpy, uneven, wet like the hairs on the mount of Venus,
the sentinel peaks rising in the distance
by the tender early light, now her breasts;
in the waters of the inlets her arms and legs
stretch like promontories.
She is aware of the suck and tug of the earth
taking her into itself, into its dark folds.
When she thinks of her hips, they are a boat
carved out of an old apple tree she remembers.
She longs for a river; she would give herself to its bed,
its mud and stones like flesh and bones.
And she knows, as a salmon knows, that she would go with it
into the dark places water flows, on its way to the sea.

Mary Madec has previously been published in Poetry Ireland, the SHOp,
Cyphers, The Recorder, Natural Bridge, The Foxchase Review, Iota, and The
Stand (forthcoming). She won The Hennessy Prize for Emerging Poetry in
2008 and in 2010 her first book In Other Words was published by Salmon
Poetry.

65


About the Editor
Dr. David Gardiner is a writer and editor who has lived and worked in
Manhattan, Dublin, Coleraine, Chicago and Boston. He has been visiting
scholar at Boston College, New York University and the University of
Ulster. From 2006 - 2010, he was founder and editor of An Sionnach: A
Journal of Literature, Culture and the Arts (New York / Dublin) as well as
Director of Creighton University Press where he published the works of Pat
Boran, Gerald Dawe, John F. Deane, Theo Dorgan, Eamon Grennan, Seamus
Heaney, Derek Mahon and Paula Meehan, among others. He has written
five books, edited ten and authored over sixty journal publications. His
poetry publication Downstate was published by Salmon Poetry in 2011. His
poetry has been featured in publications throughout the U.S. and Ireland.
His most recent collection is The Chivalry of Crime.

66


Thanks for reading the Burning Bush 2.
If you would like your work to be considered for a future issue, please read the
submission guidelines, available on our website, www.burningbush2.com
Please send all correspondence to burningbushrevival@gmail.com

67

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