Bealtaine Magazine | Issue 1 | Spring 2021

ealtaine

An Irish Literary and Arts E-zine Issue 1| Spring 2021

S p r i n g 2 0 2 1 / IN THIS ISSUE

Poetry Siobhan McLaughlin | 2 Emerald | Nathanael O'Reilly | 6 Survivor | Bernadette Gallagher | 6 The Woods | Sophie Greer-Sanders | 7 Home Fires | Linda Ibbotson | 7 Sophrosyne | Shaw Chard | 10 The Song of Selection | Damien B. Donnelly | 10 the dance | Ruth Seavers | 18 Arriving at Night | Calvin McManus | 20 untitled carvings | Grace Sampson | 20 Late Night Tea | Daniel Durand | 21 Cheekbones and Adam's Apples | Lucia Kent | 21 Bamboo | Jaki McCarrick | 27 Hurricane | Jennifer O'Neill Kaan | 36 Dark Sky Reserve | Niamh O'Connell | 36 Opening a Termite Mound | Stuart Flynn | 36 Praise Song for Lockdown |

Photography Áine Hayden | 5 Post-Swim Attire | Thady Trá | 10 Paris Window 3 | Conor Horgan | 28 Untitled | Aisling Larkin | 31 Beloved, beheld | Ciara Colette Hurley | 33 Paris Window 4 | Conor Horgan | 38 Edge |

IN THIS ISSUE / S p r i n g 2 0 2 1

Art Alexandra Pud | Cover Photosynthebus | Eleanor Martha Hulm | 3 Ailis | Orlaith Lowry | 6 Margarite | Orlaith Lowry | 6 Pieta of the Unexpected Homeschooler | Mary Coen | 11 Staycation, 2020 | Róisín Nolan | 17 Requiem | Eilis de Faoite | 19 Elements: Water | Roisin Ní Neachtain | 20 Carefree Idleness | Alexandra Pud | 21 Ward of Court | Annemarie Stanley | 23 The Pope’s Children | Róisín Nolan | 26 Spring / Earrach | Rimma Islamgalieva | 35 Tread Softly | Claire Murphy | 41 Floating |

Essays Kiera McCarrick | 22 One Layer at a Time | Aghogho Sophie Okpara | 29 Indelible Marks |

Short Fiction Jenny Darmody | 3 Hobbes | David Butler | 8 Stile 13 | Ger O'Malley | 32 Unloading | Alison Driscoll | 37 The Hottest Month | Madeline Beach Carey | 39

The Things We Never Knew We Needed |

New Beginnings T

iiiiiiiii his issue marks a year on from the start of

have grown a wealth of diverse life, nourished by

something "novel" in this country. We suspected it

our fortitude, our compassion, and our creativity.

would never land here. And then it did.

All of this has taken time. Time we would not

iiiiIt did something to us. It drew us in. Attached

have been granted in a “normal” situation. It also

masks

takes

to

our

faces.

It

burned

to

a

crisp

the

courage

and

planning.

have shown they are replete with.

the

precipice

of

the

which

battle

restrictions

from

art,

to

skeleton structure of a future we had all shared in And

through

strength

our

against

contributors

wreckage, the litter, and the expanding silence

iiiiLooking at the work we’ve been fortunate to

before us all, we could expect nothing but time.

receive, this is the kind of Creative Ireland we

The

want to showcase – one of diversity, inclusivity,

Creative

immensely.

A

Ireland whole

we

knew

community

suffered had

their

environmentalism, and empowerment.

platforms stripped away. For many who relied on

iiiiIt is a solace to know that in the moment of a

connection, it was the loneliness of isolation that

great crisis, such as the one we find ourselves in,

hurt the most.

it is the Creative who can lift the soul from its

iiiiiHowever, we have learnt from our contributors

darkest point. It is the Creative who can change

that

of

us from hearing the silence to listening to the

solitude, and that such a thing as community-in-

song. It is the Creative who transforms the world

solitude does exist. The seeds of community were

wrestling with its own future to one which has

being sown, though we didn’t know it, when this

found

meaning

in

pandemic began, and those seeds are beginning

these

qualities,

we

to flower.

simply would not exist without you at its centre.

iiiiOur pre-pandemic selves may have discounted

iiiiWelcome to Bealtaine. Bright fires, and new

the sum of our activities this past year as a waste

beginnings.

of

loneliness

is

sofa-engorged

not

necessarily

time,

a

year

a

of

function

nothingness.

Certainly, it has felt like that. But from the wastes have grown a wealth of diverse life, nourished by Bealtaine | 1

our fortitude, our compassion, and our creativity.

its

present.

thank

you.

Because This

of

all

magazine

Seán Flynn and Molly O'Connor Editors

Praise Song for Lockdown Praise the long mornings: No rush hour, no traffic lines, coffee with biscotti, the swell of birdsong in trees, raindrops bejeweling branches.

Praise the whimsical theories, the time of learning names of flowers: Zinnia, Impatiens, Gladioli.

A habit of haiku acquired on counting fingers, syllabic abacus.

Praise the practical magic: front door chats, pinging phones, cosy cocoon of evenings watching the breaking news of the moon, light pooling on night-darkened streets.

Praise the new technology: Zoom meetings, pixelated faces, live streamed theatre without the queues.

Tobogganing penguins somewhere in the South Shetlands, virtual flowers in Monet's garden.

Praise the novelty of the long-lost ordinary: a café, an unmasked smile, laughter lines.

Praise the inner sanctum of self found in the space where ‘be’ replaces ‘do’ after ‘to.’ Poetry, rhythm of rain, hibernating heart attuned to the minutiae of life again.

Praise the strength gathered, the hope gleaned.

Bone marrow of winter, of spirit on display, flint hard, soul spark.

Future a shimmering mirage drawing closer.

Siobhan McLaughlin

Bealtaine | 2

Photosynthebus Eleanor Martha Hulm

THE THINGS WE NEVER KNEW WE NEEDED Jenny Darmody

M

artina’s hands tremored against the buffering

wind. She wrung them together, desperate to keep some

part

“I think we need to meet her.” Martina wasn’t sure

remind herself that she was still alive, still on this

if it was the thick Salthill gusts or the news of their

earth. That she was still living in the same body she

long-lost

had

moment, she felt Jim had aged ten years.

those

her

body

years

moving.

ago.

In

She

contrast,

needed

Jim’s body came to life with a sigh.

to

all

of

needed to repeat herself but after a few seconds,

Jim

was

a

daughter

looking

for

them,

but

in

that

statue beside her. His hand was fixed to his walking

He had always looked spry. Even now at eighty-

stick, his leg cocked out from the bench slightly,

six years of age, he had the agility of a man in his

eyes trained on the rough sea foam beyond the

late

dock. If he didn’t occasionally blink, Martina would

commanded a room when he walked in, but not in a

wonder

domineering way. He always gave the impression

if

the

revelation

had

actually

killed

her

husband. ”Tell me what you’re thinking, love.” She felt her voice running off into the wind and wondered if she needed to repeat herself but after a few seconds, Jim’s body came to life with a sigh.

Bealtaine | 3

sixties.

His

voice,

even

just

his

presence,

that everything was under control. It was what had attracted

Martina

those years ago.

to

him

when

they

first

met

all

But now, his voice was raspy, shaken. He had

bare body that first time. The hands that took hers

never sounded so unsure of something. It unnerved

when she discovered she was pregnant. The hands

her. She swallowed the lump in her throat and

that

reached for his arm.

through labour and sobbed through giving up the

encased

her

shoulders

as

she

screamed

“I think so too. But I’m scared.” Finally, Jim tore

beautiful baby in her arms under cover of darkness.

his eyes away from the gurgling sea water and

Her mind started to skate through the rest of her

looked at his wife. She could see the small glint of

life on fast forward. The tears, the depression, the

confidence in his eyes and it calmed her a little.

working two jobs, the running away with Jim, the

iiii“I

am

too.

And

we

have

to

be

ready

for

new life, the new jobs, the wedding, everything that

whatever she has to say. We have to be prepared

came after that…

to hear about…her life. What happened to her.

iiiiHe squeezed her fingers, bringing her out of her

What she’s doing now. If we’re going to meet her,

daydream. She looked up at his tender expression

we have to listen to her. We can’t just shut it all

and felt warm in spite of the cutting wind.

out. Otherwise, there’s no point.” His voice was

iiii“Come on,” she said. “I think it’s time to go.”

returning to normal now, despite the wind picking up. Martina wrapped her shawl tighter around her

*

body. iiii“It’s our fault, Jim. It’s our fault if she had a

iiiiDenise

horrible life.”

making a faint scratch of a noise with each turn. It

iiii“You

can’t

think

like

that,

love.

We

were

wasn’t

turned

quite

as

the

coffee

hard

on

cup

the

in

ears

as

its

saucer,

nails

on

a

teenagers, we wouldn’t have been able to take

blackboard, but it wasn’t pleasant. Still, she found

care of her.”

it to be sort of melodic. A distraction from why she

iiii“But we could have protected her from that! We

was really sitting there. This particular cup was old.

wouldn’t have done that to her–”

She came to the café far too early and ordered

iiii“We

were

kids,

Martina.

You

can’t

blame

straight

away.

Now

the

waitress

was

hovering

yourself.” His voice boomed, completely overtaking

nearby, no doubt wondering whether or not she

the wind, but it still had something of a comforting

should take the cup that was clearly empty. But

tone to it. He put down his cane and placed both

Denise kept rhythmically twirling it, as if entranced

hands

tight

by it, hoping to hold off until just the right time to

many

ask for it to be replaced with a fresh one. She

layers. It was as if he was worried that she’d blow

looked at the clock over the door and then at her

away. She looked down at her lap and examined

watch and then at her phone, as if any of them

the small, dark circles on her coat from her tears.

would give a different answer, but no. They were all

She

annoyingly accurate.

firmly

enough

for

on

her

hadn’t

her to

even

arms,

feel

gripping

them

realised

them

through

she’d

her

been

crying.

Without looking up, she nodded.

iiiiTen more minutes before they were due to arrive.

iiii“Look. She wants to see us. I don’t think she’s

The waitress was making her antsy, so she stopped

angry. And even if she is, we have to let her feel

twirling the empty cup and put her hands under the

that way.” Martina nodded again, unsure of what

table.

else to do. Jim placed his hand gently on hers.

iiiiMaybe if I let her take it from me, she’ll stop

They were like crinkled paper and yet she could

lurking nearby and leave me in peace.

still

iiiiAs if on cue, the waitress almost skipped up to

see

hands

the

younger

encased

version

within

these

of

her

aged

husband’s

shells.

Most

the

table

and

swiped

the

cup

with

a

smile.

people can see past the masks that years put on

iiii“Anything else?”

their partners, see their youthful faces, hear their

iiii“Could I get another cappuccino?” Denise said,

unchanged voices. Martina could see all of those

too

things

waitress

in

Jim

including

the

too,

but

hands

also

that

a

great

spun

her

deal

more,

across

the

fast,

stomach,

and

then

scurried

added

off.

scolding

An

her

“please”

anchor for

before

dropped

seeming

in

rude.

the her Her

dance hall 70 years ago. The hands that held her

parents raised her better than that. Her parents.

bare body that first time. The hands that took hers

too fast, and then added “please” before the

when she discovered she was pregnant.including

Bealtaine | 4

Even though it was a conversation happening in

balancing on top. Her own shock caused her to

her own head, she tripped over the words.

twitch her arm, which brought the perfect puddle

iiiiPathetic.

cascading down in a streak.

iiiiShe pinched her right wrist lightly. Just enough

iiiiShit. I broke the skin again.

to stop from looking at the clock again.

iiiiBefore Denise could say anything, she spotted an

iiiiIf I can keep myself looking straight ahead until

elderly couple a few hundred yards away from the

the coffee arrives, I’ll have done well. And then it’ll

coffee shop slowly approaching. She wasn’t sure if

nearly be time. And then they’ll be here.

it

iiiiShe pinched harder as she self-lectured from

guess, but she knew it was them. She grabbed the

inside her own skull. Her legs started to prickle but

cappuccino from the waitress and waved her off.

she would not scratch them, no. She would just

Without hesitation, she plunged her fingers into her

continue to stare ahead and tell herself that she’d

untouched glass of tap water and rubbed them

be OK until the coffee arrived. She would not think

across her bloodied arm to get rid of the streak.

about what she was going to say to these people,

She then pulled down her sleeve to cover the mark

who were due to arrive any minute. She would not

and

think

looked

about

having

to

tell

the

stories

of

the

was

a

biological

went

about

like

she’d

instinct

tidying nested

or

the

just

table

there

for

an

intelligent

that a

suddenly

month,

as

countless other parents she has had. The lovely

opposed to half an hour.

ones who taught her to say please to waitresses

iiiiStupid idiot. They won’t want you now.

and the not so lovely ones who taught her that

iiiiThe thought leaked out of her brain and into her

bad girls get locked in wardrobes.

veins

iiiiI don’t need to scratch my legs. There are no

stomach

rashes there. It’s not a real itch. The coffee will be

realise that until that moment. That she wanted

here soon and then I will be fine.

them to want her. And suddenly as the bell over the

iii“Miss? Are you OK? Do you need a tissue?” The

coffee shop door chimed slightly off key, Denise’s

window in front of Denise’s eyes had gone blurry

body went rigid, except for her right hand, which

so she wasn’t surprised the waitress was asking

was now pinching her left wrist under the table.

before

she

harden.

could She

stop

did

not

it

and

really

made let

her

herself

her that. However, she was surprised when she blinked back the tears, to find the waitress staring in horror not at her eyes, but at her right wrist, which now had a swollen blob of dark red blood balancing on top. Her own shock caused her to twitch her arm, which brought the perfect puddle cascading down in a streak.blinked

Edge Áine Hayden Bealtaine | 5

Emerald Autumn leaves fall from the oak revealing a nest high above

the lawn, newly visible against a crisp blue sky, standing

out at boughs’ end like a white stitch on a black seam, shaping

a new afternoon shadow, remaining within sight

until spring brings a new veil of curtaining emerald leaves

Nathanael O'Reilly

Ailis Orlaith Lowry

Survivor The tulip lay flat to the ground cut off at its base

I picked it up, and placed it in a vase

with a little water it recovered

never fully opening its flower but tried hard not to die.

Bernadette Gallagher

Margarite Orlaith Lowry

Bealtaine | 6

The Woods

Home Fires

I went to the woods

It was the road that stifled me.

For a short walk.

Suburban trees standing as if sentries,

I found, in the middle, an open grave.

making sure you didn’t leave.

Of course I climbed down

The forced smiles of bay windows

To see if it would fit,

hiding what really went on inside.

Of course it did.

In the distance, steel eyes watched chain smoking stacks,

The birds embroider

the end of work sirens releasing their black captives,

A lullaby

coughing a trail of coal dust and emphysema,

Just for me.

brass bands played at their wake.

The badgers stand guard,

Under middle-aged pillows, the taunting scent of heather,

As I sleep underground.

a reminder of a day of erotica on the Yorkshire Moors.

They bring me grass, for a pillow.

There is good news, a new Tesco at the end of the road, no more melting summer ice cream carried home

The leaves above

on the seventy-five bus that always ran late.

Block out the sun and rain,

In spring, daffodils brighten the shade, those kicked and broken

Mainly,

I picked in anticipation of my mother’s smile.

So I am dappled in both.

She remembers none of that now as I hold her hand,

Moss grows

anchoring her still to this world,

through my hair,

her mind as broken as the daffodils.

Which the foxes come to stroke.

I chose the open road, I went for a walk in the woods,

washed off grime in the Himalaya’s,

In the middle

thought about the pen pushers in the tower of steel,

I found an open grave,

their jealous words I don’t believe you will go

That fit just so.

as green as the phlegm

It feels so welcome

that filled their neatly embroidered handkerchiefs.

It must be fate.

In Greece, on a white beach in Parga, my body, then, the shape of a sand filled hourglass,

I dream now under birdsong

ate baklava with walnuts and cinnamon,

And with moss through my hair,

drank warm wine I had cooled in the sea,

On a pillow of grass

read My Family and Other Animals,

That the badgers brought,

the book I had read for the school exam

Of the man who gave me

while plotting my escape.

This gift.

Returning home this winter to an empty house, Sophie Greer-Sanders

the dead limbs of tree branches lay, frozen with ice, while the fires of the crematorium still burn my ears.

Linda Ibbotson

Bealtaine | 7

Hobbes

online

pornography.

Down

the

years,

a

tell-tale

fluorescence had been reported long into the small hours from whatever bedroom overviewed the black Beetle – I’d witnessed its eeriness myself. Mornings,

David Butler

his dull eyes were frequently bloodshot. iiiiHobbes’ wardrobe had never escaped the 70s,

C

and this gave rise to the outlandish conjecture that olman McIlraith was nicknamed Hobbes not

McIlraith had once been trumpet-player in a show-

because he lectured in History or Political Science.

band; his stature, that he’d set out to be a jockey,

In

was

but had been debarred for the mistreatment of his

impossible to imagine he was ever a young man –

mounts. There was even a theory he was a failed

the modules he taught on had been entirely within

priest. Every year at conferring, his robes bespoke a

the

nicknamed

Queen’s University doctorate. It was inferred that

Hobbes because, as every Fresher soon discovered,

when the Troubles were in their infancy, Colman

Colman McIlraith was nasty, brutish and short.

McIlraith had been run out of the North. That much

fact,

over

remit

an

of

accretion

English

Lit.

of

No.

decades

He

was

–

it

Why he should have elected to devote a lifetime to a regional college like All Hallows declaiming on

was

agreed;

but

whether

in

his

capacity

as

informer, sniper or child-molester was never settled.

subjects which sparked in him no obvious pleasure or curiosity was anyone’s guess. So immutable were

*

his lecture notes that every September there was an active trade in photocopies from years gone by.

iiiiFor the better part of a month, Deborah Lyons-

McIlraith must’ve been a puzzle to his colleagues

Gough had balked at the long corridor that led to

as much as to the rest of us. He was caustic, prickly

McIlraith’s office. Freshers might still occasionally

as a hedgehog, not given to the free-exchange of

misread

gallows’

the

soles

and

he’d

done

so

banter

academic

life.

which

For

makes

thirty

years

agreeable and

more,

his

wide-collared

hooded myself.

eyes

No

to

Final

open

shirts,

betoken Year

platform

humour

ever

–

made

I’d

that

arrived and left as punctually as a striking clock in

miscalculation. Deborah had reason to know this

an indefatigable Beetle, ecclesiastical black with

more than most. Beneath Hobbes’ corrugated brow

undersized, myopic headlights.

and dwindling comb-over squatted a humourless,

There was a story he’d once been jilted. Whether

letter-of-the law mentality. Whether he would now

there was any truth in it, the only creature he was

prove

ever seen to consort with outside college hours was

something she was loath to put to the test.

a

iiiiThough

wiry

terrier

with

Old

Testament

eyebrows

he

as

vindictive

three

as

winters

he

was

had

officious

passed

was

since

her

chaperoned round the perimeter of the park as dusk

celebrated run-in with Hobbes, the incident still had

fell. On Fridays and on the last day of term, the dog

the power to raise a smirk among us. Deborah was

would pant for hours on the backseat of the VW like

‘of a certain age’, which is to say there was nothing

some

trek

less certain than her age. The course was a gift

back up to whatever ancestral home Hobbes laid

made possible by the life-insurance policy her late

claim to in his native Armagh. Down here he rented

mother had taken out. I’d known them both – knew

bedrooms

them

effigy

of

only

patience,

by

the

awaiting

academic

the

year,

long

rooms

in

to

nod

at,

the

way

everyone

is

known

to

which it was a rare event indeed for him to remain

everyone else in small-town Ireland – and I could

over a weekend.

have predicted Deborah Lyons-Gough would be just

In the absence of hard fact, speculation, which makes

agreeable

the

student

life,

flourished.

the type to put Colman McIlraith’s nose out of joint. iiiiShe was disorganised, constitutionally so. Desirée

Rumour had supplied the passionless man with any

Toussaint,

number of solitary passions. His storied debauches

absolutely rely on Debs - rely on her to show up late

invariably danced about the poles of alcohol and

and

online

madeflustered. Through their twenties they’d made

pornography.

danced flourished

Down

the

years,invariably

her

closest

flustered.

friend,

Through

used

their

say

you

twenties

could

they'd

several attempts at retail – ethni Bealtaine | 8

made several attempts at retail – ethnic clothes,

forlorn print-out of the first essay she’d attempted

tarot decks – but none had cleared the pittance

since her time with the Loreto nuns: ‘Madness and

they paid on a room that adjoined a charity shop

Method in Jane Eyre’. But the secretary was gone

out the Dublin Rd. Then Desirée began to tour the

home,

midlands with a Cajun band called Les Diaboliques.

acknowledged the Christmas wishes from departing

When she moved back to Essex, the retail business

classmates. Then she sat, erect. From the carpark

went under entirely. That’s ok love, consoled Lorna

behind

Lyons-Gough,

vintage engine. In a trice she’d swept up the essay,

the

nuns

always

said

your

talents

were more for English than for sums. iiiiShe

moved

back

home.

And

the

deadline

eructated

expired.

the

Half-heartedly,

staccato

flatulence

she

of

the

in another, had intercepted the black Beetle, stuck

that

was

alright.

fast

in

the

general

the

by

an

uninterested shake of the head. Hobbes hadn’t even

she

Indian

squaw.

and

Worse,

unteased

she

like

deliberately

answered

at

was gone, Deborah stopped dyeing her hair, which long

was

tapped

window

wore

but

She

What bothered her mother was that, once her pal

now

brightly,

exodus.

some

red

looked. So she brandished the essay, tapped more

chose

the

insistently.

The

window

was

lowered

a

grudging

baggiest of clothes that did not a jot for her figure.

inch. “Dr McIlraith,” she panted jubilantly into the

And would you not go out and meet a nice young-

gap, “I’ve got your essay for you.”

fella instead of sitting in writing them oul stories?

iiiiHe’d smiled, almost. “Has it,” he inquired of the

This from Lorna Lyons-Gough, who’d gone to the

dashboard,

grave without ever having married. Still, for all her

secretary?”

bluster,

Christmas joke? From the rear of the car the dog

she

must’ve

known

the

insurance

policy

“been

stamped

Was

he

by

toying

the

with

departmental her?

would send her Debbie straight through the gates

watched with Presbyterian imperturbability.

of the former seminary to indulge her passion for

iiii“She’s gone home.”

them oul stories.

iiii“Because

iiii“Layons-Goff

or

Layons-Gock,

Muzz,”

Mcilraith

bobbing

all

submissions,”

doll,

“must

he

be

A

nodded

stamped

little

like

by

a

the

intoned, as though he suspected the name might be

departmental secretary, so they must.”

a manifesto of some kind. Whether it was the grey

iiiiHer mouth fell open. Could he really…? “But,

tendrils tumbling down from either temple of the

she’s gone home! For Christmas!”

student

iiiiThe

who’d

nose-ring,

in

late,

dungarees,

whether

brazen

Dickensian

detail

fell

flat.

Slowly,

deliberately, Hobbes wound up the window. She

surname or some other perceived peculiarity that

thumped at it with the heel of her palm. The car

had triggered his disdain, it was an unpropitious

lurched forwards a foot. The terrier watched her

beginning to her new life.

temerity,

iiiiShe might well have despaired, if it hadn’t been

time, panic stopping her breath. Hobbes raised

for

his

Scattergood.

In

the

the

double-barrelled

Sarah

the

burst

Dr

Scattergood,

a

astonished.

hooded

eyes,

was

She

thumped

there

maybe

a

second

something

bindee-wearing Londoner who was the other half of

else? Exasperated, “Why are you being so anal?”

the

only

she must have ejaculated, because she saw him

survive first year, offered such electives as 201 Irish

turn white, then pink, then puce. Then there was

Female Poets, 320 Post-Colonial Representations of

a clearance in the traffic ahead and the Beetle

Women and 303 The Gothic, Deborah knew she’d

sputtered into it and she found herself the centre

found a kindred spirit. Sarah Scattergood’s arrival in

of gob-smacked admiration.

the college some seven years before had given rise

iiiiThat

to

smirk betrayed the extent to which she’d enjoyed

English

the

only

faculty

and

verified

who,

instance

if

one

of

might

wit

from

the

January

been

whose

of a tutorial on T.S. Eliot: “Nowadays the women

over the faux pas. Over the many semesters that

come and go / talking of Maya Angelou.”

followed, Deborah side-stepped such electives as

iiiiAll at once it was the last day of term. Debbie sat

McIlraith offered yet somehow, through the good

on the front steps, distraught, on the ground the

grace of Sarah Scattergood, was well on the way Continued on page 12

forlorn print-out of the first essay she’d attempted

to

since her time with the Loreto nunsable

Teaching Diploma in English. What’smirk betraye

sufficient

instrumental

credits

to

in

subdued

the

amassing

had

Scattergood,

redoubtable McIlraith, who’d quipped in the course

Bealtaine | 9

riposte,

Dr

smoothing

qualify

for

a

Post-Swim Attire Thady Trá

The Song of Selection (after

an

article

I

found

in

a

Sunday

newspaper by one of the nuns who cared for the babies in the convent where I was born)

Sophrosyne

She comes to cradle in a song,

I saw a word and fell in love Thinking, that is me, I've found It, the thing to define me

gentle is the melody that folds back and continues familiar like breath new to baby,

Felt it wrap itself around my wrists,

uncertainty is not the stuff to serenade,

Coil through my hair, weave into my lungs

we can still sway

And crawl its way into my veins until

despite the crosses we’re born to bear,

I had become the word and carried

blue can be breathtaking

My shoulders, bent by its letters

like her song,

How was I so wrong? The time

like broken chains

I spent becoming was in all the

that have their own charm.

Wrong directions I didn't sound half as lovely as

She comes to cradle,

I thought I looked

that without name can still be a son, for a second,

Shaw Chard

after separation, before selection, for the length of a song and she sings it now and it is familiar.

Damien B. Donnelly

Bealtaine | 10

Pieta

of

the

Mary Coen Bealtaine | 11

Unexpected

Homeschooler

McIlraith offered yet somehow, through the good

reverie that she failed to notice his descent onto

grace of Sarah Scattergood, was well on the way

the mezzanine just above. Finding his way blocked,

to

his eyebrows hoisted interrogatively.

amassing

sufficient

credits

to

qualify

for

a

Teaching Diploma in English. What’s more, she’d encouraged Debbie’s creative efforts, and one or

“I was hoping to have a word,” she gasped.

“Before you go.”

two stories had appeared in online journals. They’d

He considered for a moment. “Office hours,” he

even sketched out, together, the skeleton of a final

recited, “are Mondays at eleven and Wednesday

year dissertation to be entitled Subjectivity and

afternoons.”

the Female Body in the Poetry of Eavan Boland.

have understood, he added, “Today is Thursday.”

iiiiThen,

When she again failed to comprehend, he came as

almost

casually,

her

friend

and

mentor

because

to

anyone had ever been afforded. “Ms Lyons-Gough,

part

if we don’t have rules, do you know what we have?

scalded,

her

constricted.

throat

year.

Her Dr

eyes

were

Scattergood

dissolved in a blur. Dreamlike, there followed the sting

in

the

Academic

tail.

Her

Advisor

position

would

be

as

Final

assumed

by

personal

appear

She would be on maternity leave for the major final

a

didn’t

near

Deborah’s

expounding

she

announced the unforgivable. She was pregnant.

of

to

And

philosophy

as

We have a free-for-all.”

“Dr McIlraith, I…” she at last managed, but her

Year

sentence was severed by a raised hand. “Office

none

hours,”

other than Hobbes himself, Dr Colman McIlraith.

he

declared

without

looking

back,

“are

Mondays at eleven and Wednesday afternoons…”

iiiiNow it was late October. Deborah was in all kinds of trouble. Stress was playing havoc with her sleep, sleeplessness was impacting on her health,

She decided to convene a war council. Friday

and ill-health was ratcheting up her stress. She’d

was Halloween, and Hobbes would be away off

had a panic attack that had put the frighteners on

home

all of us who’d witnessed it. The substitute who

couldn’t

was

and

agitated nights before his next office hour came

supervising her dissertation students was a Trinity

round, and that on the very day that the future

doctoral student named Coyle who could not see

would be set in stone. Because even if, by some

past the requirement to lace every paragraph with

miracle, she could find a potion that would have

‘discourse’, ‘enabling’ and ‘problematize’. Twice, on

her sleep out the interim, the point was that the

foot of his prescriptions, she’d trekked up to the

Monday following mid-term was the final deadline

capital to waste hours staring at arcane papers

for fixing title and supervisor for the dissertations.

covering

whose

Dr

Scattergood’s

footnotes

cited

Lacan

electives

or

Foucault

or

for

the

simply

duration sit

out

of

the

the

ten

mid-term.

fidgety

days

She and

Desirée Toussaint, her friend since Loreto days,

Irigaray.

brooked

iiiiThere was no other way; she would beg Mcilraith

counted upon to steel her resolve it was Desirée.

to allow Sarah Scattergood special dispensation

“Why are you being so anal?”

to

throbs of throaty laughter. But she’d been away in

act

as

supervisor.

Scattergood

be

Failing

allowed

that,

supervise

might

the

Dr

doctoral

Essex

shit

for

from

seven

years

and

still

had

sent

only

into

recently

Hobbes McIlraith. So it was that, out of the loose

unthinkable: asking Hobbes himself whether he’d

assemblage of mature students who gravitated to

supervise the bloody thing.

the end tables of the canteen, she selected an old

iiiiSeveral

students

had

thinking

complained

about

the

chain-smoking

the short man from Armagh. Small wonder Debbie

which is to say myself.

had

iiiiOutside

the

better

part

of

a

week

ways

of

boot closer to her mother’s vintage than her own, a

Trinity pedant – they’d received short shrift from

wasted

the

her

be

the

even

with

could

so

was

unfamiliar

anyone

returned.

she

was

If

student’s supervision? So desperate was Deborah, demoralised,

She

nobody.

of

battle-axe

tutorials,

named

I

had

Viv

McHugh,

a

nodding

prevaricating at the foot of the stairs that led to

acquaintance with McIlraith – on the back steps to

the

the college I smoked, he vaped. Besides, I’d had my

dingy

reveriniiii

office.

So

deep

was

she

in

gloomy

own

Bealtaine | 12

own run-in with the little man, or to be entirely

coffee

accurate, with the Dean of Studies, on foot of a

shrugged

satirical

elder, to explain. The minute his final tutorial was

sketch

that

made

it

onto

Sunday

early

week.

Desirée.

It

was

left

the

to

deal?”

as

village

me,

iiiiWe were to meet up that same Thursday night

would retire from the field of battle and would be

after Desirée knocked off waitressing. Earlier, in

out of reach until Monday 9th.

preparation,

iiii“Still don’t see the problem mate. We make him

needed

to

be

a

notebook.

resolved:

(a)

how

Two

to

issues

obtain

a

afternoon,

big

over

opened

following

“What’s

Miscellany. But that’s another story.

I

the

next

McIlraith

and

dog

stay down, is all.”

meeting for the next day; and (b) what precisely to

iiii“Oh? How do we do that?”

ask of the man. I was dismayed to learn she’d had

iiii“You know where this dude lives, yeah?” In the

no

minutes that followed, I discovered I hadn’t really

contact

with

Sarah

Scattergood

since

the

previous June. Above my bifocals I inquired: Would

known

a first-time mum, who was due any week now, be

following

willing to take on a supervision, even if it were a

college, I learned she was no mere talker, either.

possibility?

iiiiHobbes was in foul humour. When he was in foul

Not,

you

understand,

that

it

was

the

first

thing

morning,

on

back

the

caterpillar, on his vaporiser. He’d had to march in,

Female Body in the Poetry of Eavan Boland, my

post-haste. A mile and a half. More! He’d actually

dear, better the devil you know …

arrived thirteen minutes late for a lecture, he who’d

iiii“Ok,” said Debbie, iPhone already in her palm.

never been late for a lecture in his life. “Really?”

“I’ll send Sarah a text.”

Car wouldn’t start! First time in thirty years, not a

iiii“A text?”

dickey-bird.

iiii“What?”

everything:

iiii“Ring her.”

jump-leads; everything. Not so much as a dickey-

iiiiShe

winced.

smarted

like

a

Subjectivity

Palpably, betrayal.

the But

and

pregnancy

she

nodded.

still

bird.

The

iiiiI

“Did

you

pushing;

coughed,

to

to

cover

suck,

try…?”

choking;

a

the

the

requesting

only

to

of

stranger.

paused

and

steps

The

of Colman McIlraith would ever sanction it. As for

He

freely,

Toussaint.

humour,

supervise

spoke

the

Ms

remotely likely that a stickler for rules of the stamp

he

he

about

Oh

like

Alice’s

he’d

pumping,

guffaw.

merest

tried

cranking;

What

voodoo

Scattergood phone was turned off, however; so

Desirée Toussaint had employed - a potato up the

she

exhaust or sugar in the tank or some other trick -

promised

to

try

again

prior

to

our

war

council.

there was no way that vintage banger was getting up *

to

Armagh

any

time

soon.

Would

he

maybe

consider taking the bus, or train? He might. If it came to it, he might have to. But he’d go bail that

iiiiIt was late when we met for the first time,

the car would be back on the road by this time

three

tomorrow. Still couldn’t understand it all the same.

black

and

midnight

hags.

So

Desirée

Toussaint declared us. I felt I already knew her,

Thirty years, and this morning not a dickey-bird.

so

their

iiiiThey say God helps those who help themselves.

her

Whether or not the same is true of the Devil, the

many

inspiration

of

Deborah’s

from

the

stories

took

misadventures

of

irrepressible school-friend. She countered that

coup

she knew me through a scrapbook Debs had put

indirection, to a couple of interventions that even

together of my humorous pieces cut out of the

now suggest the black arts. Firstly, out of all the

Midland Tribune, which seemed so unlikely one

possible garages about town, Hobbes dialled up

had to believe it. Then it was down to business.

Brennan’s

Debbie’s latest didn’t encourage. It turned out

became apparent. Then, having watched his black

Sarah

Beetle towed away, he set off for St Brigid’s Park,

Scattergood

was

up

in

Dublin

for

a

Desirée

–

the

had

pulled

significance

off

of

gave

which

rise,

only

by

later

routine check-up and was staying with a friend.

the dog on a short leash alongside his short stride.

But

iiiiHow precisely the mutt slipped the leash may

she’d

suggested

meeting

up

for

coffeebelieve it. Then it was down to business.

Bealtaine | 13

a

never

never be known. What Hobbes should have known

“Definitely not. That’s the little guys on the whisky

is that the park, usually so quiet, fills up at the first

bottle.”

whiff of Halloween with every class of hooligan

iiii“He has these bushy eyebrows, if that’s any help.”

and

prankster

bent

on

taking

advantage

of

“Maybe he’s a whatcha-may-call-it. A Schnauzer?”

costume and the dark to let slip their savagery. It

“Isn’t that a sausage-dog?”

may

What

have

been

scarcely

dusk,

but

already

happened

next

amazed

and

delighted.

schoolboy shrieks and hoots were echoing up from

Debbie drew the notebook to her, borrowed the

incipient fires.

pen, and in less than a minute had executed a

iiiiOne imagines the terrier had a canine aversion

passable likeness. The proportions were askew; the

to loud bangs. One imagines a firework, thrown

comical severity, spot on.

with

malice

another,

or

the

with

carelessness.

animal

slipped

One

the

way

hold

or

“So now what?”

and

Desirée sat back and stretched like a cat. “Set

scarpered. Word doesn’t take long to get around a

up

town like ours, and by the time of the next war

yeah? Tell them to get back to you the minute any

council

of them sees or hears shit. Oh, and tell them they

the

disappearance

was

common

knowledge. “Which plays right into our hands,” I

a

WhatsApp

group.

You

send

out

that

pic,

gots to keep it to themselves, yeah?”

said. iiii“Yeah?” Debbie was having her doubts about

We met up the next day prior to Desirée’s shift.

the whole project.

There had been several developments. Word from

iiii“Don’t you see? Suppose the car gets fixed first

Brennan’s Garage was, the Beetle was properly

thing tomorrow…”

banjaxed. Desirée’s cousin who worked there had

iiii“It won’t,” rumbled her friend. “Trust me.”

seen to that. It’d require a couple of days just to

iiii“But just suppose, sake of argument. Now he’s

get

got

have a policy of offering a replacement car for

another

reason

to

stay

down.

I

mean

he’s

in

spare

parts.

On

the

downside,

they

did

hardly going to abandon the animal.”

the duration. Hobbes hadn’t taken up the offer, so

iiii“Tell you what I think,” Desirée suddenly sparked

far

up. ‘I think we’ve gotta find that pooch. You show

several reported sightings on WhatsApp; sightings

up at this dude’s door with his poor little doggie in

not of the dog, however. A distraught Gollum with

tow, he’s gonna owe you big style.”

a

iiiiDebbie considered, nodded undecidedly, looked

accosting strangers to solicit news of the missing

to me as though it had been my idea. ‘But how do

creature.

we go about finding him? He could be anywhere…’

bumps and furtive angles.

iiiiSearch me, I shrugged.

as

the

cousin

comb-over

knew.

had

There

was

Then,

been

even

too,

there

variously

a

video,

were

reported

all

shakes,

So what to do next? “Let you run into him as if it

iiii“Got a picture of him, have you Debs?”

was an accident, yeah? Make sure he sees how

iiii“God no.”

shocked you are when he tells you his pooch has

iiii“Could you get one?”

run

iiii“How?”

spread the word. That way, he’s well impressed

iiii“I dunno. By calling in on this McIlraith dude.”

when you do show up with it. That way, he’s got to

iiiiThe

horror

enough.

But

on her

Deborah’s friend

was

face

away.

it

what,

wasn’t

you’ll

was

answer

be

undeterred.

Desirée

major favour even trying.”

pulled over my notebook and flicked a pen, all

thinking

Know

no

help

fluke.

find

You

it!

done

You’ll

him

a

Debs not only looked less than impressed, she

business. ‘So what’s he look like? What breed is

looked

he?’

she’d ever brought her old school-friend in on the

iiii“Terrier!”

said

together.

Unimpressed,

She

was

beginning

to

regret

her

deal. For my part, I spent that afternoon about the

ebony eyes looked from one of us to the other. ‘I

town, not actively searching for the dog, or for its

don’t know. Scottish?”

master

iiii“Nah, not Scottish. West Highland maybe?”

eye

bo

we

deflated.

for

out.

I

that

matter.

expect

what

Wandering.

I

was

really

Keeping doing

an

was

hand.

Bealtaine | 14

making myself available to Providence, should it

hesitated. “Please.”

choose to take a hand.

iiiiThere’s a quality in the palette, a predominance

Toward four I ran into him.

of browns or oranges, that dates a photo every bit

He was like a homeless case, shuffling about with

as

much

as

clothes

or

hairstyles.

These

two

no idea of where he was going. He looked hard at

children, a boy and girl, it placed in the early 60s.

me as though struggling to bring his eyes to focus. I

“Lorraine,” called the voice from the far side of the

was so shocked I abandoned all thought of playing

bed, somehow intensifying the silence. He’d risen

out a scene, letting on I’d heard nothing. Instead I

from the semi-recumbent position. In his hand was

took him by the arm, ushered him back up toward

another photo, a polaroid of the dog, which he was

the estate in which he was renting a bedroom that

holding toward me like a schoolboy. “Will this do?’

year. He allowed himself be led until we were within

iiiiIt

sight of it, then he tugged his elbow from me, in

dozen colour copies down in the chemist’s with his

horror

the

contact details appended, but he said no, I’d been

search. “But have you a photo?” I appealed, “you

very good. He could manage from here - they had

must have a photo!” He stared hard at me from red-

a copier in the college. As I closed the gate his

rimmed eyes. “Of your dog.” The idea must’ve been

voice overtook me. “When she was sixteen, they

running around in my head, unbeknownst, because it

punished her. Left her tied to a railing, so they did.”

came out fully formed. “If you’ve a photo, we’ll run

I stared back, appalled. “Lorraine,” he called from

off

the

that

some

he’d

colour

been

cajoled

copies

and

to

put

abandon

them

up

on

would.

upper

Admirably.

window.

I

offered

Then

he

to

run

added,

off

as

two

though

lampposts around the town with your details. It’s

reminiscing, “She was never right after that.”

what they do for missing persons.”

iiiiI walked with no direction, having trespassed on

iiii“I

see,”

he

nodded.

He’d

never

looked

so

a

private

unhappiness.

ploy.

Was

troubled sister he sped home every weekend? I was

gut. “Yes,” he declared, “very good. Let’s do that.”

of

I

Christ

images; the tarrings, the tribal intimate revenge.

Viv, what are you letting yourself in for? Was this a

Probably I was being fanciful. All the same, to have

betrayal of what the war council had agreed?

spiked the man’s car was a shabby affair.

iiiiInside the house I felt like an intruder. It was

iiiiOn a whim, I decided to take the route home

every bit as dingy as I’d imagined. I was all for

along the river, a thing I rarely do. Can it have been

waiting at the foot of the stairs but he wouldn’t

an

hear of it. Now he was all bustle and purpose. I

suggestion? I was about two-thirds the way along,

was

the

too far to turn back though my instinct was to do

threshold of the bedroom. In order to keep my eyes

so. I could see ahead, at the locks that skirt the

off the skinny backside bobbling up and down as

weir, a group of youths up to no good. They’d seen

he

I

me, and there was a leering challenge, daring me

glanced uneasily from the desk, dominated by an

to continue past them. To turn back might bring

old computer with bulky disk-drive to the wardrobe

them on, who was to say? Well Viv. Nothing for it.

open onto jackets, shoes and folded shirts to the

iiiiThe leader - he was perhaps fourteen - stood out

dresser’s priestly toiletries: the hairbrush set; the

into the middle of the path. One or two of the

scissors and electric razor; the bottle of bay-rum. It

others, uneasy, looked from him to me, from me to

was the opposite of nosiness. A fear of privacies,

their bikes, from the bikes to him. Another, a low-

rather. Behind the bay-rum was a double photo-

browed

frame, a little silver diptych with what appeared to

stone

be

“The

hunkers. There was an expectant stand-off until I

sister,” he approximated a smile, gesturing I should

said “Could I get by, please?” Unable to find a

come into the room, was welcome to look closer. I

verbal witticism, the first of them stood to one side

hesitat

an

watched

him

mortified

rifled

two

Bealtaine | 15

a

stride

to

find

suitcase

children.

purposefully

He

myself

he

kept

caught

ahead.

standing

under

me

the

at

bed,

looking.

agent

of

lout

down

still

the

with into

remembered

occult

who

close-set the

lock

eyes,

before

it

deep

not felt in years had begun to tumble inside my

that

whole

having

misgivings

vintage

the

was

infantile. “I see. Yes.” All unlooked for, emotions I’d

a

about

I

the

to

terrible

whispered

tossed rising

his

a

the

surly

from

his

and parodied a bow that triggered a round of

approaching

sniggers. I walked on, concealing from them the

Debbie abandoned all hope of getting a second

glances I stole into the frothing waters. When at

reader for her dissertation and at Christmas, to my

last I reached the bridge, heart fisting my throat,

intense dismay, she dropped out. She did go on to

by the grace of God there was a Garda just within

land

sight.

collection of short stories to be entitled Why does

iiiiThey’d

gone

by

the

time

we

got

back

there.

a

contract

friendship

have

somewhat.

anything;

a

bundle

of

clothes,

or

a

Final

with

Year

a

Academic

small

Irish

Advisor,

publisher,

a

the Devil have the Best Tunes? I’ve an idea her

What I’d glimpsed tumbling in the torrent might been

the

with

Desirée

Toussaint

cooled

off

coat; yet I was as certain as though I’d stood there

iiiiSarah Scattergood had twins, and is tipped to

unmolested

dog,

be the next Director of Humanities at All Hallows.

bound in some way to a stick or plank, no longer

By all accounts, she’ll be delighted to launch the

paddling against the frightful current.

forthcoming story collection.

iiiiIf I’d been fortunate in finding a Garda; I was

iiiiAs for Hobbes Mcilraith, that was to be his last

doubly so in the Garda I’d found. She appeared to

year among us. He took early retirement. Word was

know as though by instinct from what thicket to

he told the Dean of Studies he was heartily weary

pull out a plank long enough to coax the bundle

of the damned place. One thing I can say, he held

toward an opening. Then, without waiting for the

true to his principles to the last. At Easter, when I

help she’d called in, she waded knee deep into the

went to him to look for an extension, he turned me

waters to drag that bundle into the reeds. But for

flatly down. “Rules have to be rules for everybody,

that,

Muzz McHugh.” The funny part of which is that even

the

to

confirm

unfortunate

my

fear.

animal

It

was

would

a

surely

have

drowned.

though that scuttled any chance I had of coming

It was in a dreadful state, eyes shut fast, so exhausted

the

ribcage

was

barely

palpitating.

out with a 2-1, I still harbour a tiny fondness for him, the old bastard.

There was an open gash to the back of its head that had bled white. Queasily, I watched the latex fingers of the man from the ISPCA touch it open, his call

face

glowering

them

animals

with

impotent

who

do

disgust.

this.

All

“They

wrong.

No

animal is this sick.” Then he fixed his brown eyes on mine. “Any idea whose it might be?” I shook my head, needing time to think; to allow my guts to settle.

Debs was entirely distraught, so much so that I decided this was not the time to tell her what I’d learned down

about

just

Colman

before

McIlraith.

the

ISPCA

She’d van

made

took

it

the

unconscious terrier away. I’d given the Garda a description

of

the

four

ne’er-do-wells,

but

she

didn’t hold out much hope anything would come of it. I hadn’t actually witnessed them mistreating the animal.

*

iiiiThere’s

not

that

much

more

to

tell.

The

dog

recovered. So too, the VW Beetle. Without even approaching

the

Final

Year

Academic

Advisor,

Debb Bealtaine | 16

Staycation, 2020 Róisín Nolan

the dance we did the dance you know the one where you stood with your knees bowed back against me and your head toward the wall bathing in your grandmother’s jumper your shoulders round and rigid, hair falling you woke and feared you could smell me on your cheek, i think so you gave me the other cheek, lay sideways drowning in the lavender knit, all knees then rolled over to me in your sleep. like a bee, quivering, on a tall and thin stem, i’m waiting for you to land. for the hum of cobwebbed wings to stall so we can trade, all this you see for waking into mornings of honeysuckled silence and the sound of you sighing in cotton and down. for watery sunlit dawns as i watch your rib cage rise and fall and listen to nothing but the sea bird’s call — i wanted to toe away in silence and cover you in sky. leave you sleeping in white linen and never speak matters of the heart.

Ruth Seavers

Bealtaine | 18

Requiem Eilis de Faoite

Bealtaine | 19

Arriving at night Donegal, 2018

The morning light gave birth to rambling stone rows Grown out of the drumlins laden with auburn stray sod.

untitled carvings

Pasture only meant for grazing eye and timid ewes, Venturing higher to the summits lost in fog.

a bed, a pen, a tiredness.

Ink yet to be used

The boreens tangle in themselves dividing up the land, Flowing to testaments standing to the test of time.

On a clearer day, is a canvas untouched by hand, While the Atlantic roars over the seabirds whine.

A Celtic lilt of the native tongue colours the air of the room

Eyes which flickered, and a tongue that didn’t roll. would I remain alone Or would the words grasp me.

Grace Sampson

And a swell of the bow slips in between tattle.

A haven of rumination awry in its loom.

A doldrum of the mind for no gale to battle.

Calvin McManus

Elements: Water Roisin Ní Neachtain Bealtaine | 20

Carefree Idleness Alexandra Pud

Late Night Tea

Cheekbones and Adam’s Apples

Lighting up the room,

Cheekbones and Adam's apples

Their face upon a screen

That hang off a tree

Behind the fainting plume

All the men in my life are statues

Of live and wisping steam

poised stoically.

They are polished marble in a hall

Here, in separate sections

A knot caught on their shoulder

We cannot see each other

Smooth and gentile

Still, we feel a real connection

I love my army of men

Though we sometimes buffer

Statues can’t gather dust in the back of my mind

Despite the night grown old

They can’t shoot themselves up,

We'll chat away online.

Fall into a river,

The tea has since gone cold,

Or lose themselves in formaldehyde

And we've started drinking wine.

Maybe I’ll place them in a gallery.

So they can stay there frozen forever,

Daniel Durand

For the most part at least, Alive.

Lucia Kent Bealtaine | 21

Indelible Marks

about

than

of her studying religion academically, but religious literacy is not the same as collective worship. Irish faith schools – which account for more than 95% of

he’s four. We were sitting at the dinner table a weeks

important

iiiiDespite my lack of personal faith I see the merit

Irish

schools

cultural

of

more

part of my “crusade”. Crusade!

all

couple

being

adherence. He tells me to stop forcing her to be a

Kiera McCarrick

S

conviction

before

Christmas

when,

in

that

-

aren’t

tasked

so

students

knowledge

with

developing

can

recognise

religious nuance in early modern literature, or so they

can

appreciate

turns to me.

buachaillí

is

iiii“I can’t believe it.”

contextual

insight

iiii“What can’t you believe?” I countered.

faiths, and none, live their lives. No. Indoctrination is

believe

my

teacher

picked

me

to

be

not

formation

for

Hundred

Guilder

can’t

Faith

‘The

apropos of nothing way of the pre-schooler, she

iiii“I

Print’.

Rembrandt’s

concerned into

how

cailíní

with

other

agus

developing

people

of

all

the only means to the only end. Lord help us.

Mary.” Jesus Christ.

iiiiWe’ve

iiiiOnly minutes before there’d been a discussion on

grappling with that particularly Irish brand of self-

the radio warning the public about ticket scams for

loathing, we often deride our country as backwards.

Midnight Mass and I’d shaken my head with a sort of

In this case it’s apt. Look back towards 1831. They

affectionate levity, but now this.

say it’s impossible to achieve now, but when the Irish

iiiiShe’s

not

christened

you

see

and

it

wasn’t

a

gone

backwards

you

see.

When

we’re

school system was first established it had to offer a

decision that was taken with ease, nor one that’s

curriculum

reached its denouement. She’s due to start school

instruction but kept religious instruction separate. As

this September and despite being the largest inland

schools

county,

character, this separation of education and religion

no

multi-denominational

schools

exist

in

which

became

combined

moral

increasingly

literary

denominational

diminished

and

I’m left agonising over whether I should just sprinkle

curriculum,

whereby

her with holy water and be done with it. I oscillate

integrated into all subjects and school life, settled in

back and forth like a thurible. Weighing the cultural

for the long haul.

capital

iiiiSome might say it did me no harm, so why the

her

belonging

against

my

own

religion

expected

older

on the Rights of the Child warned of the need for

perhaps. The Age of Reason. But there was a time

“concrete

the

before that when I did accede, as all children do.

in

We took it as gospel, revelled in the pageantry and

availability Ireland.

of

They

significantly

multi-denominational said

this

increase schools

should

be

done

than

her

when

almost

be

about it. The year she was born the UN Committee

my

me

to

decades

pinpoint

took

integrated

iiiiShe was still in my belly when I first began to fret

to

It

was

the

need

to

dissidence?

of

perceptions of morality.

measures”

for

concept

in

Tipperary. So she must go to a Catholic school and

of

the

and

motivations.

my

heresy

I

three

was

began.

little

Seven

pomp of the sacraments.

“expeditiously”. Great, that will sort it, I thought. By

iiiiOddly, I don’t remember the Big Day itself too

the time she gets to five they’ll have fixed it. Except

well. My six-year-old recollections are from a week

it didn’t and they haven’t.

or two later, walking round and around our gritty

iiiiWe argue about it, her Dad and I. Not over the

estates

religious teachings – he’s just as absent from the

ensuring

church

lobe. I can still recall the collective murmur of the

on

Sundays

as

I

am

–

but

he

feels

the

on

the

Christi,

memory’s

formation

communal even. His main thorn however, is that she

in the middle of a housing estate, upon which the

will be left out, excluded. I quote hoary old adages

church had erected a Calvary scene. If it seems my

about

childhood memories have descended into some sort

being

more

important

than

adherence. He tells me to stop forcing her to be a

of Dali-Kafkaesque

5,000

temporal

megalithic passage tomb, situated on a roundabout

conviction

the

my

expectation,

familial

circled

in

possibly

this

there’s

crowd

repetition

rosary

parish,

the

the

pressure a little more I suspect. He was born into rural

as

Corpus

year-old

Bealtaine | 22

Ward of Court Annemarie Stanley Bealtaine | 23

childhood sort

of

place

memories

have

Dali-Kafkaesque existed

then

descended

hybrid

and

I

into

assure

remains

some

resistance to Sunday mass. Kicking and screaming

you

this

and making a general spectacle of myself in the

on

the

front garden before I’d eventually acquiesce. Yes I

today

outskirts of Sligo town.

found

the

iiiiDelighted were we with our second chance to

more.

It

wheel out The Dress, fit with Guinness and gravy

exposed,

stains. “Aren’t they lovely!” they said. And we were.

reports absorbed. Banners outside the post office

Loveliness

to

depicting the murder of babies left their mark. Little

freckles

trinkets from the past were gifted to me along the

measure

being our

the

yardstick

worth.

Teeth

with

which

missing,

sermons

was

the

90’s

hushed

this

and

secrets

whisperings

being

vague

news

proudly in our procession. We prayed to honour the

mosaic coming together tile by tile.

Blessed Sacrament and we were lovely and we

iiiiMy

were good and therefore we were happy.

Wednesday

iiiiThe confliction settled in soon after. As a child,

announced that a referendum would be held. It was

naturally predisposed to believe what my parents

also

and teachers told me, I couldn’t yet recognise why

bodies

religion unsettled me but a perception began to

thought

form and the undertones were dark.

ensued

should

iiiiUsually a compliant girl, I started to put up a

naively

assumed

resistance to Sunday mass. Kicking and screaming

comment

and making a general spectacle of myself in the

misogyny had been tempered. I expected joy at the

front garden before I’d eventually acquiesce. Yes I

result but I was weary. It was still there. The religious

found the sermons dull, but this was something

virtue, the judgment, the disapproval.

“

I had naively assumed we were further on than the comment sections suggested. I thought the misogyny had been tempered. exposed,

the

90’s

hushed

and

secrets

whisperings

and

were

being

vague

news

my

in

2017

birthday,

were this

was

was

it

more

the

not

up

have

we

sections

the

felt

shift.

ask

months

when

and

once

10

to

were

permission to be sterilised after her ninth baby. A

pre-schooler

having

and

something

tail feathers atop French plaits as we marched

was

Granny

was

way,

It

my

but

mingling with summer sweat, beads arranged like

more.

like

dull,

old

new

it.

for

public

The

vicious me

further

suggested.

I

on

priest’s

on

that

Taoiseach

Though

surprised

were

the

women’s

steering, fight but

I

that

I

had

than

the

thought

the

iiiiIt strengthened my resolve to shield my daughter from

moral

paternalism.

Not

realising

Catholic

reports absorbed. Banners outside the post office

influence would begin as early as pre-school, I had

depicting

tried to get ahead before junior infants. I bought

the

murder

of

babies

left

their

mark.

Little trinkets from the past were gifted to mealong

picture

the way, like my Granny having to ask the priest’s

creationism that awaited her. I inquired about what

permission to be sterilised after her ninth baby. A

was

mosaic coming together tile by tile.

instruction. She will be put down the back while her

iiiiMy

pre-schooler

Wednesday

in

was

2017

10

months

when

the

old

new

on

that

Taoiseach

books

involved

on

in

evolution

opting

to

her

counter

out

of

the

soft-

religious

classmates are tasked with colouring in crucifixions, their

bright

red

crayolas

used

for

depictions

of

announced that a referendum would be held. It

ladybirds and love hearts and wounds torn apart.

was

Scenes of torture.

also

women’s

my

birthday,

bodies

were

and

felt

steering, I thought this was the shift. The vicious

manipulation. They just want to fit in. Fit in to what

fight that ensued should not have surprised me but

though? So I swing back yet again and research the

I had naively assumed we were further on than the

primary school religious curriculum. It starts out soft

comment

the

no doubt. Promoting kindness and care for the poor

misogyny had been tempered. I expected joy at

and the sick. Then I come across a picture depicting

the result but I was weary. It was still there. The

a little girl, sitting on her bed looking startled. ‘Mary

religious virtue, the judgment, the disapproval.

says yes!’ the text enthuses, yes to God ‘working

iiiiIt strengthened my resolve to shield my daughter

through her’ by making her pregnant, despite Mary

from

being afraid, confused and not understanding what

suggested.

paternalism.

Not

I

up

Though

iiiiStill I faltered. I worried about ostracism, ridicule,

moral

more

it.

public

sections

once

it

for

thought

realising

Catholic

influence would begin as early as pre-school, I had

was going on. Oh my God.

tried to get ahead before junior infants. I bought

iiiiIt’s the final piece. This is the merit of religious

picture

literacy. Yes it’s important in order to understand

books

on

evolution

to

counter

the

soft-

Bealtaine | 24

creationism

that

awaited

her.

I

inquired

about

the

history

of

humanity

but

as

a

woman:

it’s

literacy. Yes it’s important in order to understand the

history

of

humanity

but

as

a

woman:

it’s

important to know your enemy. iiiiFor all the decrees of Christian kindness, such favour

does

not

seem

to

extend

to

female

autonomy. I’m not married. I’m a child of divorce.

My own child belongs to no church. If she had been conceived back in the year of my birth only a shotgun wedding would have saved my sweet girl from being considered an illegitimate bastard and saved me from being socially ranked as a Fallen Woman. If we were lucky. Lucky! Good Lord. iiiiShould I waver again, consider offering her up to the

purveyors

of

such

social

conventions,

I

will

remind myself of those who didn’t have the choice.

Those marked by the signs of the faith. The ones who

weren’t

merely

grappling

with

ideological

stances but wrestling the physical and emotional manifestations of an iniquitous culture writ large. iiii“Ireland is a Catholic country,” many still bay. “If you

don’t

like

it…”

Yet

none

of

that

sort

were

extolled in retort, no not in the aftermath of the report.

Illegal

systems.

This

adoptions, is

where

malnutrition, the

sewerage

hypocrisy

becomes

painful. And I can’t be a part of it. iiiiThose women. Their babies. Hundreds of little upturned

noses

and

thousands

of

tiny

kissable

toes, and I looked to my baby at the kitchen table.

Selecting ignorance as my tool of choice I gently probed. iiii“Oh wonderful, who’s Mary?” iiii“You know…Mary had a little lamb”. iiiiLittle lambs indeed.

Bealtaine | 25

The Pope’s Children Róisín Nolan

Bealtaine | 26

Bamboo Whitefly settled on our undersides, and though we bent to the wind and turned to the rain we could not shake the eggs or hatchlings.

This did not go unnoticed, and our pretty whooshing sound was soon forgotten in light of the plague we harboured.

We reminded the house of the swamp, of hidden things, of war and jungle beasts — so were hacked up, tendril-pulled, replaced by clean pine hedging.

But, as we did in Hiroshima, we survived, in another part of the garden, all wabi sabi and shinrin-yoku with its magnolia, small cherry and acer trees.

Here the poet knew we had whitefly.

She tried soap and water — which did not work.

But because she liked our woody music, our green quills painting the air, our imperfect calligraphy,

the restraint that could not be found before, was lavished upon us, and the white colonies were left.

They were not looked upon again, or, in our presence, even spoken of.

Jaki McCarrick

Bealtaine | 27

Paris Window 3 Conor Horgan

One Layer at a Time

smile that takes over their appearance. This is the usual acknowledgement I receive when I walk into a room that black people are not usually permitted entry to. As soon as I see this take place, I prepare my mind for the typical type of conversation that accompanies

Aghogho Sophie Okpara

it.

It’s

usually

a

conversation

that

involves a stranger being deeply interested in my roots,

in

my

family

history

and

in

their

proud

explanation of knowing a person who has been to

Y

ou don’t usually become aware of your identity

Africa. There also tends to be a strange entitlement

until you are told to be, i.e., until you are told to live

that often laces through the speech of this stranger,

in a constant awareness of it. Human beings tend to

where they are adamant to receive their desired

live

response

comfortably

and

freely

in

their

person

until

from

me,

even

when

that’s

not

the

society interrupts and tells them to do otherwise.

response I have to provide. This is the first type of

This has been the experience of my entire life. As a

acknowledgement of my difference – the first layer

child, I lived a very care-free life. I can’t say this

unveiled.

lasted for as long as it does for other children, due

iiiOther layers are a bit more complex than that to

to my more noticeable differences, but there was

unravel, for example, when I learned that I was a

certainly a period of time in which I thought life was

black woman.

simple and easy. I thought one hundred euro was a

means to be a black woman in Irish society. This

lot of money, I thought sleeping at 12am meant you

layer has many different dimensions to it, and these

were an adult, and I thought that being black meant

dimensions are usually assembled apart by various

you could be seen as a human being just like others.

kinds of people. I have learned what it means to be

For all three of those things, I was wrong.

a black woman in academics, in social spaces, in

iiiiI

became

increasingly

aware

of

my

multiple

Or

rather,

when

I

learned

what

it

the workplace, at parties, etc. It means a different

identities the older I got. It was like one layer being

but similar thing in each setting.

peeled off after another, and these layers became

iiiBeing a black woman in academia looks like being

unveiled by the different crowds I found myself in.

undermined before you are even given the chance

This taught me of the multifaceted nature of my

to

being in the sight of others. I was never allowed to

opinion. It looks like being offered a seat at the

be just one thing. I was never afforded the simple

table but being declined an opportunity to speak at

demeanour that my counterparts were allowed to

it. It looks like being accused of stealing your work

have. If someone was a man, I was a woman. If

from

someone was a lady, I was a black lady. If someone

standard it is – which was the experience of an

was a minority, I was a black minority. My identities

aunty

could never be separated. Complexity was just a

universities in Dublin. It looks like being dismissed

part of my being, and I had no choice but to accept

when

it. As a result, at a very early age I became aware

academia,

of the existence of intersectionality, even when I

‘angry black woman’ – which was the experience of

didn’t

know

Years

later

there I

was

have

language

finally

found

express

your

opinion.

elsewhere,

of

mine

you

simply

at

raise

one

issues

because

you

chance

to

because

of

the

of

express

of

how

most

high

just

a

prestigious

discrimination

are

your

acting

within like

an

to

articulate

it.

my first black female professor. It looks like your

the

language

to

fellow

classmates

being

intimidated

by

your

express the sentiments I have always been forcibly

presence

acquainted with.

conversation – which was my experience in my first

iiiiIt starts when you walk into a room and someone

year of college. Essentially, being a black woman in

gives you their first glance. Except it’s usually not

academia means you have to constantly prove your

just

a

worth, you have to prove that you have something

glance of polite surprise – followed by an awkward

valuable to contribute, and you have to dim your

smile that takes over their appearance. This is the

confidence

usual acknowledgement I receive when I walk into a

‘angry’. It is a whole job in itself.

one

glance,

Bealtaine | 29

but

two

–

the

second

being

and

so

thus

that

choosing

you

to

appear

never

gentle

initiate

and

not

confidence

so

that

you

appear

gentle

and

not

advocate

for

what

inconveniences

middle-class

‘angry’. It is a whole job in itself.

white women, and not women as a whole, but that’s

iiiiBeing a black woman in the workplace is similar.

a conversation for another day. The point is that the

Typically,

disrespect

women

in

the

workplace,

regardless

of

towards

black

women

runs

so

much

their race, tend to face condescending attitudes

deeper than it appears on surface.

and patronising behaviour. Our work tends to be

iiiiI think one of the worst settings for black women,

overlooked if there is a male counterpart around, or

though, are social spaces. These are home to the

else it is assumed that the male will do a better job

most vulnerable of moments, and unfortunately they

in

we

also tend to be the most common spaces we find

be

ourselves in, because these are a part of everyday

the

speak

first

place.

against

When

an

we

are

it,

issue

arises

and

considered

to

overreacting and ‘emotional’ and probably on our

life.

period. We are not taken seriously nor respected

subject to things that other people would be broken

appropriately,

down

and

this

is

reflected

on

a

casual

Black

by

women

if

they

in

social

settings

experienced

once.

gap). Now imagine being a black woman on top of

stereotyped...these are simply a few things that we

that. Take all the stereotypes that are placed upon

have no choice but to become numb to due to the

women as a whole, and now add black stereotypes

alarming frequency with which we experience it.

on top of that too – it becomes a whole different

iiiiSee, black women are at the mercy of the media.

story. It is no wonder that traditional feminism is

We

known not to include black women, because even

nature. Growing up, the media told everybody to

traditional

a

hate black women, and so that’s what everybody

whole arena in itself. Western feminism tends to only

did. We became victim to hatred from all races of

advocate

people, including our own. We became victims of

feminists

for

what

know

that

our

issues

inconveniences

are

middle-class

“ women are Black

the

its

volatile

a conversation for another day. The point is that the

because

disrespect

people are told otherwise. For example, around 5 or

black

women

runs

so

much

are

internalized

of

both

we

and

victims

publicly

white women, and not women as a whole, but that’s

towards

external

primary

being

Sexual

harassment,

often

fetishized,

regularly

scale to an economic scale (seen in the gender pay

are

being

just

are

often

seen

racism.

as

less

This

than,

is

until

deeper than it appears on surface.

6 years ago the media decided to start liking black

f their

women. Society, as always, followed suit. But this

not a human zoo...You would never say that to a pretty white woman, because their beauty isn't a surprise to you.

time

it

felt

strange

because

we

knew

it

wasn’t

genuine and people did a bad job at masking that.

Because of the robotic tendency of people to follow whatever

mainstream

society

tells

them

to,

they

would express their newfound love for black women in

an

odd

way.

I

remember

being

at

Longitude

Festival in 2018 and being told by random girls on multiple occasions that I was the prettiest person they

have

ever

seen.

Sometimes

people

would

literally stop and stare at me. I don’t say this to brag, I actually say it to pinpoint the opposite. Black women are not a human zoo, that our beauty should be seen as a spectacle. If you ask me, I have a pretty

average

face,

but

when

your

mind

is

accustomed to seeing black people as ugly, you will think someone who isn’t ‘ugly’ looks amazing. I was told many times growing up in Ireland that I was the prettiest black girl they had ever seen, which is an insult. You would never say that to a pretty white woman, because their beauty isn’t a surprise to you.

But this is our everyday experience.

Bealtaineto | 30 iiiiThere’s a reason why many of us are forced

But this is our everyday experience. iiiiThere’s a reason why many of us are forced to develop a thick skin, and funnily enough, even when we develop that thick skin, we are told off for it.

Oh, the irony. Despite this, I have grown to love my multiple identities – not for the reasons society has given

me,

myself.

I

but

am

multicultural

for

the

proud society,

to

reasons be

and

a

I

have

black

never

found

woman

again

will

for

in I

a

feel

shame for it just because others tell me to. Never again will I let who I am be defined by people who are slaves to mainstream media. Never again will I dim my light to make others comfortable. I am who I am, and I will express that in its entirety. found for myself.

I

am

multicultural

proud society,

to

be

and

a

black

never

woman

again

will

in I

a

feel

Bealtaine in focus: Every issue, Bealtaine will reach out to at least one artist whom are slaves to mainstream media. Never again will I we admire and wish to support. We dim my light to make others comfortable. I am who commission them to create something I am, and I will express that in its entirety. which amplifes their voice and promotes values of intersectionality, inclusivity, environmentalism, and empowerment.

This issue we feature Aghogho Sophie Okpara as our artist in focus. shame for it just because others tell me to. Never again will I let who I am be defined by people who

Untitled Aisling Larkin Bealtaine | 31

husband vanish.

Stile 13

iiii“One

moment

he

was

there

and

the

next

he

seemed to fade away. I was afraid he might not come back. When he did come back he looked the same…but I knew he was different. It was like he

Ger O'Malley

knew things, big things, things he could not tell me of…no matter how much I asked him.”

S

ince the now widely reported discovery of

iiiiSo should we be actively on the look out for our

13,

the

own Stile 13 opportunity…no matter where in the

gateway remained unseen for so long. Why was it

world we are? Should we welcome the chance to

not found earlier when it was apparently - as one

step through and discover for ourselves what Jerry

prominent

knows?

Stile

speculation

has

academic

grown

put

it

-

as

to

“hidden

why

in

plain

view"? And when it was eventually found, how did

iiiiThe

the phenomenon that is the enigmatic gateway

become quite heated. Those against have railed

spread so rapidly?

and argued that we should all be content to stay in

iiiiOf

late

the

hypothesis

that’s

gaining

most

our

debates

own

around

dimension

and

normal rules don’t apply when one is dealing with

newest trend in racism and has attracted a lot of

portals

vocal

universes,

then

the

gateway

wasn’t

parallel

necessarily

location

of

the

Stile

is

said

to

be

ever

was

protests

solely

at

Ireland.

Croke

‘The

Park

However,

Gateway’,

Gaelic

reports

was

grounds

of

in

similar

attention.

Of

and frustration for them. Several cities and towns around

that

right-wing

own

course the difficulty in identifying who to aim their

changing. In the early days of the phenomena, it thought

enthusiastic

their

abuse at has caused an amount of aggravation

hidden, but just wasn’t there…until it was. iiiiThe

and

to

have

parallel universe. This has been described as the

or

back

who

was ready to do so. This argument asserts that as

dimensions

get

those

have

stepped

different

should

that

questions

support is that the Stile only appeared when it

to

across

these

located Dublin, ‘Passing

the

world

and

attendees slogans

have

marches

carrying

such

as,

recently

by

these

banners “There’s

and

no

experienced groups,

with

placards

with

parallel

like

this

Through’ experiences soon began to filter in from

parallel”, “13, unlucky for some”, and a very common

other locations around the globe.

one, “Get back to yer own universe.”

iiiiAn

example

of

one

of

these

Gateways

is

iiiiA

support

group

involuntary

travellers

Peru. Known as the “Doorway of Aramu Muru” it is

recently produced a best selling pocket book called

purported

another

“That’s the Stile”. This handy volume points out some

dimension. It stands near the border with Bolivia

of the key indicators we should look for that would

on Lake Titicaca where Inca legend says life was

imply one has already had a passing through event

first created on Earth.

that we may not even be aware of. It encourages

iiiiSome travellers to the Peruvian site have talked

people

about

speculation

their

doorway

be

a

passageway

experiences

and

travelling

to

of

falling

through

to

another

the

dimension.

to

possibility

“Accidental

dimension

located in a remote mountain region of southern

to

called

for

always

be

stating: of

“if

having

Parallelism”

prepared we

are

an

with not

its

central

open

involuntary

has

to

the

crossing

One such person, whom we’ll call Jerry as that is

experience, then this can lead us to a place where

his name, said, "My experience here has been

we

fantastic!

ourselves in.”

I

have

actually

been

through

the

can

make

little

sense

of

the

world

we

find

another

iiiiSome of the most common signs this invaluable

dimension." His first words on his return were, "I'm

tome tell us to look out for is a strong feeling of

back." Some doubt Jerry’s story, but those who

being

witnessed his disappearance and re-emergence

disbelief in some of the things we see going on in

have no such doubts. His wife was one of those

the

witnesses. She described how she had seen her

authenticity of the things that surround us. If you

husb

findity of

doorway,

and

I’ve

travelled

to

disconnected,

world

and

an

regular

feelings

unwillingness

to

of

déjà

accept

vu,

the

Bealtaine | 32

find

yourself

saying

things

like…”It’s

a

different

iiiiTo

counter

the

of

conventional

therapists,

like this”; or maybe, “how did that gobshite get to

recently

be president”, then there is a very real chance that

service has proven to be a huge success, with the

you are actually living in an alternate reality, where

organisers saying they are finding it hard to cater

the rules that govern normal society have been

for the volume of callers they’re getting.

distorted,

iiiiThe CEO of the service - herself a committed

in

some

cases

done

away

with

confidential

view

world we’re living in today”; “things shouldn’t be

and

a

narrow

been

set

up

telephone

called

service

has

Lines.”

The

“Parallel

completely.

paralleler - in a recent interview said: “People tell us

iiiiOf course realisation of the possibility of having

the world’s your oyster…but what if you’re hungry?

an inadvertent crossing over experience can be

One oyster isn’t going to do it for you…is it? So why

very

should we settle for one world?”

frightening

anxiety.

for

some

Conventional

and

can

therapies

put

cause in

huge

place

to

iiiiHer arguments have been gaining traction with

deal with this tend to go down the line of trying to

sales

convince an affected individual that there is no

proving particularly popular.

such thing as Stile 13, and that the world they find

iiiiSome

themselves in is actually the only one available.

passed through Stile 13 have become quite vocal

This has brought succour to some, but has also

and public in their defence of the physical existence

upset

of

others,

some

of

whom

have

gone

on

to

of

the

their

of

“I

want

those

who

gateways.

This

has

tee-shirts

to

definitely

led

have

to

degree

debates

iiiiThe symptoms of this condition include a fear of

common. Reality television has also gotten in on the

conventional therapists and also an uncontrollable

act with excitement building in particular about the

compulsion to jump through random gateways and

upcoming shows, “I’m my own parallel person” and

doors.

“I’m a Stile 13er, get me out of here”, where rumour

therapists,

a

the

narrow

confidential

view

of

telephone

conventional service

has

other

platforms

on

talk

of

Claustrophobia”.

counter

appearances

a

celebrity

and

with

claim

Oysters”

develop a new syndrome called “Single Dimension

iiiiTo

status

more

shows,

becoming

quite

has it that Jerry from Peru will be one of guests. iiiiA

documentary

called

I’ve

met

myself

coming

recently been set up called “Parallel Lines.” The

back, all about the travails of a woman called Mary

service has proven to be a huge success, with the

who

organisers saying they are finding it hard to cater

parallel

for the volume of callers they’re getting.

special

iiiiThe CEO of the service - herself a committed

speech largely consisted of her thanking herself and

paralleler - in a recent interview said: “People tell

wishing

us

witness this great honour. She accepted the award

the

world’s

your

oyster…but

what

if

you’re

claims

to

selves,

have has

actually

recently

achievement

that

her

other

met

won

award.

selves

some

the

Her

of

her

academy’s

acceptance

could

be

here

to

hungry? One oyster isn’t going to do it for you…is

on her own behalves.

it? So why should we settle for one world?”

iiiiVeteran Stile 13ers Evangelina and Rebel West,

iiiiHer arguments have been gaining traction with

whose names happen to be an anagram of “well it’s

sales

been average”, are leading the charge to find what

of

their

“I

want

more

Oysters”

tee-shirts

proving particularly popular. iiiiSome

of

those

who

they describe as “The Perfect Parallel”. The premise

claim

to

have

definitely

that

they

have

become

spokespeople

for

passed through Stile 13 have become quite vocal

rationalises that if infinite possible worlds exist, then

and

a perfect world where everything is harmony and

public

existence

of

in

their

the

defence

gateways.

of

This

the has

physical led

to

a

balance

has

to

be

out

there.

The

pair

have

run

degree of celebrity status with appearances on

several well attended seminars on the subject under

talk shows, debates and other platforms becoming

headings such as, “Dimension Ascension” and “You

quite common. Reality television has also gotten in

don’t have to be perfect to be unparalleled”. Their

on the act with excitement building in particular

gatherings have been attracting a growing number

about the upcoming shows, “I’m my own parallel

of people, but the fact that one person’s idea of

Beloved, person” beheld and “I’m a Stile 13er, get me out of here”,

perfection

Ciara Colette where rumourHurley has it that Jerry from Peru will be

tended to dominate discussions.

Bealtaine | 33

iiiiIn

a

may

recent

not

equate

television

to

anyone

interview

else’s

has

Evangelina

and

has

it

that

Jerry

from

Peru

will

be

one

of

the

believe in its existence or not…Stile 13 will present

guests.

itself to you, possibly on several occasions within

iiiiA documentary called I’ve Met Myself Coming

your lifetime…maybe not in gate form…but it will

Back,

called

present itself. All you have to do is leave yourself

Mary who claims to have actually met some of her

open to recognising it, and when you do…well, the

parallel

choices are yours.

all

about

selves,

special

the

has

travails

recently

achievement

of

a

woman

won

award.

the

Her

academy’s

acceptance

speech largely consisted of her thanking herself and wishing that her other selves could be here to witness

this

great

honour.

She

accepted

the

award on her own behalves. iiiiVeteran Stile 13ers Evangelina and Rebel West, whose names happen to be an anagram of “well it’s been average”, are leading the charge to find what they describe as “The Perfect Parallel”. The premise that they have become spokespeople for rationalises

that

if

infinite

possible

worlds

exist,

then a perfect world where everything in harmony and balance has to be out there. The pair have run several under and

well

attended

headings “You

such

don’t

unparalleled”.

seminars as,

have

Their

on

the

“Dimension to

be

subject

Ascension”

perfect

gatherings

to

have

be

been

attracting a growing number of people, but the fact that one person’s idea of perfection may not equate to anyone else’s has tended to dominate discussions. iiiiIn a recent television interview Evangelina and Rebel

were

questioned

about

cross

dimensional

living; “Look, it’s a simple as this,” answered Rebel - who was wearing an “I want more Oysters” tee shirt - “If you want to live in this world…then live in it.

Settle

in…commit.

I’ve

been

through

many

gateways, and you wouldn’t believe the state of some

of

the

dimensions

I’ve

seen.

Who

knows,

faults and all, this might actually be your perfect world.” iiii“But,”

interjected

Evangelina,

“if

you

feel

that

this parallel might not be right for you, and maybe you’ve even been indulging in a bit of crossover behaviour; a foot in many camps so to speak…then I’d suggest it’s time to start looking for your own Stile

13.

When

you

find

it,

then,

if

you’re

brave

enough, all you have to do is take that step.” iiiiSo is Stile 13 for you? Would you like to expand beyond your familiar horizons? Does the idea of stepping through a portal to a different dimension excite

you?

Well…irrespective

of

whether

you

believe in its existence or not…Stile 13 will present cce choices are yours.

Bealtaine | 34

Spring / Earrach Rimmi Islamgalieva

Hurricane

Dark Sky Reserve

You bend time with the force of your cry

On top of the mountain, above the clouds, we lay

Can it be only thirty grains

back on the picnic benches. And wait. Our eyes

Since I have clutched you to me

adjust from the passing headlights to the dark. The

Thrashing and wild,

stars perk up. I see the milky way for the first time.

Force of a hurricane

Do

Child.

constellation. A meteor scratches at the earth’s

not

blink.

atmosphere

Carefully

and

burns

watching

itself

up.

the

Then

Perseus

another.

A blind alchemist, I try every trick

Silent fireworks. I grip the bench, the only thing

In a book I can’t read in the dark:

keeping

Potions and patience, feverish feeding,

Colliding with a shooting star, it sizzles out.

me

here.

A

tear

falls

from

my

eye.

Pleading to your raging heart.

Niamh O'Connell Teeth tearing through the surface of you, Your tears and my wordless cry.

Sleepwalker ripped from the island of sleep, Weight of a year on my eyes.

No mother’s kisses, no father’s touch, No stemming this boiling tide; Your tiny craft slipped away from its mooring, Nothing to soothe you but time.

I wait in the dark, holding my breath Until yours at last steadies and slows.

Nerves on the outside, Grateful for silence,

Opening a Termite Mound

Wanting to leave,

Northern Australia

Cannot go.

I shove a crooked stick in the crust Your sleeping is fitful, little red gums

of the driest looking mound,

Inflamed with the pain you can’t say.

stirring ancient dust that stings my eyes.

I wait till it’s safe, peer at your face,

No dead thing rises from this tomb:

Guiltily tiptoe away.

life itself comes pouring out

Knowing the storm is far from being over,

cool and damp in tiny white packets,

Sleeplessly straining to hear.

guarding its treasure with pincers and riddles,

Counting the minutes remaining till morning,

life that is older than dinosaurs

The ghost of your cry in my ear.

but will still be new when we are gone.

Jennifer O'Neill Kaan

Stuart Flynn

Bealtaine | 36

Unloading A woman comes home full of a hundred thoughts. The countertop clean as when she left it, the dumping ground for post, keys, broken things and lists. She puts down her bag,

her

phone

and

her

mask

-

her

holy

trinity.

She

unloads the shopping experience; the disinfectant smell lingering in her nose like thoughts of third class P.E at the pool, the sight of the shop security letting people in and out with gestures and clickers.

She recalls the man who stood too close, who called her “an erratic woman” when she asked him to step back.

Did he mean neurotic? Her meal planned trolley was far from

erratic,

separated

into

food

groups,

neatly

arranged. It was easy to feel in control of such caged things.

She

hung

back

from

this

man

and

felt

an

aubergine - remembered how her youngest child took a bite out of one once, back when you could bring the kids with you in store. Before one per trolley policy.

She is notified of deaths and cases and lockdowns rolling like hills. She forgot to get the birthday cake for doing the candles over Zoom. She voice notes her husband - a thumbs up reply.

She unpacks her reusable bags full of good food and healthy snacks and nothing she chose for herself. There is a

bottle

of

wine

she

bought

for

the

weekend.

It's

Tuesday, but it's felt like the longest week. She pours and drinks and washes the glass straight away. Tidies her countertop

again,

googles

'erratic'

again,

reads

the

headlines again, waits for the kids again, for her husband to come in with the latest reports from RTE Radio 1. She shakes her head at the figures and developments, as if she hasn't refreshed her app a hundred times today.

She chops the courgette so small they won't even notice it. She steadies her hand and tries not to pull away from human contact when her husband brushes against it. The kids line up at the sink like little cadets and scrub their hands for at least twenty seconds each, singing songs that have lost all meaning.

Alison Driscoll

Bealtaine | 37

Paris Window 4 Conor Horgan

The Hottest Month

treatment for melanoma and twice a day my father gave her an injection in the thigh. The medicine was some sort of nasty stuff. Slowly, at first, and then remarkably

quickly,

my

mother

transformed.

In

January, when first diagnosed, she was still plump and fearless; by March, she was shockingly thin, frail and easily tired. Many days she was short-tempered

Madeline Beach Carey

with Darío and me and then suddenly tender, snotnosed and apologizing, begging us for forgiveness

I

iiiiiiialways

imagined

Sinéad

as

very

young

and

like a little girl.

much shorter than my parents, but when she arrived

iiiiWhen

that morning she was taller than I’d expected and

market they went right to the kitchen to unpack the

older too. I ran down to greet her before anyone

groceries and I remember, very clearly, not wanting

else. Some neighborhood kids had gathered around

Sinéad to leave, wanting her stay with me and Lola,

as she pulled her suitcase out of the taxi; no one in

out on the terrace, away from everyone. But after a

our neighborhood ever took taxis. Our building was

few minutes, Sinéad convinced me to let Lola rest in

full of African immigrants and old Spanish women

her shoebox. We ventured into the kitchen, which is

who

when I realized for the first time that my mother

lived

off

state

pensions

or

people

like

my

Darío

and

Papa

came

home

from

the

parents who were down on their luck. When our

might die.

neighbors went to the airport, my father drove them

iiiiIt

in the Kangoo and sometimes Darío and I rode in

Sinéad and held himself up, his hands behind him

the back, rolling around with all their luggage.

grabbing the kitchen counter, tears in his eyes. And

iiiiAs soon as she saw me, Sinéad smiled in a way

how Sinead hugged him without saying anything,

that

from

not saying his name the way she had repeated my

Mama’s stories. She picked me up, or tried to. My

mother’s or mine. I wanted to throw something at

feet touched her ankles; my head hit right at her

both

chest.

weakness and emotion.

iiii“África,” she said. “África Miguel.”

iiiiWhile the adults sat in the kitchen drinking coffee

I

recognized

from

photographs

and

was

of

how

my

them,

so

father

angry

buckled

was

I

at

when

that

he

saw

show

of

taxi,

and talking, I tried to teach Lola to fly. I’d only found

realizing that this woman knew me, that she was

her two days before and her wing was still broken.

ours.

But it didn’t go well, and she just flopped about on

iiiiSinéad kept hold of my hand as she lugged her

the terracotta floor.

bag up the three flights of stairs. When she saw

iiiiBecause we had a guest, my father said we could

Mama, shrunken, waiting in the doorway, she didn’t

go out for lunch, down to the place near Antonia

react as dramatically as so many other visitors had.

María’s where they served the best pescaito. Under

She just kept her cheek against my mother’s cheek

normal circumstances I would have been thrilled,

for a few seconds and said, “Mari Luz, Mari Luz,” in

but that day I was angry that Lola would not be

her gentle, accented Spanish.

allowed at the restaurant.

iiiiThe

onlookers

iiiiStraight

away

stepped

I

pulled

away

Sinéad

from

the

away

from

my

iiii“She can wait in the car,” Darío suggested.

mother and ushered her out to the terrace to show

iiiiSinéad

her Lola, my new pet sparrow. At first, I sensed that

spoke,

Sinéad was scared of the bird, that, like Rita from

stupidity sent me into a rage.

downstairs, she might have feared contracting lice

iiii“She’ll suffocate in this heat!” I screamed.

or

eventually,

iiiiMy father asked me to take a deep breath.

hand

iiiiMama slammed her bedroom door and appeared

some

Sinéad

other

cupped

sort the

of

parasite.

bird

in

her

But own

and

smiled

and

her

at

my

smile

father

and

my

when

my

brother’s

brother extreme

patiently gave her water from the syringe.

a few minutes later wearing a jeans skirt, a wide-

iiiiThat summer we had plenty of syringes because

brimmed hat, and bright red lipstick.

my

iiiiSinéad, you need a hat for the sun? It’s brutal out

mother

was

very

sick.

She

was

undergoing

treatment for melanoma and twice a day my father Bealtaine | 39 gave her

an injection in the thigh. The medicine

there,” she said.

there,” she said. iiiiHer

eyes

iiiiMama was having fun and I was glad, yet wary of a

that.

She

joint. Her own little bird legs stuck out beneath the

from

years

skirt, making everyone nervous.

before Mama knew my father or had even moved

iiiiMy father was already pulling the car around

away from home. Way before Mama had moved to

and no one was paying the least bit of attention to

Barcelona and shared a flat with Sinéad, she had

me

studied in Italy for two years during university.

or

were

cared

moist

one

bit

with

the

about

afterglow

Lola.

of

Sinéad

sat

kept

telling

back,

Sinéad

before

stories

Sinéad

about

lived

in

Italy,

Spain,

between my brother and me. It was so hot in the

iiii“What were you doing then, José?” Sinéad asked.

car that we could hardly breathe.

iiii“I don’t know. Pretending to be an artist. Chasing

iiii“It takes a few minutes for the a/c to kick in,” my

girls,” my father answered.

father said.

iiii“You

iiiiI looked out the window and sulked while Sinéad

mother

read a book to Darío. She was a dramatic reader,

hardware store.”

inventing exotic accents for animals and magical

iiiiThe

creatures. It was a silly picture book with rhyming

charming

poems and she stumbled over some of the words,

realized that Sinéad, despite being blonde, wasn’t

but my brother was enchanted by her, clasping his

quite so young or quite so new to Spain, or maybe

¡

lived

in

Granada

countered.

food

“He

arrived.

the

with

worked

The

second

then

dark

time

at

Paula,” his

waiter

around.

my

father’s

wasn’t Maybe

as he

hands together and saying, “ Sigue!”

he just had a lot of customers. My father asked for

iiiiMy parents didn’t speak to each other or to me.

another big beer for himself and two small ones for

Sinéad

Sinéad and my mother.

and

Darío

were

enough

for

them,

I

suppose. They were probably thrilled that someone

iiii“I guess África will have to drive us home,” he

new was reading all those silly rhymes. When we

said.

had parked the car, Darío wanted to bring the

iiiiMama slapped my hand because I was eating the

book to the restaurant, but Sinead promised him

squid and tiny fish too fast. She was oblivious to the

they would continue reading after lunch, as she

fact that Darío and I were bored out of our minds. I

unbuckled

stuffed

his

car

seat

and

kissed

him

on

the

more

battered

fish

into

my

mouth

and

cheek. He was much more easily consoled about

announced that I was going to the bathroom.

leaving the book for later than I had been about

iiii“Can you go yourself?” Mama asked me. “Do you

leaving Lola. But then, in my case, we were talking

want Sinéad to go with you?”

about

iiii“I need to go too,” my brother said.

a

living,

breathing

being

who

had

never

been left alone before.

iiiiHe hadn’t touched his food and I glared at the

iiiiWe sat outside at a table where my mother and I

fish and bright green peppers on his plate.

could fit under the shade of the awning, but the

iiii“Take Darío,” my father said. “Please, África, don’t

others were left out under the hot sun.

make that face! Just give us a break!”

iiii“We’re outside,” I said. “Lola could have come.”

iiiiThere was a line for the ladies’ and as we waited

iiiiSinéad promised my mother it was fine, that she

against the cool tile wall Darío kept singing a song

was wearing sun cream and beamed, without even

he’d

flinching, as the dark waiter flirted with her, serving

absolutely crazy.

her

iiiiA round old woman smiled at him. “How old is

beer

first,

welcoming

her

to

Malaga.

My

learned

at

school.

He

was

driving

me

parents and, so it seemed, all the other adults at

he?” she asked.

the restaurant got drunk and loud quickly, even

iiii“Four,” my brother answered.

before the pescaito had arrived. Sinéad tried her

iiii“A beautiful boy,” she said. “Look at those lashes.”

best to stay in my good graces, glancing over at

iiii“I’ve decided I don’t have to go,” my brother said.

me a few times, asking if I wanted Fanta or juice,

iiiiI headed into the stall and yelled for Darío to wait

but I remained guarded, having seen how quickly

where I could see his feet. He, of course, walked off.

she had traded me and Lola for Darío and Darío

When I finished peeing I burst out of the stall, into

for beer, and the waiter and that flush of male

the

attention.

humming to himself and watching the waiters push

Mama was having fun and I was glad, yet weary of

through the kitchen door carrying steaming piles of

that. She kept telling Sinéad stories about Italy,

fried seafood. Before he could see me, IBealtaine grabbed | 40

tiny

hallway

where

my

beautiful

brother

was

Tread Softly Claire Murphy

through the kitchen door carrying steaming piles of

bottled water, so I gulped Fanta Limón out of the

fried seafood. Before he could see me, I grabbed

large

Darío, pushed him against the wall and began to

morning.

tighten my hand around his tiny throat.

iiiiMy parents’ door was open and I could see my

iiiiIt wasn’t the waiters or the kitchen workers who

father sleeping with his mouth wide open, beads of

stopped

sweat at his hairline. He looked like he could sleep

me,

but

Sinéad,

who

was

heading

towards the bathroom door. iiii“África,” from

she

Darío’s

said

neck.

as

for

she

“Go

removed

back

to

the

my

fingers

table

right

now.”

plastic

days.

bottle

From

my

the

father

kitchen,

I

had

bought

heard

that

Mama

and

Sinéad whispering. They were curled up together on the sofa eating sweets that Sinéad had brought from Barcelona. Years later, recalling snippets of their conversation, I can almost begin to make sense

iiiiWhen we got home, my father said it was time to

of what I heard: that Sinéad had “lost” two babies

practice music. I was supposed to be practicing

and that she was very much in love with a man who

the cello an hour a day that summer. Papa had

had two babies himself and a very beautiful wife.

worked

iiii“Where is she from?” my mother asked, giddy with

overtime

at

the

post

office

so

that

we

could rent the instrument for the whole vacation.

the

The cello and the fact that I could sort of play it

information.

gave my father immense happiness. Around the

iiiiSinéad answered too loudly, laughing so hard she

time

started to cough, “Napoli!”

my

mother

had

gotten

sick,

he

had

come

intimacy

of

female

company

and

so

much

home and announced that Señor Muñoz had said

iiiiMy mother laughed so hard I thought she might

that I was a very strong player, that my parents

choke too. “Oh watch out, bonita. If they find out,

should even consider sending me to private classes

her family will kill you both!”

in

mother’s

iiiiAfter so much laughter, and the pescaito and the

diagnosis, my father focused on music. It was as if

sun and the beers and my nasty behavior, Mama

a nine-year-old girl playing an instrument gave him

needed a three-hour nap, so Darío, Papa, Sinéad,

hope against illness and his general unluckiness in

and I took a long walk around the neighborhood.

life. He instilled in me the power of culture over

There

barbarism, as if my playing could help us escape

playground, just cement and high-rise buildings, and

poverty

a few wheelchair ramps that I liked to ride my bike

the

evenings.

and

And

so,

corruption,

despite

Andalusia,

my

provincialism,

wasn’t

anywhere

nice

to

walk:

no

park

or

and maybe even fate itself.

straight down, no brakes. As Darío and I rode up

iiiiOn the way to a Wednesday evening class with

and down the ramp in front of the medical center,

the new private cello teacher, Papa had said, one

my father talked to Sinéad more than I had ever

day we’ll go to Barcelona, stay with Sinéad and

heard him talk to anyone. It was strange but not

see a real orchestra play, with the violins and the

alarming. He told her about Mama’s illness and he

violas and the cellos. Thus, I associated Sinéad

even talked about me, about how I was stubborn

with

and hard to handle, just like Mari Luz, too smart.

music,

urbanity,

refinement,

cultural

sophistication—everything my parents assured me

iiiiHe helped Darío balance out his training wheels

the North meant. But when I played for her in the

and

living room, she looked tired and distant.

changes. And well, now this.”

iiiiShe clapped when I had finished and said, “Oh

iiiiSinéad didn’t tell my father many things. I’m not

José!” as if my father had been the one playing.

sure, even to this day, that he knew about the lost

iiiiAfter

knew,

babies or the man with the Italian wife. She was

everyone supposedly took a siesta: Sinéad on the

different with him than she was with my mother; she

sofa, my parents in their bedroom, Darío in our

just listened. She also decided things: to buy us ice

room, and me out on the terrace with Lola. I woke

cream,

up hot and thirsty and wandered into the kitchen

morning, that we should walk and not ride our bikes

for water. It was maybe five o’clock by then, still

across

deathly

brothers the whole way back to the house, about

I

had

hot

in

played

the

the

three

apartment.

songs

We

were

I

out

of

bottled water, so I gulped Fanta Limón out of the large

plastic

bottle

my

father

had

bought

that

said

to

to

the

Sinéad,

get

“With

bread

street.

My

and

kids,

your

water

father

for

talked

whole

the

about

life

next

his

why Bealtaine | 42

why he worried about each one. Sinéad knew their

iiii“He’s fine,” she said, but it sounded like she was

names and the names of all their wives.

going to cry.

iiiiBy 8:30 that evening, Lola was able to fly from

iiiiWe weren’t off the highway, when suddenly I felt

one end of the terrace to the other and Papa said

sick to my stomach. It came on like it had sometimes

she might be able to fly away soon, which sent me

in school: I felt warm all over and dizzy. I knew what

into

was coming: the surge, the humiliation, the joyful

a

fit.

I

buried

my

head

in

the

sofa

while

everyone else got ready to go to the beach.

release. Just the week before I had vomited on the

iiiiSinéad thought it was hilarious that we didn’t go

private cello teacher.

to the beach until nearly nine p.m.

iiii“Mama,” I said.

iiii“It’s too hot before that,” Papa insisted.

iiiiBut there was no time for anyone to do anything,

iiiiHe was right about the heat. The sand was still

for Papa to pull over or for me to stick my head out

eerily warm when we got there. It was low tide

the window, or even for Sinéad to pull my hair back,

and the sea was gray, calm and flat. The water

so I panicked and turned and puked all over her.

wasn’t

out

iiiiDarío stirred but fell back asleep. Mama said it

across the sandbar, so happy to be swimming with

was because I had eaten the pescaito in such a

Mama, her body thin, her skin almost translucent.

hurry.

Diving into the tiny waves, she looked like she was

iiii“It’s

only a few years older than me, maybe fourteen,

looked like she might throw up too.

topless, flat-chested, and sinewy. Sinéad, on the

iiiiWhen we parked a few streets away from our

other hand, looked like a woman in her bathing

house, Papa put his hand on my forehead. Mama,

suit. She stood in the shallow water next to Papa,

exhausted, headed inside.

watching Darío intently as he practiced dunking

iiii“Get Darío,” Sinéad told him. “I’ll carry África.”

his head under and blowing bubbles. Her body was

iiii“She’s

really

round and full in all the places my mother’s had

latched

onto

once been: breasts, belly, hips, and pear-shaped

puke, she didn’t flinch as I settled into her and she

thighs.

even

iiiiBy the time we had rinsed off and dried our feet

around her waist.

it was pitch black and each and every one of us

iiii“We’re

was exhausted in our own way and for our own

promised me.

reasons. Personally, I had been up since six a.m.

iiiiSinéad struggled as she carried me up the stairs.

with Lola and hadn’t had much of a siesta at all.

She stopped a few times and we readjusted. Once

Darío was asleep on Sinéad’s shoulder before we

we got inside, Papa had the shower going and was

had pulled out of the parking lot.

telling me to hop in with Darío. Mama was changing

any

cooler

iiiiThere

was

leading

back

than

air.

ran

between

stroked

heavy,” Sinéad’s

my

gonna

hair

get

my

father

neck.

as

said,

but

sweet

in

my

legs

girl,”

she

the next morning. She had a meeting downtown

vomit, and then just up the stairs, Sinéad was all

and a flight out right afterwards.

mine.

like

a

woman

anymore.

Apparently, she was only matronly in a bathing suit, and compared to my mother. In the backseat of the car, with her wet hair and navy-blue, zip-up sweatshirt, she looked like a girl, like the girl Mama had talked about so many times: innocent, serious, preoccupied.

My

father

caught

her

eye

in

the

rearview mirror. iiii“And Gabi?” he asked, referring to Sinéad’s exhusband.

“He’s fine,” she said, but it sounded like she was Bealtaine 43 going| to

cry.

shoebox

was

covered

adjusted

up,

I

She

wine. But for that walk from the car, all covered in

look

Lola’s

Sinéad.

Already

she

cleaned

in

said

from a weekend away. Sinéad would be leaving

didn’t

towels

seats,”

Sinéad that in a while they would have a glass of

people

paper

the

home

city,

the

in

coming

the

the

all

road

to

along

We

national

iiiiSinéad

traffic

the

and

telling

Meet the

CREATIVES David Butler is an Irish writer whose previous novel

Jenny Darmody

City

of

of

Dis,

published

by

New

Island,

was

sci-tech

is a journalist and deputy editor

news

site,

Year

acting,

Review, Sonder Magazine and Honey & Lime. She

directing, as well as set-building for theatre. His

takes inspiration from her writing group, Writers Ink,

insomnia

and from her job to combine sci-fi elements into

grow

He

allows

steadily

has

the

into

a

little

stories.

passion

voices His

for

in

his

head

forthcoming

to

short

her

work.

story collection, Fugitive, is soon to be published

Delegates

by

Follow

Arlen

House.

He

currently

lives

in

Bray,

Co.

Wicklow.

Jenny at

was

the

the

one

of

Dublin

in

four

Book

Meath-based

The

Her

previous

2015.

appear

Republic.

shortlisted for the Kerry Group Irish Novel of the in

publications

Silicon

Galway

Young

Festival

writer

Writer

in

on

2018.

Twitter

@Jenny_Darmody.

Madeline Beach Carey,

recipient

of

several

Eilis de Faoite

graduated

from

the

National

writing awards and fellowships, is the author of the

College of Art & Design, Dublin in 1990. She was

story collection Les filles dels altres. She has been

awarded

writing since approximately the age of eight and

undertook an MA in Sculpture Studies at University

believes that daily rituals are key to channeling

of Leeds. Her work in education, which primarily

inspiration. Currently, Carey teaches at the Irish

focused

Writers Centre and is finishing her first novel. These

society, led to a range of professional roles. Her

days she writes from her Barcelona rooftop.

work

a

on

Henry

the

reflects

Moore

more

the

Scholarship

marginalised

vulnerability,

and

learners

fragility

in

and

resilience of humans, in response to grief, loss and

Shaw Chard writing

on

is a Canadian artist who has been

and

off

for

as

long

as

she

longing. Follow her on Instagram @eilis_de_faoite.

can

remember. Her inspiration is derived mostly from

Damien B. Donnelly

the people and connections in her life. She feels

between hosting and producing the Eat the Storms

grateful to the people in her life and especially to

poetry podcast, painting, and making very good

her

will

carrot cake. His two poetry collections, Eat the

always represent a guiding light to her. You can

Storms and Stickleback, are both published by The

follow

Hedgehog Press. You can follow him on Instagram

late

mother,

her

on

who

passed

Instagram

in

2016,

and

who

Twitter

on

@shawchard. She is currently based in Belfast.

@damiboy,

Twitter

is a poet whose time is split

@deuxiemepeau,

or

TikTok

@eatthestorms.

Mary Coen

is an artist and photographer, hailing

from Ballina. She received her BA in Visual Arts

Alison Driscoll

Practice

Creative Writing from UCC where she received the

from

Dun

Laoghaire

IADT

in

2009,

BA

disciplines to create multimedia images which has

Writer in Residence at the Molly Keane House. She

been

photography

on

Instagram

her

workshop

facilitator

and

regular

has

been

art

and

is

@marycoenart,

and

national Arts events. You can stay up to date with

@marycoenphotography. She is currently based in

a

work

MA

featured online and in print. She is the current

Follow

Her

and

into photography in 2011, before combining both

since.

Scholar.

English

title

practice

College

a

specialising in painting originally. She expanded

her

of

holds

reader

at

her on Twitter @AlisonDriscoll5.

Mayo.

Bealtaine | 44

Daniel Durand Wicklow.

is a queer writer hailing from Co.

They

are

a

great

admirer

of

Alice

Conor Horgan filmmaker

is a self-taught photographer and

(most

recently

with

The

Queen

of

Oswald, Seamus Heaney, and Ocean Vuong. Their

Ireland, 2015). He was artist in residence in the

work is themed around the idea of relationships

Irish

and the connections that they bring. They currently

subsequently stayed on in Paris for two years. His

live in Dublin where they are studying for a degree

portrait

in journalism at DCU. Follow their poetry journey

commission to make a permanent installation in

on

the Irish Cultural Centre of 18 large-scale portraits

Instagram

@daniels_poem

and

Twitter

@daniels_poems.

Cultural

work

Centre

there

in

Paris

led

to

in

En

2017

-

and

Résidence,

a

of former artists-in-residence which will open to the public in November.

Stuart Flynn

was born in Australia to Irish parents.

Creativity is hugely important to him as he has

Eleanor Hulm

been a jazz musician his entire life, and has been

background in Physics. She draws her inspiration

writing seriously for twenty years. He is inspired by

from the intersections between art, science, music,

the natural world, and his poetry reflects that. His

technology,

poems have appeared in Cyphers and Abridged.

technique, she is still experimenting with

You

find her place in the art-world.

can

follow

him

on

Twitter

@scyflynn,

or

a.k.a. 'LNR' is an visual artist with a

nature

and

activism.

As

for

her

styles to

@flynnsc on Instagram. He currently lives in Dublin.

Ciara Colette Hurley Bernadette Gallagher

is a Cork-based poet who

Her

greatest

is a fine art photographer.

interests

in

life

are

spirituality,

has been writing since she was a teenager. Her

meditation, and spending time in nature. As a child

inspiration lies in gardening, cycling, and being in

and

nature. She believes cutting briars is the perfect

which she has learned to overcome through her

meditation.

been

spiritual practice and artistic outlet. In her own

recorded by the University College Dublin Poetry

words, “the emotional alchemy I have carried out

Archive, and she has been invited to read her work

since has been my inspiration.” Follow her journey

in Ireland, UK, US, and at the Sahitya Akademi in

@ciaracolette.fineart on Instagram. She is currently

New Delhi, India. Follow her on Twitter @cornagcat.

based in Co. Cork.

Sophie Greer-Sanders

Linda Ibbotson is

A

selection

of

her

work

has

grew up on the shores of

in

her

teenage

years,

she

suffered

abuse

a poet, artist and photographer

Lough Derg, and works in the Graphics department

from the UK, currently residing in Co. Cork. Her

of an archaeology company in Wicklow, producing

wanderlust and love of classical piano has taken

maps. Her poetry and her work in this regard share

her around the world to photograph events. Her

the

of

work has been published internationally, including

Her work has been featured

in The Irish Times, Irish Examiner, Poethead, and

in in the anthology of new Tipperary Writing, Vessel

more. Most invaluably, she finds listening to other

of

poets a great inspiration. She writes a poetry and

common

themes

human connections.

Voices.

You

of

can

tracing

follow

her

the

on

origins

Instagram

@sophie_sanders_poet.

arts blog: ‘Contemplating the Muse.' Follow her on Instagram

Áine Hayden work

has

is a photographer, and most of her

been

taken

while

travelling

around

Ireland in a VW camper with her family for the past nineteen heroic,

years. yet

Her

work

sometimes

draws

lonely

on

the

quietly

landscapes

and

people of Ireland. Her postcards have appeared in The Winding Stair Book Shop

and in the Dublin

Food Co-op. You can follow her photography on Instagram @ainehayden.iiiiiiii

Bealtaine | 45

@lindaibbotsonpoet

@lindaibbotson

and

Twitter

Rimma Islamgalieva graduated from the Moscow

Kiera McCarrick. To protect her privacy Bealtaine

State University of Print Arts with a degree in book

have not published any biographical information.

graphics,

and

worked

as

a

freelancer

before

becoming a mom and moving to Ireland (where

Siobhán McLaughlin

she's heard mythical creatures live). Now learning

writer from Co. Donegal. Her inspiration is derived

Irish, her hope is to clean up Phoenix Park to invite

from moments of emotional magnitude which only

the fairies back. Follow her creative journey on

poetry

Instagram @selkie_wife, or follow her Flickr @unari

published in The Honest Ulsterman, The Ekphrastic

to read her book of Irish fairy tales. She currently

Review, and Drawn to the Light. She is a creative

lives in Dublin.

writing

can

is an English graduate and

capture.

facilitator

Her

and

poems

creative

have

arts

been

enthusiast.

Follow her on Twitter @siobhan347.

Lucia Kent

grew up between Calabria, Italy, and

Waterford.

Having

two

languages

has

made

Calvin McManus

is a graduate of Applied Music

writing a mainstay of her life, and her connection

at Dundalk Institute of Technology. He has spent

to writing has been so strong over the years that it

the

feels like a reflex. Her inspiration doesn't come in

scene performing, writing and teaching music. He

lightning-strikes but in banks of mist whose origin

is currently a member of independent Irish band

and duration are hard to judge - all that is certain

‘Priorland’ to which he devotes his songwriting and

is that she'll need some paper and a pen. She is

performance

captivated by birds, plants, and the sea, because

Cavan.

last

five

years

in

Dundalk

energies.

He

within

currently

the

music

lives

in

Co.

based

in

Co.

they always bring her to nostalgic realms. She's

Claire Murphy

currently based in Co. Cork.

Kildare.

Aisling Larkin

is a freelance photographer based

She

is

is

a

visual

mainly

artist

interested

in

figurative

painting and portraiture, and has spent the last

in Dublin. She has been working in the medium for

few

years

exploring

and

developing

a

personal

five years and has recently branched out into the

style of portraiture that she hopes delicately and

world of 35mm film photography. Her work tends

beautifully captures aspects of the spirit of the

to focus on magical moments in nature and the

sitter. Follow her on Instagram @clairemurphyart.

often overlooked beauty in everyday life. Follow

Roisin Ní Neachtain

her Instagram @aisling_larkin.

is an emerging autistic poet

and artist based in Co. Kildare. Her work hopes to

Orlaith Lowry

Pre-

reduce memories and perceptions of landscapes

pandemic, travel and experiencing other cultures

down to simple shapes, marks and 'shadows' using

is what made her happy. Now, her favourite place

a

to be is

Strandhill, Sligo. Nothing cheers her up

previously appeared in Ropes, Indelible, Beir Bua

more than a walk on the beach. Colour is what

and Drawn to the Light. She is currently working on

inspires her to draw; the warm harmonious feeling

her first collection of poetry. Follow her on Twitter

of

@starsandmud.

stained

is

glass

an

illustrator

windows

from

are

Sligo.

always

floating

limited

colour

palette.

Her

paintings

have

around her head, and she hopes to emulate them.

Róisín Nolan

Follow her work on Instagram @ulla_designs.

a.k.a.

Roosh

Mulan,

is

a

multi-

disciplinary creative from Dublin. Analog collage is

Jaki McCarrick

is

an

award-winning

writer

of

the answer to airing her frustrations with social,

plays, poetry and fiction. On the basis of her debut

gender

collection,

the

Vancouver

The

renewed, and began constructing collages from

Naturalists premiered in 2018 in New York to rave

an intersectional feminist lens that are critical of

reviews. Jaki is currently working on her second

the Irish government, capitalism, and Catholicism.

inaugural

Jaki Irish

was

longlisted

Fiction

in

Laureate.

2014 Her

for

play

collection of short fiction and her first novel. She

and

political

for

two

norms.

years,

Having

she

felt

lived

in

artistically

Follow her on Instagram @rooshmulan.

currently lives in Dundalk. Follow her on Instagram @jaki_mac.

Bealtaine | 46

Niamh O’Connell from

Newcastle

power

an

holds an MA in Writing Poetry

University.

hour-long

She

daily

believes

walk

can

in

the

confer

to

Alexandra Pud

is a Russian graphic designer, and

illustrator who has been based in Dublin for the last

three

years.

inspired

Moscow’s industrial landscape to Dublin, and with

in UCC’s The Quarryman. She currently resides in

that she decided she’d like to see it for herself.

Cork.

She has more than ten years experience in multiple

Aghogho Sophie Okpara is

inspired

equality

by

and

the

true

is a writer whose work

values

of

pursuing

self-expression.

visual

who

Steve

this in her work. She has previously been published

a

illustrator,

by

Simpson,

as

Irish

was

commune with nature, and she hopes to impart

scopes

an

She

designer.

compared

Follow

her

on

Instagram @alexandrapud.

justice,

Most

of

her

Grace Sampson

is a poet from Co. Limerick who

inspiration to write comes to her from Jesus and his

invokes Irishness and growth within her work. She

teachings. She has a passion for content creation,

had a selection of poems published in The Galway

whether that's on the blog she has kept for the last

Review,

ten years, or shooting and producing videos for her

book on the experimentalism of Thom Gunn. Her

YouTube

inspiration comes from friends, her psyche, and the

channel

It's

Aghogho.

Follow

her

Instagram @itsaghogho.

and

is

a

collaborator

on

an

upcoming

Irish nature. She is working on her first collection of poetry.

Ger O'Malley

is

originally

from

Dublin

but

now

lives in a railway cottage near Miltown Malbay in

Ruth Seavers

west Clare. He's an avid reader who finds that a

writer living with her girlfriend in Dublin. A Media,

good story which lingers with you long after you've

Culture

finished

most

interest in all things pop culture of both high and

motivating reasons to write. He has co-written a

low brow. She finds the dichotomy between both

play called Stages, been writing songs for thirty

brows of particular interest. Fond of cheese.

years,

reading

and

is

it

to

currently

be

one

of

developing

the

a

film

&

is

a

Journalism

twenty-nine

graduate,

year

she

old

has

a

baby

keen

idea

Annemarie Stanley

around a story of mythological Ireland.

is an artist who grew up in

New York, was educated in Ireland, and is now

Jennifer O'Neill Kaan

is an Irish poet, singer and

based in Cork city where she has a studio. Her

teacher

and

Sussex,

technique of fusing legal texts with oil paintings

England for ten years. She has stolen moments

aims to explore the effect of law on society. She is

between

the

currently working on a series to be exhibited in

happy chaos of raising her two boys, to write. Her

Germany in 2021. You can follow her on Instagram

poetry

@a.stanleyartist.

from

Louth,

singing

seeks

parent-child

to

in

the

has

band,

explore

lived

Caveau,

questions

relationships

in

and

of

the

and

identity,

weight

of

history. Follow her on Instagram @jenniferkaan.

Thady Trá

has

found

solace

this

past

year

in

printing his work in his darkroom in Clonakilty, Co.

Nathanael O’Reilly

is an Irish-Australian residing

Cork. His photos have been featured in The West

in Texas, and has been writing for more than thirty

Cork People, Irish Times, and Irish Examiner.

years. His most recent books include (Un)belonging

always has at least some sort of camera by his

and

have

side, be it film or digital, but one place he always

appeared in journals & anthologies published in

finds himself taking photos is the beach. Follow

thirteen

him on Instagram @thadytraphoto.

BLUE.

More

than

countries.

200

Follow

of

his

him

poems

on

Instagram

@nathanael_73.

Simpson,

an

Irish

illustrator,

who

compared

Moscow’s industrial landscape to Dublin, and with that she decided she’d like to see it for he an Irish illustrator, Bealtaine | 47

who

compared

Moscow’s

industrial

landscape to Dublin, and with that she decided

He

Have you any work you would like to submit to Bealtaine Magazine? Please direct all submissions to submissions@bealtainemag.ie. Please check our website for submission guidelines. Please note that after publication copyright remains with the author.

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Our focus is on all things intersectional, inclusive, environmental, and empowering. We prize the values which go into making art for art’s sake. And we would like that to shine through. Whether it's scribbling or philosophical musings, we want to hear your voice out!

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Finally, thank you for reading.

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