issue #five
introduction
Team
Kilkenny County Council’s Arts Office is delighted to announce this, the Fifth edition of Rhyme Rag, a poetry publication featuring the work of young Kilkenny writers. Once again the number of poems and standard of poetry submitted for inclusion in this Rhyme Rag was incredible, making the editors decision a good read but a difficult choice. Twenty seven poems from young people aged between twelve and twenty one years who have little or no previous writing experience were selected in this year’s publication. I am also thrilled to be able, once again, to present our audience with a publication with a difference. The approach and scale of this year’s edition, as you can see, is very different to previous years, thus adding yet another dimension to the production and presentation of such work.
Series Director: Mary Butler Series Coordinator: Niamh Finn Editor: Adam Wyeth Graphic Design: Atticus Illustrations: Alé Mercado
We feel it is important not to become complacent and to continue to challenge and excite both ourselves and the young writers by what we produce. Finally, I would like to thank Niamh Finn for all of the work she puts into this project and to thank Alé Mercado, for all of his enthusiasm and for coming up with the goods every time! Mary Butler Arts Officer
Contact Details: Arts Office Kilkenny County Council County Hall John Street Kilkenny Ireland t: +353 (0)56 779 4138 e: mary.butler@kilkennycoco.ie niamh.finn@kilkennycoco.ie w: www.kilkennycoco.ie/eng/services/arts b: rhymerag.blogspot.com
The editor
Poems/poets
Adam Wyeth lives in Kilbrittain, Co. Cork. He has been anthologised in the Bisto award winning ‘Something Beginning with P’, (O’Brien Press) and was a runnerup in the Arvon International Poetry Competition, 2006; the poem was published in their 25th anniversary anthology. He has been published in numerous poetry journals, including Poetry London, Magma, The Shop, Southword and The Stinging Fly. Adam was a featured poet in Agenda magazine (UK) and selected for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series, 2007. His recently published chapbook, Silent Music, was launched by Derek Mahon at Kinsale Arts Week.
Who Killed Candy Destiny Star? . . . . . . Eleanor Walsh Return to Neverland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cain Lynch Reality VS Dreams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brendan Burke Coffee. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ellen Hanly Missing Him Then . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Diarmuid Hunt Truly Lovely Ineptly... . . . . . . Rachael Hanaphy-Pigott Broken Glass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Audrey Walsh Love's Promise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ewa Bak Whisper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rebecca Dalton Night comes slow and softly in; . . . . . . . Lee Shanahan That Bench . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vincent Goeijenbier Meet Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sorcha Reilly Brilliant Idiot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Connie Walsh Ran . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maline Campbell On A Cold Morning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Corey Molloy The Dove. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elizabeth Tubito The Loveless Landscape. . . . . . . . . . . . William Foley What are Stars?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lynda Mooney Family . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lauren McCormack Just give me a little privacy Mum!. . . . . Katie Mulrooney Try. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aoife Brennan My Evil Little Sister . . . . . . . . . . . . Sinead Cormican How I got to School. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Siobhan Doyle Best Friends. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katelyn Owens Friendship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jessica Costigan The Fairies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anna Walsh What Is A Poem?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Joanna O'Brien
He has made two films on poetry, ‘A Life in the Day of Desmond O’Grady’, first screened at The Cork Film Festival, 2004; and a full length feature, ‘Soundeye’: Cork International Poetry Festival, 2005. He is host of Kinsale’s WORD UP! Poetry Nights and was a recent guest on C103’s Six at Six programme. He is also working on a series of articles on Munster poets for The Southern Star. Adam Wyeth facilitates various Creative Writing and Poetry Appreciation workshops teaching both children and adults. He is a member of Poetry Ireland’s Writers in Schools Schemes. Currently, he is running workshops at Kinsale Pottery and Arts Centre, and has just finished a Kinsale Arts Week and Cork County Library project, teaching Creative Writing at seven primary schools in and around Kinsale. An anthology was published of the children’s achievements. The project is supported by Kinsale Arts Week. He has also been a workshop facilitator with the Unfinished Book Project under the auspices of the Cork Library Service, working with transition year students.
Adam Wyeth on Rhyme Rag More and more, as I visit schools and libraries to give poetry and Creative Writing workshops, I realise that people love being inventive with language – especially young people. Inventiveness and playing with words are two key elements in writing poetry. These elements are clearly present in the young voices of Kilkenny. But what is also evident here are some of poetry’s technical devices: symbolism, imagery, figures of speech, allusion, metaphor, rhyme, alliteration and assonance, to name a few. It’s clear from the submissions I received for this year’s Rhyme Rag that these poets have been given the opportunity, at school and at home, to discover and appreciate many poems and have become quite competent at using these devices. They are already on their way to becoming the great fluent speakers of tomorrow’s poetry.
The range of voices in this anthology shows how dynamic and vital poetry can be. In this overwhelming age of information, it can be hard to know which voices to tune in to. Poetry doesn’t work like the media – it is not set out in bold tabloid headlines telling us what to think. Poetry allows us to think for ourselves. It is an interaction between the poem and the reader. As T.S. Eliot described it, poetry is like ‘one person talking to another.’ This also suggests that poetry is as much to do with sound as it is with meaning. In spite of all the technology we surround ourselves with, we still live in an oral world. Let’s take the time then to listen to what each of these young poets has to say. I hope this anthology acts as a galvaniser for young poets to keep writing. I hope too, that
the writers who were not included are not too disheartened. Remember, one of the difficulties of being an editor is trying to fit as many poems as possible into a limited space. There were many poems I was sad not to be able to include. Please keep trying. Ireland has a remarkable heritage when it comes to poetry; from the filis (poets), who were required to learn several epics off by heart, to W.B Yeats, all the way to our own contemporary poet and Nobel Laureate, Seamus Heaney. With projects like this, set up by the Kilkenny County Council Arts Office, our young poets have been given a platform to make their own mark on Ireland’s literary landscape. I hope you enjoy these fresh new voices in Irish poetry.
Who Killed Candy Destiny Star? Who killed Candy Destiny Star? Why, and what’s the reason for? “I didn’t kill Candy!” yelled her manager, “I loved her like my own daughter! She made me a living, and did whatever I said, Some say I’m a tyrant, but I’m a clean-cut man I’ll miss her…and her money… But I didn’t want her to die; nobody did!” Who killed Candy Destiny Star? Why, and what’s the reason for? “We didn’t kill her!” shouted the paps, “Sure we loved her, her looks were our gain! She may have loathed us and hated us, But we were her ticket to fame! Without us she was nothing, like all on the Hills, But we didn’t want her to die; nobody did!” Who killed Candy Destiny Star? Why, and what’s the reason for?
“We didn’t kill her!” wept her parents, “Why would we? She’s our own daughter! When she shot to fame, yeah it was fun, And so were the cars and the villas. We may have pushed her, but we wanted what’s best But we didn’t want her to die; nobody did!” Who killed Candy Destiny Star? Why, and what’s the reason for? Eleanor Walsh
Return to Neverland I pull back the curtains And there it was; The teeming, glistening nothingness I’d come from I’d changed since But what was there had stayed The same I stepped up onto the sill And opened the window Crawled out, carefully as always And stood on the outside One quick look back To where she slept And a jump Into the teeming, glistening nothingness I’d come from A shadow remained To watch her sleep
Cain Lynch
Reality VS Dreams The azure rings of Saturn scratch lazily at my back as I look up at a paper ceiling. The exploits of Arthur and Zaphod flow down through my eyes. My lenses focusing a lie upon my retinas, my brain drinks it greedily. My mind accepts the lie though knowing a world of paper is easily torn. A wise man once said “Artists use lies to tell the truth while politicians use them to cover the truth up” Sighing, I pause the world with a bookmark. And switch to a darker tale. Saturn’s icy circumference gives way To the muddy slums of Cenaria. Durzo Blint’s footfalls make no sound as I follow him along the rooftops His target for the night as good as dead. But I feel no pity. I’ve read the passage many times yet it never looses flavour. But what is reality but another dream? The sun never truly sets, just rises somewhere else. You can’t escape a circle unless you tear the paper and Thor and the World Serpent showed how well that went. I dream within dreams just as I find truth within lies. When books and games have thought me more than life I know I’ve slept for too long. What will I wake to? Perhaps a scarier question is do I want to wake up? Why should I? While paper worlds can be torn so can this one. Oxygen can be burnt, earth can be cracked, light can be destroyed. All dreams hold fragile existence. The only difference is some lies are more believable than others. Brendan Burke
Coffee The lid pops open, gulping air, An aroma, irrigating my senses, Maroons me in a forest of fluids With red and blue macaws, Lizards and too much foliage. Men with rich brown skin are haggling, dealing, But their pesos can’t pierce the canopy. My eager lips kiss the humidity And the steam mists my vision Of a grinding enslavement, And I am drinking it down.
Ellen Hanly
Missing Him Then I don’t miss him now. I miss him then. It was never easy, and never this hard; heart’s shattered, and scattered in every shard; I’m the one broken, the one scarred; the one that’s not chosen, the one that’s marred; and because of him now, true communication is barred. It’s him then I love, he was my father, and I his child, back then we could talk, sometimes even laughed or smiled back when anger never lived, and pain was mild. I wish I could be with him then, he my father, I his child.
Diarmuid Hunt
Truly Lovely Ineptly... He left The stain upon my soul I cried This poem to ease the toll We failed To start a different start We stayed The same devoid of heart Truly Our hearts bubbled beneath Lovely We felt beneath our sheath Ineptly Did our love deliver How My silly lips still quiver‌
Rachael Hanaphy-Pigott
Broken Glass She holds his letter in her hand And stands before a mirror as dawn ignites. The unforgiving glare of a 100 watt lamp Confirms to her she is still alive. Outside her window, the inkwell sky bleeds And cold light twists into empty crevice. Her feet are snaked in shadow The defiant darkness faithful and resolute. From a green eye escapes one single hot tear. Drawing a line down the curve of her cheek It falls soundlessly to the ground. She stares beyond the stranger before her. Silently the image melts away Replaced by each of his sharply formed words While a new day’s world takes it’s cold shape Hers crashes to pieces like broken glass. Audrey Walsh
Love's Promise I daydream, thinking about us, watching sunset and holding hands. I daydream. I see you looking at me. You’re not saying “I”. You’ve changed it to “we”. I daydream. We are together. Looking in each other’s eyes. I want to do it. Forever. I daydream, and then, I wake up. I see you, different, but my feelings won’t stop. I’m standing close to you. My throat won’t let me say this. “I love you” This is my escape. Using the paper. I’m saying “Stay with me forever”. My way of saying “I love you”, I’ll do it next time. “I promise”.
Ewa Bak
Whisper Softly spoken sentences, some are secrets, and some are shy sounds of almost silence Rebecca Dalton
Night comes slow and softly in; Where do they go The seconds I watched, passing by I can’t be sure, Night comes slow and softly in By hanging tree and window pane All around I can see Your changing shape, It was mine As it was my fathers before me. Lee Shanahan
That Bench not to exclude nature too much and trying to build up a suitable excuse I take place beside you on that rotten wooden bench silently I trace my finger through the air sketching out what I have done your eyes begin to fill with tears on that dirty wet bench things don’t seem as bright I’d love to coat you in sweetness but before I get a chance you’ve already fallen to your knees and begin to pull on your heart’s strings not to exclude nature too much you offer me your machine dripping with blood, oil and sadness I place it on this beautiful bench Vincent Goeijenbier
Meet Again Do I know you from somewhere? Yes I, I remember those eyes… We used to be friends didn’t we? Yes I, I know your face… We used to be in love…didn’t we? But I can’t remember why… I know you from somewhere… I’m sure of it… What on earth happened to us? Why can’t I remember you… Sorcha Reilly
Brilliant Idiot You talk too quietly But that’s ok Because then I can sit closer. You slouch But that’s ok too Because your face is level with my shoulder when you do And you seem sweet. You hide behind your collar But I don’t mind Because your smile is meant to be small and secret So only the two of us know that we’re laughing. You are stronger than you look And I love that Because I feel safe And I hurt less when you’re around. So thank you Thank you, my brilliant idiot who doesn’t know. Connie Walsh
Ran We ran bare under clouds As the moon bloomed over A field of opening buds. The trees were thick with skeleton dew. It was only after We had eaten throbbing grape hearts That we realised The distant sober mountains were teeth. Desecrating nature no longer felt comfortable So we climbed back into shells of indifference Like Hermit crabs With tender skin And called each other crazy.
Maline Campbell
On A Cold Morning I’m sure this day Sits quietly somewhere, on a wall, A painting glorious to behold, Humbling and soothing, it hangs With a muted, glowing intensity. A simple stroke here, and another In the corner, to suggest Trees, grass, and a high stone wall, Slowly surrendering to legions of moss. Some painter has lost a bit of his soul, So radiant the subtle sunlit beams seem That wash the leaves in splendour. The air is a lovers’ breath, silent, Almost still, a quiet reminder of beauty Unseen by closed eyes. One lonely figure Stands in awe, until broken By gruff Fate, the sound of an old Ford engine… Corey Molloy
The Dove Tonight on this rainy windy night, tonight is when the dove takes its flight. It will soar through the deepest part of our hearts, the one that weeps when a love one parts. The sturdy soldiers over the seas, will spy the dove and think of me. For I am the one who cured the dove’s wounded wind, the hope for peace I sing. Yes, I pushed the dove to the skies, by thinking of the love in my mother’s eyes, And the sweep of the wind as it carries the leaves, as well as the amendments to do as I please. The simple wish for peace, frees the dove from its binding leash.
Elizabeth Tubito
The Loveless Landscape Rough, contorted trees. Barren, bare terrain. Steep third level fees, and perpetual rain. Ugly, soulless men live off this dead soil. With minds like Reagan And bodies ruined by toil. A black mouth agape. A bloodied, bombed view. This is the landscape Of life without you. William Foley
What are Stars? The stars are car dimmed lights in the dark night. Stars are little gold diamonds on a blue sheet. Stars are colourful flowers popping up to say hello! Stars are shining to show the way home! Lynda Mooney
Family Houses are made of walls and ceilings. But a home is made of loving feelings. Lauren McCormack
Just give me a little privacy Mum, It’s not that hard to do! The only place you find it here, Is sitting on the loo.
Between Father and you Mum, Plus the wretch you call Aunt Sue! There’s no privacy to be seen anywhere Mum, what am I supposed to do?
My nosy little friends, Are even worse than you. I only want a little privacy Mum, For that what must I do?
I’ll do whatever you say Mum, I’ll do every single task! Just answer the question I ask Mum, The question I ask and ask. So now I’ve expressed my opinion Mum, My very own point of view! Whether my wish is granted or not, Is entirely up to you! Katie Mulrooney
Try Run away, Bang, Run away, Don’t stop, don’t look, just keep running, Your heart beating as fast as it can, The wind lashing in your face, You’re feet getting tired, but still run, Your hair blowing in the air, Trying to catch your breath Bang! You try to run, You have stopped, Your heart is slowing down, The wind isn’t lashing in your face, Your feet are now tired, Your hair is still, You can’t catch your breath, You fall…
Aoife Brennan
My Evil Little Sister My evil little sister was evil all the time, as a matter of fact she’s been evil all her life! From the moment she was born all she did was cry and the first time that I held her, she poked me in the eye! And on her second birthday when I gave her my home-made card, she threw it in the bin and kicked me really hard. When she started school, things got even worse, she would bully all the children, and shout and scream and curse, But something quite strange happened, I did not expect at all, it happened between the summer and the orange, leafy fall. I was home after school one day, and had been for quite a while when my sister came and hugged me and gave me a big, big smile. And now, many years later around forty-maybe more, and my evil little sister isn’t evil anymore. Sinéad Cormican
How I got to School I go on the school bus everyday, We fill it with Fanta and it flies up and away, First past the magic pizza dancing with clouds, Then past Mr. Pims reading textbooks aloud. The giant covers us in snot when we fly past his nose, We go past the spider with twenty-three toes, I’m scared of John in the painting. He said, “If you come near you’ll be in here instead”. I don’t like the park that is covered in glue, But I love triangle land with nothing but shoes, When I see elephant’s palaces we’re nearly there, But first we must go through the Ogre State Fair. When the bus stops I walk to school, I walk past the “it” girls, They think they’re so cool, But they’ve no idea how I got to school. Siobhán Doyle
Best Friends Best friends understand when you say forget it. Wait forever when you say just a minute. Stay by your side when you say leave me alone. And listen for hours when you’re crying on the phone. It’s those times we go so crazy people think we’re high. The times we make each other laugh until we cry. All those jokes and “the remember whens” Those are the reasons we are called best friends.
Katelyn Owens
Friendship Sweet as sugar Hot as hell Sound as music And cute as well Friends forever Enemies never Many are cool Some are fake But you will be my friend Till the day I won’t wake Side by side And worlds apart I’ll hold you close to my heart And if I die before you do I will make the angels watch over you So everyone in the world will see Your friendship means the world to me When we go out on the town In the future I will let no one bring you down! So I will promise you now And promise you true When I am in heaven I’ll wait for you!
Jessica Costigan
The Fairies I see them in the garden at night when I’m trying to sleep they dance upon the tables. Sometimes on my feet. I love to sit and watch them. I see them and they see me. They fly up and down my chimney all so giddily. When I sit there on my own I watch them roam so wild and free. Sometimes I just wish I could be like them so happy and so free. Anna Walsh
What Is A Poem? What is a poem? Is it just sentences that rhyme? Same sounding words, Line after line. No, it’s more than that It’s reliving again With the power of the pen The tears she wept, The happiness she felt. Showing a life Telling a story In all of its glory.
Joanna O’Brien
Eleanor Walsh Cain Lynch Brendan Burke Ellen Hanly Diarmuid Hunt Rachael Hanaphy-Pigott Audrey Walsh Ewa Bak Rebecca Dalton Lee Shanahan Vincent Goeijenbier Sorcha Reilly Connie Walsh Maline Campbell
Corey Molloy Elizabeth Tubito William Foley Lynda Mooney Lauren McCormack Katie Mulrooney Aoife Brennan Sinead Cormican Siobhan Doyle Katelyn Owens Jessica Costigan Anna Walsh Joanna O'Brien