I am delighted to say that I was selected to do a fiction workshop with the novelist and poet Brian Kirk. This is organised through South Dublin Library Services. I wish to thank South Dublin Library services for this opportunity.
A poem of mine called The Singing Hollow will be published in Crannóg, which is a journal based in Galway, Ireland. Here is the poem.
The Singing Hollow
Deep in the bowels of Dublin, there is St. Audoen’s Park.
In the middle is a singing hollow,
a slab of rock upright, grey,
with a hole carved into it.
You are invited to place your head inside,
clear your throat,
purse your lips and hum.
Vibrate until all your organs are in tune
and the pulse matches the stone.
Waves spread out and meet
the road, blackbirds, apartments,
all vibrate in concert,
beyond what the ears and eyes can tell
but the heart knows.
A poem of mine called Bright Morning has appeared in issue 7 of Impossible Archetype. You can read it here by clicking on the link https://impossiblearchetype.wordpress.com/7-2/
for Iona and Ailsa Fitzgerald
In the cold wind
clouds let rain fall down on the streets.
Weeds crack through rigorous pavements.
Mists dissolves and dewdrops congregate on windows.
Your eyes rotate behind closed eyelids,
nerves tingle and your legs
stretch out for your first steps.
Keep on going by focusing on your breath.
Naked trees will come back to life,
leaves coaxed out by the promise of fresh air.
A root searches in its slow way
for something to grasp.
A poem called In Glendalough Wood appeared in issue 27 of Boyne Berries.
In Glendalough Wood
The breeze comes through the spruce trees
where the air is filled with peppermint,
light filters onto a blanket of pins.
I stop on the wooden bridge
holding across the scented wind.
My head churns with heavy thoughts
as a forest of applications sits on my desk.
I am here seeking a way out,
see the tree trucks blocking my path.
I drop my bag, relax my shoulders,
and dip my hand into the stream
know water finds its own way.
A haiku of mine appeared in issue 3 of the seashores haiku journal. Check the link for infomation on the journal.
A poem of mine called Silent House was long listed in the Over the Edge New Writer’s Competition 2019. It did not make the shortlist or the prize. I am delighted that it made the long list. You can check out all the writers who made the long list here. https://overtheedgeliteraryevents.blogspot.com/2019/08/
For the last three days
between Santiago and Cee
I have walked at a furious pace
trying to outrun my thoughts.
Now I am on the cliff top gazing at the sea.
I abandoned my fellow pilgrims
as I felt uneasy with a disparate group
from Italy, Germany, England, Brazil and America.
I felt that they found me unacceptable,
a contract written in white ink,
its terms clear but silent.
They booked an apartment for themselves
and I was given the couch to sleep on.
I snook off without a word and found my own bed to say in.
I have tried to forgive myself to no avail.
Their faces haunt me.
Walking along the cliff edge
I realise I have always been on the edge
of friends, family, neighbours and work,
and I exclude myself.
The sea is a sheet of the clearest blue,
the wind brushes a ripple over the surface.
Published in Crossways issue 8 https://crosswayslit.com/1095-2/
I am delighted to announced that 8 poems of mine have been shortlisted for the Blue Nib Chapbook Contest V. The overall winner will be announced in the Irish Writers’ Centre on Tuesday September 2019.
The Market Lane Writers’ Group is launching an anthology on Friday 13th September 2019 in Fermoy, Co. Cork, Ireland at 7:30 pm. I had the pleasure of addressing the group and giving them a reading from my first collection Thames Way. Two poems of mine will appear in the anthology. The launch will be in the old Ulster Bank branch, which is now an art gallery.
A poem of mine called The River was published in the online journal Impossible Archetype. You can click on the link below or read it here. Impossible Archetype is a magazine for LGBT people.
Water flows over the stepping stones
clearing away the mud left by my boots.
I watch the brown swirl on the clear flow
and hope my own hurt goes down the stream.
I offer up each memory as it bubbles out
while the beating heats up in my head
and my throat is dry. I cannot speak.
I am a child again finding my words.