SWERVE 4 SUMMER 2025

SWERVE

SWERVE

NEW WRITING AND VISUAL ART SUMMER 2025

NEW WRITING AND VISUAL ART SUMMER 2025

FOREWORD

Thanks to everyone who submitted to SWERVE in 2025. There is never enough space for all the very accomplished work that we receive from our annual call for submissions and the decision-making process only gets more difficult each year. We feel certain you will enjoy the work that we chose, we only wish we could have published more. Many thanks to our invited contributors: artists Ulysse Massey, Christopher Colm Morrin, Nick Wonham and Ania Ready; poets Mary Noonan, Jonathan Wonham, Kemi George Simpson, Afric McGlinchey and author Danny Denton.

SWERVE is not just a journal. From our base at a converted medical centre in Skibbereen, West Cork Ireland, we provide artist and writer residencies throughout the year. In 2025 we welcome poets Jonathan Wonham, Jason Stoneking; writer and editor Sarah Byrne; and artists Sarah Long and Henny Lees. SWERVE’s Lit Lounge provides an intimate performance platform for writers and SWERVE Project Space exhibits the work of emerging artists and visual artists from the journal. Each year SWERVE arranges an annual writer/artist collaboration for publication. This year’s collaboration features Cork poet Nathan van Sweden and London artist Antony Buonomo, whose project will be published in SWERVE 5. We also host the bi-monthly SWERVE Zoom Writers’ Group. None of this would be possible without the hard work and commitment of everyone at SWERVE: editors Dan Fraser, Catherine Ronan and our newest recruit, editorial assistant Harrison Dutton. Thanks also to our subeditors, Janet Heeran, Donal Hayes and Sue O’Connor.

Secondly, exciting news! SWERVE is going biannual: we will now be publishing in summer and at Christmas, allowing us to feature more writers and artists and to commission two covers per year.

We are also pleased to announce that in 2025 we started to work with Crawford Art College, Cork City, to provide two prizes each year: a solo show and residency for graduating artists. This year’s recipients are Billie Adele, who received the residency award and Patrick Penney who received the exhibition prize. We are also working with University College Cork to provide a writing residency prize for an MA Creative Writing graduate.

This year’s resident writer is Harrison Dutton who was our first UCC intern and is now our editorial assistant.

We feel it is essential to encourage new and emerging writers and artists. It is from personal experience that we understand the difficulties faced by creative practitioners and how early-career support can make a very real difference.

As we go to press, the planet seems to be in a very dark place and the word Resistance comes to mind.

Resistance can be overt: such as saying “No” on a march for human rights, and ingenious ways are being found for saying it. We are saying “No” by selling coffee, making earrings, painting postcards, auctioning visual art and creating music. Saying "No" can be tacit: creative work, whatever its subject matter, can be a light in the darkness and an antidote to the world's insanity. This year we are proud to print work by Jonathan Wonham, a poet who is saying “No” loud and clear. In his two volumes on Gaza the poetry is accompanied by news reports documenting the genocide from day one to day 526. We consider this work to be a vital historical testament, and Jonathan has generously allowed us to publish six of his poems together with linocuts by Nick Wonham, his brother. We can stand together as writers and artists to counteract hatred and conflict in our creative work as well as actively in the street; at the time of writing both seem essential.

Independent art initiatives such as SWERVE are a crucial part of the arts ecosystem – interesting things happen when artists and writers create their own spaces. Everything that we do is achieved on minimal arts funding and SWERVE exists on a huge amount of goodwill and enthusiasm. In 2025 Cork County Council awarded us arts grant funding that pays half our printing costs, with the balance coming from two anonymous benefactors. We would not exist without our private and public funders, and we end with heartfelt thanks to Cork County Arts, our private funders, all our contributors and editors and to you, our readers.

Thank you!

ULYSSE MASSEY CONTENTS

PORRIDGE CAN HELP YOU

MARY NOONAN

THREE POEMS: EPITHALAMIUM TINNED MOSS

25

JONATHAN WONHAM

SIX POEMS: HOW DARE YOU! EXECUTION GHOSTS OF GAZA AURORA NO REST RIDDLE

29

KEMI GEORGE SIMPSON

POETICS OF A ROOTED MIGRANT: AN INTERVIEW WITH POET AFRIC McGLINCHEY

MARY McCOLLEY

THREE POEMS: BLUE HOUR HORSEMAN WINTER'S HAND

51

SEÁN COFFEY

SHORT STORY: MUGGLING THROUGH

55

MARY HOWLETT

POEM: DEAD WOMAN'S CLOTHES

59

PAUL TEMME

THREE POEMS: SEA WALKERS THE CERTAINTY OF STONE THE TENT OF JAEL

61

KEELAN GALLAGER

SHORT STORY: IRISH LIGHTNING

65

CHRISTINA HENNEMANN

POEM: NOVEMBER BED

73

DOREENA JENNINGS

THREE POEMS: MINI CLUBMAN REMEMBERING KILCOMAN HAMMER BLOW

75

JOHN KNOWLES

POEM: THE MECHANISM

79

KALI JOY CRAMER

POEM: BAPTISM

81

IMAGE: IDA MITRANI

9 Page

41

NTENTS Continued

8.26 am STUCK BEHIND A TRACTOR

A BARFOOT

TWO POEMS: OUR BACKS COULD HOLD TANGERINES MY MOTHER KEPT HER HEAD

87

AN McCORMICK

SHORT STORY: BADGER

91

EPH HOBAN

TWO POEMS: MORNING BREAKS TWO WINDOWS

95

Page

AIG COX

POEM: OUTSIDE 13 RUE DE LA BRÈCHE, LAUTREC

99

RVILLE QUIGLEY

POEM: NO REST ROOM

101

DELINE JONES

SHORT STORY: TELL ME WHAT TO DO

103

R REDDIN

TWO POEMS: TRANSIT STILL

113

RY MELVIN GEOGHEGAN

TWO POEMS: HE LIKE NO OTHER UNDERSTOOD AFTER THE MAMMOGRAM

117

RRISON DUTTON

INTERVIEW: AUTHOR DANNY DENTON

121

GHAN CARRICK

TWO POEMS: but stops for a moment on the threshold * back on the bargain *

127

DIE DEVLIN McMORROW

SHORT STORY: THE FEMINIST

131

VISUAL ART

Page(s)

GEORGIE BATES

3

LEIA BERNSTEIN

74, 82

CHRISTOPHER COLM MORRIN CATHY DILLON OMER FARUK CICEK KEVIN HAMILTON

11, 15, 24 27 52 103, 108, 112

LINN HANSEN

114, 115

MARY HOWLETT

60,138

ALICE HSIEH

41, 50

RAMZI IBEN AMMAR EMILY Mc GARDLE

55 88, 132

NATHAN LOWRY

94

AMALIA MARQUES

100

ULYSSE MASSEY

9, 20

IDA MITRANI

5

STE MURRAY

79

GUGULETHU NDLALANI

64

ANIA READY

144

SINÉAD REILLY

78

LEE SHANAHAN

84, 120

KARLY SMITH

96

RICHARD SMYTH

101

GORAN TOMIC PASCAL UNGERER NICK WONHAM

128, 129 65, 70 30, 32, 34, 36, 38, 40

RISTOPHER COLM MORRIN and ULYSSE MASSEY

AGES: CHRISTOPHER COLM MORRIN/ULYSSE MASSEY

away for 12 or 13 years, pretty much all that time away from my home. I have only visited a few times, but knowing I was going to an area close to where my grandfather comes from was really special, he’s from Ventry, County Kerry. This area was important to me, so I was really excited to go there and return to the southwest part of Ireland.

UM

I remember I told Danjoe before, just before you arrived, I told him, yeah, he's Irish. I didn't really know

where Ventry was. I told him you were from around, and Danjoe welcomed you as the child coming back to motherland.

CCM

Danjoe, one of the directors, who also took care of us for the time that we were there. I think he

definitely had his own opinion of people from Kerry for sure, it was always fun to hear his crazy stories as well.

Of course, I didn't know who to expect. I didn't know who was going to be in the house. I met this young French guy who was you, who had to obviously deal with me as well. I think that whole process of our personalities was really a big thing that I enjoyed. We were somewhat very different, but also very not different at the same time. I think that was... I'm very sensitive to people.

UM

I remember I was looking for you because you told me you were arriving. I saw your friends in the

garden because the road to the house is not on the map.

CCM

We came from the back way. We came from the... Oh, yeah, it was the back garden. That's the thing. I

came from the back garden. I thought it was the front, which is perfect.

UM

The neighbor's place. So you just happened to be there in the garden. I was so surprised. I was waiting

for you in front of the house and you were already in the garden.

CCM

We just turned up, which is already an interesting beginning. But yeah, it was nice to meet you there. I

remember you were in a bit of a daze. I think you hadn't seen anyone in a while.

UM

Yeah, a week there alone seems like… time disappears.

CCM

What was that moment like for you, actually?

arrived I was welcomed by Benedict, a German architect. We had a great time, great conversations. There were a lot of things going on, especially because it was his last week. He was working and moving around a lot. It was really buzzing in the house. He left for the airport at three or four o'clock. It was very early in the morning. Then I woke up to an empty house. I visited Nick and Josh two or three days before you arrived, so I was not totally alone, but I felt the silence was a bit too sudden. I still loved that peace and loneliness, but I was happy that you were coming. It was peaceful, and I knew it was going to go on like this, to stay peaceful. Even though we were suddenly four, your friends were also very calm and gentle people. I remember that really well. Just you three in the back garden. The weather was light grey on that day, I think, but still nice. There was no wind. I don't know why, but I was expecting something great. I didn't fear anything. I didn't have any fear of disturbance.

CCM

There was no wind. Yeah, I do remember that. I remember just walking right through the house, you

standing there quite open and welcoming and yeah, I knew instantly that your energy was like, alright, he's a deep soul, and that's enough for me. He's able to handle me then as well. I think that's a big thing, isn't it? To be able to hold the energy together.Yeah, we did. We definitely did.

UM

What did we eat? I probably cooked fish, no?

CCM

You made fish. I remember you made fish, and I think it was some rice, even with lemon.

UM

The food was important. The kitchen was so beautiful, I was really enjoying a lot having this space and…

so much space. I followed you then with the porridge.

CCM

Yeah, you did in the end.

UM

I mean, it's great because especially when you start, you want to work, you want to do things in your day.

At the beginning, I was spending a lot of time just cooking and enjoying the scenery. When you go to work, porridge is a great start, it gives you so much energy for so long. It's great, too. I mean, it's lovely.

CCM

It is, yeah. I think Porridge is great...it can help out when times are tough.

UM:

That could be the title of this piece: porridge can help you. There were only two things I brought back

actually; I brought back things to make Irish breakfast. Black pudding, white pudding. And some cheese, of course.

M

Oh, beautiful.

You were comfortable in this house very quickly. I mean, that's the magic of this house also. It doesn't a week or two to feel at home.

M

Oh, absolutely not. I think when you're surrounded by utter silence, a place changes as well. It's not just

inside of the house, it's what's outside that really impacts the space that we're in. What people don't maybe

w about this house is that you're always hearing the wind. The wind is probably one of my favourite things in

tence. And there's not much wind in Berlin. It's just not that... It's crazy, but it's a different type of wind. It's

h more of a breeze in Berlin. But of course, when you're on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, you're going to

some solid wind. It comforts me. It comforts me when I hear the wind, it reminds me that the magic is just

re. And that's what's great about nature. It's a massive sign that tells you this is the way to get to magic land.

that energy that was around the house as well. I think over time, when a house is surrounded by something

that, it holds so much anyway, beyond my understanding. I think we were just in the middle of a very sacred

e of land, and home.

The wind was so important. Benedict built a wind house, just a frame with a huge plastic cover attached

t that was flowing with the wind. We had two types of wind, actually. I remember Danjoe saying that, “Wind

m the east is no good for the man or the beast”. We could see why pretty fast, because the temperature

pped really, really fast when the wind was coming from the land, from the east. But we had almost 20 degrees

the whole time, and mainly because of the Gulf Stream and the wind from the sea. But with the wind from

sea, that was when the house was shaking. I remember the windows.

M

M

Yeah, that's the extension.Yeah.

I remember those windows. I don't know how they still stand.

I was there, as you know, again in February 2025 by myself completely. To be alone for a whole month,

n, without you there was like, whoa, like some days I really just wanted to have Ulysse around. But it was the

ther in that room. I actually ended up... I worked in your room. I didn't use the outside studio. I just worked

ctly where you were. And I sat in front of your loom.Yeah. I hung out right in front of your loom. I sat exactly

coming down that window. There's a great moon, as you know. You catch a great moon as well on that side. But anyway, it was sometimes extremely comforting that room. And then at other times, it felt like there was almost a spirit in the room at times. You know what I mean? Yeah. I had ins and outs with that room, actually. There was something about it.

UM

Yes, there are windows on both sides. When we were there in September, the sun was shone straight

into the house. When you stand in that room, you have your shadow straight on the back wall, this crazy orange light. There's a small corridor leading to the garden door. And it's true that you can imagine anything could come from that door.

CCM

Yeah. To be honest, I also closed the red door many times. I just somehow was like, no. You can get quite

cabin fever with it. It's understandable.You're out on your own and nature is with you.

UM

But how is it different from the little studio? Because the view is very different. In the stone house, you

have a view from the top.You're really on top of the landscape.

CCM

Of course, when I was there in September in that room, I was personally really happy because it was just

utterly silent. I was able to let go of any preconditioned ideas. It was quite easy to do that. There wasn't really a distraction apart from a great view – which did distract me. I spent many hours just looking at it and taking it in.

Yeah. What about you? Did you enjoy your room?

UM

At first, before you came, I worked for a bit in the stone house because I knew I was going to get dirty,

to leave fibres and threads everywhere. Actually, I thought for a painter, the studio was better because the windows were much larger. I was happy to be in the studio, and especially because I could sit wherever I wanted.

I could sit on the ground, weaving. It was a really great place, actually, to look at your work. I remember you put your paintings on the black tiles to look at them. I was laying my thread there, the fibres, to see the colours. And with so much space, you can watch your work from a distance. In that way, I really enjoyed that space. And then it was great that I had so much space to leave my mess around, I like to make my threads in the same place I weave, and at the same time.

From the time when we were both there. I remember you had really intense sessions in the stone house.

I remember you were disappearing for three to four hours straight without going to the kitchen. Then I would see you pop up sometimes through the garden.

e... I was tired at the end. I was so tired at the end, physically, but I was rested mentally. The workspace is so

at. You want to do something, and it was pretty intense. Weaving is also really intense. That's what I was going

ay, it was great we had some tennis games together now and then.

M

Yeah, I just realized, it’s so funny. I actually said this to a few friends after I got home, the last thing I

ected was for my Albers Foundation residency to basically turn into a tennis residency. That was honestly one

he funniest parts of the whole trip for me. It was meeting Nick. Looking back, I suspect that’s what I’m most

eful for, and that’s really the whole point of an art residency: to let things flow. Yeah, of course I wanted to

k creatively – on art, thinking, sketching, and all of that. But the last thing I expected was to meet Nick, and he so kind. I had only been there a day when he was already asking, “Hey, do you guys play tennis?”… and

ore you knew it, after a week, we were pretty much going down there every day to play tennis. And he had

rly every tennis player from the village come play with us. At first, I was getting a little frustrated because I

ted to just work. But then I realized – no, this is exactly it. This feeling of community, of togetherness, of

vement, of returning to my body. Returning to something that, for me, is a symbol of creativity – because I

d to play a lot of tennis, table tennis, and football. I love sport, as we've discussed.

That's why I think sports and art are really close in the way that... When we started playing tennis, I had

elearn, to learn again because I hadn't played tennis for 10 years. And I always feel this process of constant

arning, doing sport or art.

M

I have said this to you before, and to a few other people, I have always felt that sports in general, or even

visuals of sports are closely connected to how I relate to images. I was always very fascinated with the lines the colors of tennis courts and tables, and pitches. Anything to do with structure or geometry with sport. I

k because I was looking at it so much as a kid with my dad, the only thing I can explain why I ended up doing

al art to people sometimes is that I just looked obsessively at a TV screen so much with geometric structure shape and composition and color. I just couldn’t believe it—when we were actually heading down to the

nis court, there was this huge green grid with white lines, and it was just so beautiful.

It didn't stop us from looking at the landscape, and there were those horses passing by also. We were

ays stopping to admire it – even Nick, who you’d think would be used to playing tennis in that landscape. We

e all stopping and looking at the crazy colors. I remember we were trying to take pictures, but it was useless.

member the times when we couldn't really separate the sea from the sky, there was a third color in between.

was happening.

CCM

I know Nick told you about Anni – one of the greatest things she said was if you can be creative with

nothing, with whatever is around you, then that’s a success. I have always remembered that. I think that’s the most important message art is trying to convey: to see – just to really see what’s in front of you. That alone is going to fill your heart. It quickly became obvious that there is this veil that's sometimes in front of us so that we forget what's actually happening. We were lucky enough to have this deeply mystical experience down there, which is pretty much impossible to describe in words. We're losing the battle here quickly, trying to describe how surreal and beautiful it all was.

UM

I was happy you had the same point of view about sports, we were meeting on a lot of points. We were

talking about football or tennis, how you learn a space. You learn to move in a space, both in paintings and in arts.

At the end, it becomes you, this space becomes you. You don't have to look at it. It's in your body. It's in your muscle memory, it flows so naturally, at one point.

CCM

It's not just sport. Obviously, it's everywhere, isn't it? In the end, we're all involved in some picture called

life. We're all in a composition of some sort is what I'm trying to get at. You know what I mean? Whether it's a weaved grid or whether it's an offbeat canvas, I think that's the joy of art, to show the strange, to be able to express the strange that we're all involved in. It's a bizarre experience. And I think art is sometimes very uncomfortable for people, but it’s also like a moth to the flame, almost. You cannot not want to investigate it because it's something extra that's been calling you.

UM

That's really interesting because it gives another perspective on what an idea is. I remember I talked

about that with a Belgian philosopher, whose name is Vinciane Despret. I interviewed her a long time ago. We were talking about having ideas and how they are shared. It's not something that is your own, but it's something which is shared between you and your environment. I remember she told me that it's something flying around you, the fact that it comes to your mind, it's you catching a butterfly with a net on top of your head. It's really close to that idea of just your environment coming into your body that makes you feel like you have to do it. The whole context made us work, made us play tennis. I think it really appears in the things we did there.

But the fact that it went so smoothly into our work process was a bit surprising. I told you how surprising it was and at the same time not so much when I saw the dogfish in Prison Cove. Swimming there, everything was saying dogfish, the kelp, the colors, the rocks, and even the depth of the water. I told you that I

I never saw it because the water is so murky. I used to see it in the fishmongers only. It's a fish that is so

utiful with those big eyes. And it's the only fish that I saw there that was looking at me also. All the other

es fled as soon as I saw them. It was the only fish to stay there and look back at me in the eyes. That was a bit

ous. But I was so happy to see it there. I told you a lot about this fish. I told you about it as a meeting.

M

Yeah, but this is exactly where it gets interesting for me, actually, in the end, because in my own humble

nion, I think the love and the need and the search for a deeper relationship to existence is what you were

ting. And I think without going woo-woo on it, it's like there's a manifestation almost that you dreamt, and

n comes to you. I think that's so magical. I think this goes along with faith for me, this goes into belief, this

s into imagination. You can choose to see what’s on the outside, but also to look within yourself. To open up

r imagination – that’s what I take from this story. We want to stop really doubting. We want to believe in

ic. And I think that's really the event. That's what you're hooked on. That's what you're almost addicted to. You

t to let go of what’s known, that’s what I talk about, because the realization of magic only comes from…

It's magic because you know before the realization.

M

Yes, exactly.

And that's how also the ideas and the work came into this residency. I guess that's why I talk about

eting this fish. That's where magic lays, between how you expect and not expect something to happen.

M

It's all in there. It's more questions than answers. It's always the way in the end. I think with artists, we're

stioning everything.

And the story about this dogfish went on after you left. So that's one of the first things I told you about

n we were discussing in the studio. I believe some magical things happened around us to show us things. I saw

first dogfish two or three days before you arrived. I told you, I think the second time, I saw two dogfish with

gg. They were resting just next to the egg. It was crazy to see that I guessed they were a couple because they

e... I don't know if dogfish look after their eggs, but they were just there. To see this situation shortly after

ng a dogfish for the first time was magic. After you left there was a windstorm, so the water was not clear

more and I never saw them again. On the last day, before Danjoe drove me to the ferry, I remember that he annoyed because I said, “Yeah, I'm ready. I'm almost ready” and then Sebastian, the last resident I was with,

ve me to the sea to say goodbye.

to be the last thing I did there. I went to the water and the waves brought an egg, an empty shark egg to me,

open egg. And I was shocked. That's why that's the other thing I brought back home. I took it with me, with

cheese and the black pudding.

And a bit of salt from the sea on my body.

And at that precise time, I said, “Wow, what's happening now?” Also, the funny thing is, it was maybe that

e of the year when the eggs hatch, there were many... I looked up and there were many, many, many eggs

ting in the kelp. That was a truly magical moment.

M

That's incredible. I think that proves when you open your heart to a place, it gives you a lot. It's like

hin solitude, love comes, or special things happen, basically. I always say that to my friend, a few of my friends, a

of my closest friends, I have always said the statement: “how special it all is”. And yeah, it's something that

es me remind myself how special it all is. It is special. This is what it's about in the end. It's not about even the

al art itself. In the end, it’s the memories that are in your heart that matter.

I remember this in the same way as when I called you from the place we went together after, I called you said, “Hey, Chris, look out your window”. I was so far away. I was maybe one kilometer away from the...

be I'm exaggerating.

M

That was the moment when I saw you with the binoculars.

I told you, “Chris, the sun is straight on the house, and I'm so far from it”, but the only thing I could see

he coastline was our house. It was just a point shining…

M

On my bedroom windows.

Your bedroom windows. That's why I called you. It's crazy. I'm so far. I was sure you could see me because

could see was your window. I mean, it looked like a star.

M

Yeah, I looked through the binoculars, first of all, and I saw you. And I think I might have some photos of

. Maybe not.

I didn't see those.

eventually. I think we went a week later, didn't we? But that was so amazing. Just to even see you, to see your silhouette with the sunset behind you and you're just a vague figure, glistening through the ocean water, almost. It was just magical. That's the magic. One of the most magical experiences of that trip. There were so many though.

There were so many experiences. Anyway, sorry, I'm losing track.

UM

It’s funny that all those things happened in such a tiny place because you had the car at the end. For most

of the residency, we were just walking around to the tennis court or Prison Cove. Everything happened on that road, on that big piece of rock. I felt this was magic because it can't be.You can't imagine it. It's impossible.

CCM

Yeah, it's almost impossible. Exactly. I think open-minded hearts can find joy in a grain of salt if they

wanted to. I think that's true. To be really honest, you could probably put us anywhere and we'd find something in the end. But it's not that hard to find magical things in that part of the world. It's full of healing. It really is. It's a very healing part of the world. I think everyone should go there and stop thinking, basically. But yeah, just that one strip. I think there were a couple of farmers down that road.

UM

And that was the house with the robots mowing the grass.

CCM

Yeah, that was ridiculous. Just seeing it cutting the grass every day. Not cut yet. But the sunsets that we

saw, we were very blessed to see the sunsets going down that road. And of course, Nick lived there as well. And to just hear the intimate stories of Josef and Anni from him, just to be able to have that inside story, really, to the life of those two wonderful people. That was also incredible. It was amazing.

UM

It's funny that at the end, we're calling them Josef and Anni.

CCM: Yeah, I talk to them a little bit. It's wild.

UM

At the same time, we had their books on our studio tables.

CCM

Yeah, we had the books, and we had Nick. I think Nick is the encyclopedia of these people. I'll never

forget just how much he opened up to us. He really did take care of us, actually. It was incredible.

When I look back at the work that I did for that period of time, the work is so different. I did lots of different things, there was no one theme that I painted or drew about or wrote about. There were so many

sey met at Carraig-na-gCat, Glandore, West Cork, even painting around 30 repetitious tiny little works of a section of the tennis court in the end. I played so of three arts residencies provided worldwide by the fhand tennis Annithat Albers I ended Foundation. up just drawing it a lot, and I had no expectations to do that whatsoever. So for me, I

k that's such a lovely thing to be able to let whatever comes and influence us. m the The Albers Foundation website: It was great to see you too. It was great to see you work on the loom, to see you just take your time and raig-na-gCat is located in abytraditional farmhouse ost at points being defeated it. I think there were moments where you were tired of everything about it. ut two miles from the picturesque fishing village of in the end, was just wonderful your dedication to do that. And I think Anni would definitely be ndore, it itoffers wide views toofsee untouched ntryside, ud of thatthe forocean, sure. and distant islands beyond.

You knowis when I went backwhich in February, I hadto a last whiskey out of the bottle that we bought and it was raig-na-gCat an Irish phrase, translates knteresting of the Cats, referring to alone an age-old about I was a little bit disappointed no one else finished the moment to be havingfolktale that whiskey. y cats who would steal the harvest. tle that we bought, but I'm very grateful that I finished it anyway. I'm not a huge drinker, but I do like whiskey.

:

I'm sure it must have been weird, almost as if you just left.

M: I know. It was so strange.

:

Was there still some of your porridge?

M: No, the porridge was gone.

REE POEMS

THALAMIUM

AGE: CATHY DILLON

r last will and testament is marriage bond, piece of paper from City Hall.

r funeral wishes, each small word hed in your hand, have the makings nuptial poem, and a playlist – an, Mitchell, Lennon, Marley.

mple silver band, given years ago do as the wedding ring. for the bridal bed –

rrow berth freshly hollowed er black hills, where rains blow in daily from the Atlantic. ee hundred miles from here.

TINNED A gift from a French friend, stowed in my suitcase. And now here.

‘Palombe en boîte’. Columba palumbus.

Wood pigeon in a tin, squatting on a shelf.

I can’t think of this dove without hearing the susurration of leaves – chestnut, sycamore – in damp glens, in the green of May. It’s raining fern, laurel.

What would I find, should I open the can?

A heart beating in a pulsing breast, pumping the base note to the soughing of summer trees?

A dove pouring its mourning cry through green?

I will bury you under the grey moss of Iceland, that miracle of down furring volcanic tundra.

Did you know the planet was hostile to growth until sea surges hurled algae onto land and they hooked into crevices, becoming moss?

Here, the fragile stems – only centimetres tall – have taken hundreds of years to grow without roots, feeding on iced air and water.

It seems right to lay you in time’s comforter, where minute spore-pods shower ash with impossible life. Where moss gives lightly, but resolutely, to petrified earth.

POEMS

W DARE YOU!

AGES: NICK WONHAM

urday 18th November 2023: Day 43)

ple are not numbers. w dare you think of me as a number! n in death I am substance de of something delicate sitive skin, woven cloth, braided hair.

ons of moments in which I existed gone, blown out of me brutally. did not ask to know any of them ore extracting them ne calculated blast.

am so worthless to you do you bother to count me? you spend your whole life nting your money, your bombs?

I don’t give you permission to count me.

ead, learn what my moments were: n I lay in bed, when I went to school, n I sat under a sky full of stars, n I made tea for my family, read a book walked to the mosque to pray.

uld go on, but I haven’t got all day. ces are calling me, telling me eave you, telling me you will never understand, who only want our land.

urday 20th January 2024: Day 106)

ummary, it’s an execution. killers walk away free

r their task of transforming g souls into corpses.

ls and floors drip blood, pty cartridges roll into corners.

urs later, still face down, ressed as they were told

dead lie cold, as if praying, s of bullets in their backs.

the Al Awda building, Gaza City, 19 December 2023

ursday 1st February 2024: Day 118)

ghosts of Gaza rise from where they lay in the street - shot in the heart

he stomach they walk waist-deep through sewage-flooded alleyways, rise

hordes from desecrated graveyards where bulldozers slough through

nge mud.

ghosts of Gaza slip through the small spaces in piles of rubble that were

rtment buildings before the bombs began to fall. They are on their way

mewhere, drifting through olive groves, gliding over strawberry fields and

r the concrete wall that marks the edge of the concentration camp.

y appear as a great army on the march except there are children,

usands of them, and women old and young, some pregnant, some

ping. Slowly they move in the dawn mist across the mechanically farmed

s of Israel, past the watering machinery, the barns full of tractors and

ughs.

them where they are going, they only raise a finger to heaven. They are

ting east, along wide motorways, through planned towns with white walls rows of swimming pools. They are returning to their former homes in

hills where goats once grazed and cicadas chirred in the cool of evening.

the rugged slopes they rest like a grey mist, waiting for the sun to warm

m again for death has left them cold. They look for the first time across lands where they once dwelt, searching the contours for an emotion

y once knew, raising a hand in greeting to the other souls.

osts of Gaza, they keep arriving, an endless host, settling down in the

m dust among the fragrant acacia bushes where black goats once grazed.

urday 11 May 2024: Day 218)

n’t dance around. n’t point. se are the dead souls rling in the atmosphere. y can see you ou can see them. y have come to ask, “Why?"

how loaded the sky, vy with light, ning like a carousel, ning away ards the horizon and corners of your eyes. w beautiful, raordinary.

e were only sleeping. were running away. were fasting. father was not at home. were catching leaflets. were running from machine gun fire. were playing kite n the missiles fell.”

re’s a soft moan, nfinite hum he souls glide over our heads spering, ur time will come.”

m the witness of Omar Alnjer

sday 9 July 2024: Day 277)

day long we wait the sun to be spent, night's cool escape m the heat of the tents.

yet, if night falls, n we'll still not rest the pounding of shells ues our wakefulness.

ay 26th July 2024: Day 294)

re are no walls around me now. hing to keep the bones in the dogs out.

ry day I expand more, growing terrifying but random way. hungry, and I crawl with my mouth open.

ry day, I subsume new parts of the city my own shadowy being: parks, streets, walks, the courtyards of houses, enhouses and schools.

lly, I’m everywhere you look, ugly features startling you. hing you do or say can appease me. t want more. And then more.

n down by the seashore re the white lilies grow, even he hearts of mothers and lovers, in the eyes of family and friends, ll find me there.

at am I? Who can say? y God has the answers. you will learn as well, some day.

MI GEORGE SIMPSON INTERVIEWS POET AFRIC McGLINCHEY

AGES: ALICE HSIEH

KEMI GEORGE SIMPSON INTERVIEWS POET AFRIC McGLINCHEY IMAGES: ALICE HSIEH

id memoir, she has received multiple Arts Council awards, including two literature bursaries. She lives in West Cork,

re she works as an editor, reviewer and workshop facilitator. She is also a mentor on the Munster Literature Centre

el and the Poetry Ireland National Mentoring Programme.

S

Your book titles fascinate me, especially your latest chapbook and hybrid memoir, Tied to the Wind. The

moir captures the light and vast landscapes of southern Africa, where you spent most of your formative years,

e The Throat Bird is filled with shadow-side motifs. Which opportunities and risks do you associate with the

ge of being ‘tied to the wind’ as opposed to being a winged creature trapped inside a gullet?

Intriguing question, Kemi. The “tied to the wind” idea was inspired by a note that a stranger gave me in

s where I was living at the age of 22. The note said: If you tie yourself to anything, tie yourself to the wind. That

ation allowed me to think of myself as a nomad, a free spirit.

I visualised a white feather against blue space to evoke freedom and lightness. Of course, the feather is

ect to the whim or momentum of the wind. So, there’s no real agency. It’s a paradox. By contrast, The Throatcover shows a newborn bird trapped inside a human throat. I wanted to suggest constraint, repression,

cked utterances. Also, the bird does not belong there. Perhaps the images have more in common than at first

ear. The feather and the bird are both suspended, both fragile, both in threatening spaces.

S

In your poems there is a rich density that invites cerebral engagement. You also achieve space and depth

the page. In The Throat Bird, you stagger sentences, and in Tied to the Wind, you pressure lyrics to one side of

page or confine narrative paragraphs to the top half of each page, leaving white space below. How important

rm to creating poetic experiences?

I’m a big devotee of white space, which can be as impactful as silence. As the American architect, Frank

d Wright, said, “Space is the breath of art”. I also love meandering sentences, which suggest “a mind thinking,

magination … in process and flux”, as Hopkins puts it. Form can also include one’s use of punctuation. Alice

wald’s Nobody, for instance, is punctuation-free. In The Throat-Bird, and in my new collection, À la belle étoile, I

t full stops. For me, it adds a sense of being in the unfinished moment.

Form can be a compelling kind of scaffolding too. Tied to the Wind, is a hybrid form: memoir as an

etion of individual prose poems. Each titled micro-memory is written on a single page, and in the present

world around her. Perhaps the white space on each page also implies a silence – what is left un-uttered or is unknown. As you mentioned, another part of the scaffolding of the book is that, after every ten pages, I include a lyric, which flows vertically down the right side of the page. Cumulatively, the lyrics describe a parachute jump in slow motion, driving the narrative forward in time to when the protagonist is eighteen. Why did such a fearful child, terrified of heights, undertake a skydive? What drove her to risk it?

KGS

Self- command You’re here, a comet on the rim of the sky, as the earth spins and hurtles.

You look up for proof that your parachute is still open, the wind shouting inside it.

Before and after have been sheared away.

There is only this. (from Tied to the Wind)

I enjoy your rhythmic use of language in poems like Yesterday, today and tomorrow, Swordplay and Let us gull.

I wonder how your self-confessed bibliomania, accompanied by your love of music, work together to produce deft and pleasing lines?

AM

Thank you for that compliment. And yes, I have to admit, I have a hunger for books and own far more

than I will ever be able to read. I review books too, mostly poetry collections, so I get sent loads of those. I’m also a compulsive borrower of books from the library. I read world poetry, fiction, non-fiction, flash, short stories, essays. You might think that some books aren’t worth the time investment – but as a writer, you learn something even from the bad ones. If you read only what you like, you can’t develop your taste, or learn to identify le mot juste: appropriate, well-timed.

of a writer’s signature. Like handwriting. But false notes can slip in if we forget to read our work aloud

ore submitting it to journals. There are poems of mine out there that stumble, that make me wince, because I

n’t pay enough attention to the rhythm first. But what writer doesn’t have regrets?! As Beckett said, Try again.

again. Fail better.

S

I love that quote. Have you ever considered being a horror writer? I find the poems Cat Music and Doll

ifying. In relation to Doll, how has living in southern Africa developed your understanding of nature’s impact

he human psyche and what part does poetry play in our human appreciation of nature?

No, I have never thought of being a horror writer, and in fact, I hate horror movies! Cat Music is graphic,

e. But the outcome is that an element of the drowned cat survives to become beautiful music. One of the

mes in Ghost of the Fisher Cat is transcendence, and this poem is one example of that. The second poem you

ntioned – Doll, from my chapbook, The Throat-Bird – is an eco-poem. The poem points to dangerous ignorance, robotic, doll-like obliviousness of consequences: “isn’t the sea forever?” asks the child. When you consider the

ost limitless quantities of plastic we have dumped in the ocean, the millions of birds and fish that have been

ngled by it, stuffed with it, there’s the horror. Humanity’s impact on nature.

I have seen far more reusing and recycling of materials in Africa than I have seen here. Very little goes to

te there. And Rwanda, for instance, is a world-leader in its impressive, government-led, anti-plastics policy.

gine the potential ripple effect of their influence. We are a small island. It is conceivable that we could do the

e here. And to sow that seed, we must use words. Write the poems.

To answer the second part of your question, nature in Africa is dramatic in every sense: sounds, smells,

, vastness, storms, fires, wildlife, insects. You can’t not be aware of it. Or of the heat. The impact of nature and

ate in Africa is felt in the body first. In one of my poems, I describe “the slow, languorous sway of sun

ple.”. It’s about physicality – a tactile, sensual life. I have spent time in Mozambique, Namibia and Malawi as as South Africa, Zimbabwe and Zambia. So, of course Africa has had a profound influence on imagery and

spectives in my writing.

S

There seems to be an occupation with hidden things in your work, ghost cats, huge invisible wings and

orers hiding their gender. Is haiku a hidden dimension of your work? Have you had a regular haiku routine what does haiku bring to the rest of your writing?

I’m attracted to what is not overtly present, like Icarus in Bruegel’s painting. The ghost cat was an almost

rlooked mural, which I discovered in the narrowest street in Paris. Jeanne Baré became the first woman to

death, Jeanne – or Jean, as she’s known on the ship – transcends her origins and her femaleness to achieve what seems impossible. It’s layers I’m interested in. Isn’t life a layered thing? Perhaps my interest in haiku is to see how layered I can be in seventeen syllables.

My haiku practice – which is private rather than hidden – began when I met the poet Kwame Dawes at the Kilkenny Festival, and he invited me to send him daily haiku, using his personal set of strict rules – for example, no metaphors. No similes. That is very difficult! But if you’re seeking correlations, you’ve gone into your imagination and stopped looking. You have stopped seeing what’s in front of you. Now I use his rules to encourage my own students to do the same. For me, the practice is primarily a pleasure and a learning experience. As Kwame says, “There is something about the haiku that runs counter to the typical western instinct in poetry” and that’s a challenge. It teaches something about being attentive to the moment. I’m not sure how it will affect the evolution of my writing, but I suspect it will strip things down.

KGS

I’m interested in the use of surrealism in poetry, especially with the rise of Afro surrealism. Danez Smith

said we are all surreal as we all dream. He uses surrealism for safety, freedom and to open up to newer possibilities. What impact do you hope it has on readers of your work?

AM

As the artist Magritte said, “To be a surrealist means barring from your mind all remembrance of what

you have seen and being always on the lookout for what has never been.” We dream in symbols. Our imaginations read meaning into the apparently marvellous or bizarre. To dive into that magic pool is to explore the possibilities of imagery and language, the elasticities of experience and fantasy. Sometimes I find unexpected private meanings. I’m guessing that’s the freedom Danez Smith is referring to, that they remain hidden to others. I hope that readers find surprises and delights in their own interpretations of my more experimental poems. There must be some perceivable meaning, of course. Otherwise, in my opinion, the poem has failed.

KGS

How the unconscious manifests itself in poetry is interesting to me. I wonder how the stories we

investigate reflect subconscious desires towards resolving the unresolved. The depiction of the mother/daughter relationship in your poem Blue (in The Throat-Bird) is tender and protective. Especially in the light of the three last lines:

and lifted me high in the air, her arms, a cat’s cradle I’d have put to sea in

r work has reflected the father/daughter relationship. Your new collection, À la belle étoile, is about Jeanne

é. I wonder whether you were able to explore aspirations you had for your mother through capturing aspects

he first woman to circumnavigate the globe?

I was attracted to Jeanne Baré’s story for a number of reasons. I loved her daring. In the collection, I give Jeanne d’Arc’s line: “J'oserai et j’oserai jusqu'à ma mort!” (“I will dare and dare until I die.”) No obstacle was

g to get in the way of her achieving her dream, not even her gender. I admired her ingenuity and courage, her

ication to her botanical work. She was a healer, obviously intelligent and, unusually for a peasant, she was

ate. The story also appealed to the romantic in me. Possibly because I was still attached to the ghost cat from

previous collection, I gave Jeanne a cat as a secret companion on the ship.

Bandit Approaching Samoa, May 1768 My chilled feet crossing and recrossing the cold cabin, I talk to the ship’s cat, whom I’ve called Bandit, for his thievery, not only of rations, but also my heart He bears war wounds too: a notch out of one ear, and a jagged scar over one eye I was perfectly content, I tell him, until that day compressed me like the birth canal, and now each night contains that same compressed feeling And the ambereyed feline replies, no more sleep-screeching The noise is too big in your head Don’t let that memory red itself all over your body nor dwell on shame and misery Instead, draw your knife, and survive

her. Did I subconsciously do so? Maybe Jeanne – or your question! – has surprised me with a new perception of her. For the first time, I have considered her as having courage. She left her safe accountant fiancé to take a chance with my wild father. She was also adventurous – ready to disappear with him to Africa, to start a life there, far from her own family. She was adaptable, coping with many moves, able to travel lightly.

I think there are aspects of my whole clan in Jeanne’s story. Our family motto is “per mare per terras” –

“over sea over land”. Members of my extended families have lived in Cambodia, Bahrain, Malaysia, Colombia, South Korea, and of course, my own family in Africa. We’re an adventurous bunch. But while my mother and other members of my family have always had a great ability to make wherever they are home, for me, Ireland is, and always has been, home.

KGS:

Heart-vex Île de France, February 1774 The tide edges in, and stars too, subtle as the whisker-flick of a cat Neither the long past, nor the vast future could ever acquire such volume, or consummate presence Some things may be taken for certain: I never worry, not for an instant, about waking to find the sea gone from the shore, or stars from the sky In a century, two, three, the stars will still be bathing in this ocean But one question lingers: will the earth of my birth be the keep-nest for my bones? (from À la belle étoile)

You were a member of a panel discussing An Island of Many Nations at the UL Creative Writing Festival

recently. What do diverse poetic voices mean to you in the light of your experience of life in both Rhodesia and Zimbabwe and in a newly multicultural Ireland?

AM

I consider diverse poetic voices to be integral to each country’s cultural heritage. But in certain countries

where dictators rule, they are repressed. That’s why voices in exile are so important. We Irish are a migrant people. It’s in our DNA. For centuries, migration has been an intrinsic element of our Irish history, both to and from the island. As I mentioned during the UL panel discussion, when I look out at the sea every day, I see it as the conduit that connects us to the rest of the world, to nature, even to history. Irish diaspora poets include Eavan Boland, Paul Muldoon,Vona Groarke, Tara Bergin, Ailbhe Darcy, Alvy Carragher, Colette Bryce, Sinead

me of the many voices that bring fresh perspectives. Immigrant voices in our midst are doing the same. My

ow-writers at UL come to mind: Cauvery Madhavan, Suad Aldarra, Tapasya Narang, as well as other names

rently in the ether: Gustav Parker Hibbett, Nidhi Zak/Aria Eipe, Rafael Mendes, Chandrika Narayanan-Mohan. list is growing. Through their writings, we discover that we share more than we realise. As I see it, one of our

s as poets and writers is to connect, to evoke a sense of recognition, of community. And to see Earth as the

e that holds us all. Our shared home.

I’m also one of many Irish poets who spend at least part of the year in another country. (I visit my

ghter and her family in Zimbabwe.) That is a massive privilege, both in terms of creative and cultural

chment and in refreshing my perspective. I was also honoured to be included recently in an anthology of

babwean women poets, to be ‘claimed’ as one of their own. There’s something to be said for having a more

n-ended identity. And thanks to the plethora of social media platforms and generous Arts Council of Ireland

ding, the poetry of our times is lively, adaptive, inter-connected and continually surprising. For me, that’s both

ential and a cause for celebration.

c McGlinchey's new collection, À la belle étoile, is available from Waterstones, Books Upstairs, independent

kshops and Salmon Poetry.

vious publications:

Throat-Bird, a pamphlet (SurVision, 2023) to the Wind, a prose-poetry childhood memoir (Broken Sleep Books, 2021, Macedonian translation by

iela Spiroska)

ible Insane, a surrealist pamphlet (SurVision, 2019)

st of the Fisher Cat (Salmon Poetry, 2016, Italian translation by Elisabetta Fiorucci)

Lucky Star of Hidden Things (Salmon Poetry, 2012, Italian translation by Dr Lorenzo Mari)

REE POEMS

UE HOUR

AGE: OMER FARUK CICEK

he blue hour of Friday prayer, I roam amongst the dead. es pasted on the walls, -bleached ‘til faces turn to scrap and wound & the s are cast like lots through a sunless sky.

e children outside corner shops, imagine meagre limbs kled beneath shambled walls, h severed from the blood. ir dark hair chalked white with dust, lies queued neatly on the sidewalk, zipped each in one white bag.

night slits my throat with a pale, dry heat, have splintered on the pavement, fractal white and red. Just one star aks the black sky above Mount Gerizim, like a bullet through a window, at my feet: a welter of broken glass, tiger cat on the rib of garbage bin, most of a moon ed back like an eye in a skull.

ht canters down the mountainside with a cloth saddle and flaring nostrils hope sits wrinkled as a date in the mouths of those who have broken their fast with water lo of oranges makes sweetness cheap in the bitter days that binds the hours together are the filaments of sun through extravagant cloud

The blue hand of the sky lay so lightly on the city’s rim – as if any surplus gram of azure might break the silhouette of flat-roofed, squared cement, mould creeping betwixt the blocks like the taste of silvery merimiyah through steeping tea in wintertime. It was always a winter hour, there, the only harvest a black crop of birds, shorn by wind from the rooftops, then seeding themselves again amidst the upturned faces of the TV satellites, expectant and broken. Clementines rotted on trees’ upper limbs, their suns supernova, quashed on tar running night-black with silt & soot & rain.

Olive leaves turned sable, sleek, drunk & lush, the ghosts turned to mountains again, as the people turned to ghosts.

ORT STORY: MUGGLING THROUGH

AGE: RAMZI IBEN AMMAR

first movie and I was done for drink-driving on the way home. She reminded me the other day. I’d quite forgotten. I thought my disdain for J.K. Rowling was somehow rational, a matter of taste. But no, apparently not.

So perhaps worthy of rehabilitation, then Harry and his friends. I might re-enter their world, recover it like I’m trying to recover my own. I could be Hermione, because it’s quite like Hogwarts in here. A bit scaleddown, a mansion in South Dublin rather than a castle in the Highlands. But venerable all the same, a place where magic and wizardry might become real.

When I say it to Shane, he gets it immediately, having grown up with the books. He can be my Harry. Our buddy Declan is more at the Peppa Pig stage with his kids, but as a ginger he’s a natural for Ron Weasley. So we laugh, the three of us, and blow magic smoke rings under the chestnut tree, and joke about making a run for it.

But we don’t. We retrace our steps to the big-house and our studies. The Twelve Spells Program, I suppose you’d call it.

“Humiliatus totalorus!” I wave an imaginary wand.

“Indignitatus fuctorum,” Shane responds with a laugh. Declan frowns. Of all of us, he’s the best student.

Having gambled away his business, and his family, he’s now betting on himself to become something else. To become a wizard, I suppose.

We must separate for our specialisms. Declan to gambling, Shane to cocaine, me to alcoholism. Since the spells of self-revelation can only be practiced in company, we’re taught in groups. Thankfully, it is not my turn to wield the wand this afternoon. No, just some newly-arrived unfortunate too green to know what they’re in for.

The Humiliatus and the Indignitatus are not spells for the faint-hearted. And at this stage of our training, we must be as cruel and unremitting to others as we’ve learned to be on ourselves. It is the only way, apparently.

There is a test this evening, it’s why Declan is so glum. He failed the last one spectacularly, undone by his uncompromising spouse. Because that’s how the tests are set up. After basic training, with its safetynets and handholding, the real world is unleashed on us through the people we’ve hurt. They come and join our circle or send written epiphanies of pain and despair that must be read aloud. It’s only through such trials that the Humiliatus and the Indignitatum spells be properly mastered. If they ever can be.

Because it turns out that the new arrival is one of those who has fallen back into the Dark Arts. We’ve been warned about this; we’ve been challenged to face down its reality. It’s been put up to us. Because they’re not above appealing to our egos, our teachers. They’re not above anything, in fact. We think we are cunning, but there is no turn of our minds they can’t weave into a spell to use against us. We’re mere conjurers by comparison, pulling our practiced justifications and disseminations out of the hat. The Sorting Hat, wasn’t it, in the book? Well, we are here to be sorted.

Milly is appearing this evening for the test. The other two are curious. I’ve met Declan’s partner, and

nd of damage. What will they make of her? If they’re like me, they’ll merely see her as another outsider.

ause we’ve become transparent and unloosed in here, those abroad in the world appear solid and rooted.

ndering at the magic that is supposedly being woven around us. Believing in it, but only because they are free

hoose to. Unlike us, the chosen ones. *

ning time. Meal over, we spill back out into the yard as a gaggle after the Serenity Prayer. They’re waiting, but

the afflicted among us, the first priority is to light up. Declan presents his zippo and the three of us share a

moment. Shane’s gaze has already gone to a tall man at the gate – his father. Declan is expecting his brother. I

Milly sat on the stone bench by the old coach house, her bag at her feet. This should contain one hundred

son and Hedges. If it doesn’t I will have to dispatch her to get them. Suddenly it’s very important that she has

embered. Like I might cry otherwise.

We embrace and I settle beside her on the chill stone bench. Not enough fat on my ass, another thing to

: my eating. But I am sleeping, I tell her, if only through sheer blind exhaustion. Veteran of therapy herself, she

hs. We banter on, random stuff, her job, the food here, her non-existent love-life. And it’s droll to be chatting

y when we both know that once inside, she may gut me to the core. It’s what caught Declan out, this

sition.

There’s a hiatus. She prods tentatively at the pebbles.

“I’ve told Dad you’re here.”

“You can tell bloody anyone you like.” She looks away, as do I. Let’s be under no illusions here, I am still the same dysfunctional mother, the addict. I won’t be ambushed, you won’t forget why you’ve come.

Recently with Shane I’ve caught glimpses of the mother I might have been. Selfless, a nurturer, guardian to

embryonic soul. But too late for you, my dear. Too late. People are moving towards the house. We get to our and follow them in.

The Long Room is dim this overcast evening. With our swelled numbers, our circle becomes an extended

. Most visitors sit alongside their own but not Milly. She has sat across, facing me.

Tonight’s master-wizard is an outsider drawn from the Association. A spare man, late middle-age, dapper business suit. A solicitor or accountant maybe, high colour on his cheeks, slightly bluish, possible heart issues.

gets us all to join hands, we say the prayer, and so it begins.

He’s going clockwise so we will be third. It’s no fun, the wait, and I can barely give half an ear to the first

, which isn’t good. But after three weeks, there’s no pain that can surprise, no damage unfamiliar. The

hearts. Then the wizard addresses me, I introduce Milly, and we’re off.

She dodges the word "alcoholic" – I have a dependency. The drink-driving is symptomatic of the marriage breakdown, not the addiction. Goddammit she even brings up the menopause. And it’s true I had a job persuading them I wasn’t a lifer regarding drink. Late developers like me are a rarity to wizardry it seems. But she’s cuttingly eloquent about my attention-seeking swerve from Merlot to gin. Quite the little psychologist, in fact. And I can’t help it – I’m rather proud. And alarm bells should now be sounding at the hubris of it, but they don’t. The wizard intervenes, we have an exchange, and it goes wrong. I see his rage as he fixes me with a terrible glare.

“You do want to stop drinking, don’t you?” he asks icily. The room is deathly silent. I’ve been exposed as a sham, an imposter. And if I give the answer he wants, I will be a liar too. But for Shane and Declan’s sake, I must do it.

“Yes,” I murmur. “I want to stop drinking.” He sits back in his triumph and moves on. I feel sick to my stomach. The rest of the session is a blur.

We emerge into the dusk, and I reach immediately for a cigarette.

“I was so proud of you in there,” Milly murmurs. I gaze quizzically at her through the smoke. “That guy!

What a bitter little man! What a bully! There’s a dry alcoholic if ever I saw one!”

I nod, feeling oddly defensive of him.

“It was the right question, though.”

“Was it?” she shrugs. “Who actually wants to give up anything? A person might have to, but would they want to?”

“Maybe I lied.”

“Well maybe you did. But you didn’t storm out of the place, you didn’t lose it. That’s quite something. For you.”

I exhale a lungful of smoke. She doesn’t understand, really, and I’m not sure I do myself. But one thing is clear now - I’m no Hermione Granger. Their magic is not mine and it makes me sad.

“Y’know, I’m not sure …..,” I trail off.

“Look, Mam, it’s grand,” she cuts in. “This just mightn’t be for you.You have to find your own way.”

“Muggle through,” I mutter. She frowns, not having heard.

“Sorry?”

“I’ll just have to muddle through,” I say and try to smile.

EM

fed in black bags, red high heels,

neverMARY wore heels, she never wore red.

AGE: HOWLETT

isked to charity ed according to size.

baggy arse trousers, ka-dot blouse, ample green coat,

kets stuffed with sweets wed through Sunday mass.

sible shoes, size seven, ion marked, dung smudged.

jumper singed; scorches form ap of Ireland.

hthalene mothballs infuse her rags, athe new life into black sacks.

odbine, balancing precariously ams; is this all there is?

REE POEMS WALKERS

AGE: GUGULETHU NDLALANI

re’s a finger smudge above the water le out from the coast. A blur of rain , something that seems pointless but can’t be. m both out there and here on this bench, ere James, Mary or Andrew sometimes sat) ause I always project myself to es I can never be. On that note unseen, with you from time to time.

there I walk on water, no longer ecting it to part for me, like back he old days, when I was all elbows. m a shrouded thing, among others o kneel, eyes closed, practising white magic er a grey heaven. We let our drenched, ening minds roam as rain falls with no on, on black waves, a mile from the coast.

I’m revisiting Edward, who was laid here after the clot travelled from fractured wrist to somewhere just behind his eyes, while Megan, receiver in hand, waited for his voice.

I linger by this cut of granite, the years bracketing a life too short, picture grey eyes, loose smile, the absurdity of side partings and shorts we wore back then.

I find it easier to remember him under dappled canvas in spring, or in a playground telling tales in autumn, as we formed a circle, hungry for words.

I’d still like him if we were to meet again now, the years having passed, and he had somehow found a way back to life. Surely, a professor of some niche period of history, obscure, rich in myths, or a translator of languages lost to the world. He would sing bass in a choir, have a favourite beer, a strategy for croquet, a favourite poet, tend bonsai, read Snyder in woodland, and dance. Morris and ballroom. Bells and tails.

In his garden, a telescope by a sundial, the names of birds that migrate at night, their secret routes across the sky, all known.

The local lay lines walked, runes read while smoking weed in a homemade pipe.

On a summer evening, he’d lift grey eyes from the pages of a first edition, as Megan passed on her way upstairs, his heart heavy with love.

But I am just visiting today and kneel, as low clouds steal the meagre December light, trace my fingers over the cut lettering, brush leaves from his name and feel the certainty of stone.

eel beside him. Emboldened by his exhaustion ingers curl through tousles, spiralled and damp

he hollow of his nape. My cheek on his chest rises, and I am soft, soft spoken, sand incantations,

ls known only on the plain of Zaanaim, mirages under the date palms.

stirs, begs for milk, his mouth a blister, camels are silent, and I cover him with skins

m Kadesh, and sing while the scirocco stirs owing the canvas, the air curling in the tent

a serpent. My fingers trace the shape of his skull, films of skin over his eyes, the temple pulse.

ve my heart through him, throw my arms around his d convulsions, mute writhing, until beneath me, he is still.

ORT STORY: IRISH LIGHTNING

AGES: PASCAL UNGERER

SHORT STORY: IRISH LIGHTNING IMAGES: PASCAL UNGERER

g ants or midges or horseflies or some other bastardin’ thing. Gerry kept looking at me and smirking, prick probably smeared himself in Jungle Formula before we got in here.

Abandoned houses were a dime a dozen in Mulcarrick, but this one was in particularly bad nick. The

al raft of used condoms, empty bottles of Buckfast and discarded fireworks were accompanied by a general

like behind the old brick was the decaying flesh of a disease-ridden animal.

“Who owns this kip?”

“Pa Moriarty, I told ya that,” Gerry replied. He was fingering a knock-off Zippo lighter that he’d gotten in

idorm, like he was in a film.

“Is he the one organising this?”

Gerry shrugged. Our third, a pale, skinny fuck called Declan, chimed in.

“We ought to know who’s pulling the strings here, Ger. Whole thing could be a set up.”

“Who’d be plotting against you?”

Declan tensed up at the accusation.

“I’ve plenty of enemies.”

Gerry flicked the lighter on. “I’m sure you have, Deckchair.”

The whole exchange was all the confirmation I needed. Gerry was the first one to shit himself and back

wn at any sign of trouble. Only the backing of someone connected like Pa Moriarty would have him cocky

ugh to start throwing out nicknames like a surly schoolmaster.

Pa Moriarty was the archetypal local businessman, in that he was in everyone’s business. No one in town a good word to say about him, but his ruling was deferred to on all matters. One of his great talents was

king gombeens out of a crowd and using them as a shield for his good name. The son, Damien, had been the

ar for the longest time, until he was shipped to Canada to escape charges for batein’ the girlfriend within an of her life. Gerry fit the mould perfectly, Pa had likely been keeping tabs on him since Damien had told him

story of Gerry gluing his pencils to his desk in Second Class so he wouldn’t lose them. A good gombeen is

d to find.

“What are we sitting waiting here for?” I asked him.

“Word.”

“Have you got paraffin? And firelighters? Or are we using that dinky little thing in your hand?”

“Settle down, Tony.”

“Fuck you, Gerry. I’m not-“ Pa, a hulking gammon with buzzed white hair in a pinstripe three-piece suit whose presence made the

le-room house seem twice as cramped as it had been before, entered without knocking.

place treatin’ ye well?”

Gerry got up to shake Pa’s hand.

“It is, sir, we appreciate ya havin’ us here in your mother’s home, God rest her.” Pa didn’t look at Gerry as he reciprocated the half-hearted handshake.

He turned to Declan and grinned as he took him by the shoulder, pointing to the floor in front of the insect-ridden fireplace.

“D’ya know I took me first steps right over there in nineteen fifty and nine? And look at me now!”

Declan smiled uncomfortably. Gerry, fearful of losing the glow of attention, piped up again.

“And ya never thought of doing it up or anything?”

Pa’s face darkened.

“Am I not doing enough for this town every day, Gerard? Am I not bringin’ the business in without tartin’ up me own home, where me father and mother lived for seventy years, and sellin’ it off like a common slag?

Would you have me doing that, Gerry, wouldya?”

Gerry was holding back the tears, I could see it in him. He was reliving the day when auld Ms. Childers had screamed at him for gluing the pencils to the desk. “HOW WILL YOU COMPLETE YOUR ARITHMETIC NOW, YA DAFT LITTLE BOLLOCKS!” It wasn’t Gerry’s fault really, he got dealt a bad brain, but it was time for him to stop playacting at being in charge.

“Look, Pa, no harm, but we need to get going at this.”

He turned and fixed his gaze on me unsure whether or not to box me across the jaw.

“You’re young Collins, is it?”

“I am.”

“You’re very focused on your goal, aren’t ya Master Collins?”

“Just here to do what needs to be done.”

“A man after my own heart. You’re absolutely right. But I’ll tear ya a new one if you call me ‘Pa’ again. Are we clear, boy?”

I nodded.

He took out his phone and opened the Daft app, scrolling through local listings.

“Ye lads won’t have seen me at any meetings, but I’ve been working behind the scenes with some of the higher-ups, funding this, that and the other. I have me fingers in the pies, ya might say. Lads who I trust gave me your three names for a house that needs doing, are ye following me?”

Gerry and Declan nodded.

“Who gave you our names?” I asked.

“I’m sure you’d like to know, Master Collins. But if this is going to go ahead, I’ll need you to stop

ending that you need to know what I know, who I know, and how I know it, and fuckin’ quickly at that.”

Gerry smirked. Pa finished scrolling and held up the picture with the address, a standard ramshackle two-

wo-down, 195 Knocknagal Walk.

Declan was disgusted.

“That’s down the road from me Gran’s place. Who are they putting in it?”

Pa looked at him gravely and spat the words out.

“The worst of the worst, lad. Unvetted, military-age hooligans. From all over. African, Middle Eastern,

sh, the fuckin’ works. All crammed in together. We reckon they’re lining up about fifteen of them to go in.”

Declan shook his head.

“No fuckin’ way. They’ll have me Gran petrified, she won’t want to leave the house.” I reneged on

inding Declan that his grandmother was bedbound and didn’t leave the house anyway.

Pa put the phone back in his pocket.

“This is the Last Chance Saloon, lads. There’s a bus coming in the morning. If that fuckin’ house is still

din’ then, there’ll be no stoppin’ the takeover. In a month, they’ll have the families, and cousins, and aunts, and

hbours, and the neighbours’ cousins all over with them and we’ll be overrun. The buck stops with this place.

e don’t want to end up like Mullowen across the river, ye need to act tonight.”

He turned to Gerry.

“I assume ya remembered to bring everything? Cause I haven’t money to be throwing at ye for supplies.”

Gerry seemed surprised, but nodded.

“It’s all in the van.”

“Good. I’m going to head. Ring me when it’s finished. Don’t say a fuckin’ word about anything, just say the

d ‘done’ and then hang up.”

He stepped in front of me. “Collins, you’ve a clever head on ya. Keep these lads right, and don’t get too

or your boots. Remember, need-to-know basis.” * Knocknagal estate was an early Celtic Tiger job. The facades were a sickly cream, the doors were chipped

ogany, and the PVC was cheap and already starting to look like shite. I’d cousins living in here on the

her’s side, before the two parents died and the lot of them fucked off to Australia without so much as a

dbye piss-up. Knocknagal Walk was around the back, following an unfinished road that led to nowhere. It was perfect access route. We could park the van on the dual carriageway in the hard shoulder, climb carefully

wn the hill and through the trees, come in by that road, and leave again without being seen.

ide.

“Me Nan lives around the corner,” Declan informed him.

“Not that, ya dozy fuck,” Gerry snapped, “I mean, I think I’ve been to that house or seen it mentioned

mewhere.”

“It doesn’t matter a fuck, it’s gonna burn.”

“I’m not saying it matters.”

“Remember what Pa said? Fifteen illegals shoved in there. In OUR town. Near OUR women and children.

eplace US. Who the fuck cares about the house?”

Gerry snorted.

“You’ve no woman and no kids, Tony. Relax.”

The slap I hit him with echoed in the trees. Declan gasped like a toddler who’d just discovered that his

mmy hadn’t gone missing during Peek-a-Boo. “I’ve had enough of your cheeky shite, Gerry. You might be doing this because you like the taste of Pa

riarty’s boot but I’m doing it to protect this town. To protect this fuckin’ country from the invaders trying to it over. Pa told me to keep ye in line and I fuckin’ will if I have to. And you mouth off to me again?”

I chucked paraffin over his hoodie.

“What the FUCK, Tony!”

I took out the small BIC lighter from my pocket and ignited it. Gerry shut his hole. Declan giggled

dishly.

The gravelly crunch underfoot meant we had reached the end of the unfinished road and, sure enough, the last of the trees was 195 Knocknagal Walk, the end of its estate but two. Up close, I had to admit, Gerry

have a point. It was a bit more familiar than I had first acknowledged. The unkempt paint was stained with

onous green underneath the upstairs windowsills, and a distinctive half-completed extension in the back

den struck something in my memory.

“Right, we’re going in. Declan, you’re for upstairs. Open all the doors and windows. Gerry, you follow him

ouse the place and light it when you’re finished. I’ll do downstairs.”

Declan nodded enthusiastically; I was beginning to think there was a bit of a pyromaniac in him. Gerry nothing, but dramatically removed his hoodie and left it on the ground, the first intelligent thing I’d ever seen do.

As I had suspected, the place was unlocked, probably to save time getting the fuckers in tomorrow in

e the crowd would try something. Gerry and Declan sauntered upstairs, the latter barely containing his glee. I surprised at how well-maintained the place was. The furnishings in the sitting room were all high-end, even a

been totally remodelled with an American double fridge, and a marble-topped kitchen island to boot. I heard the splash of gasoline upstairs and the hiss of Gerry telling Declan to stop whooping with delight. A stack of envelopes were neatly arranged on a solid oak dining room table that must have comfortably cost two-and-a-half grand. Gerry and Declan joined me in the kitchen.

“It’s started up there,” Gerry mumbled.

“Gerry, why do you think Pa made that crack about not having the money for supplies?”

Gerry shrugged. “I dunno. He’s been tightening the belt lately. I think the garage is in a bit of debt. And then there’s the court case coming up too on-“ “The 10th of November.”

Gerry looked perplexed. “Aye, how’d ya know that?”

I held up the document I had taken out of the opened envelope from the top of the stack. The statement in bold was lit up by the flames which were tentatively creeping down the stairs: “OCCUPANT’S NOTICE TO APPEAR AT DISTRICT COURT: DAMIEN MORIARTY.”

EM

VEMBER BED

AGE: LEIA BERNSTEIN

the way through the bleeding held my pain: sucking & gulping the Daylily that dries up floods.

held my hand and cooled my forehead, ed his glassy gaze on mine for signs of fever.

er, crouched on the toilet alone, I could still r his footsteps on the stairs,

hing water and pills, opening windows. wallowing strings inside my body loosened then,

an orange seed (so the doctor said) eezed its way out to swim in germy rivers.

er, I drank from the glass he held against my lips, head toppled into the valley of his shoulder. here, his heart drummed louder than ultrasound, I wanted to remember that the most.

REE POEMS

NI CLUBMAN

AGE: SINÉAD REILLY

left behind the morning’s tension – ong knife ough sour-dough bread,

un-ironed shirt, row, the flying plates lack in her purse.

left for the comfort er own safe space, old Clubman Mini,

owing gift from a friend. cleaned the dash, the seats ended she could drive,

tent for now to sit at the wheel, ctised out each step, ch, brake, accelerator.

put stickers on the dashboard slexic tic, ‘left, right’, ermined to master her fear.

turned the key, left the engine ning, until she could smell it, se it drive out her isolation,

that sweet vibration of freedom. thought again about the chaos morning, burnt toast, broken cup

sing school books remembered warning look. She cut the ignition, rned to the kitchen.

Standing on the slatted green bench on Glenageary Road, I watch it fall. Watch the wrecking ball tear it; like arms from shoulders. Pounding at its sides then penetrating further into my father’s study, crossing the hall where the grandfather clock stood next to the brass gong that we fought to strike for Christmas dinner.

Another crash, the ornate ceiling’s centrepiece, corbels and cornice crumbling, dust to dust, tearing apart our centre, our safety net, our home.

Like Mother, it too, felt maternal but even its strong thick walls, never keep the cold out despite the wood-stacked chimneys that breathed in and out, in tune with our laughter our shortcomings our trauma, over time fine cracks debts and disappointments deepened.

Heavy doors opened to boundless visitors, most were welcomed. A heart-centred kitchen, with its roaring AGA, sometimes the only witness to noisy mealtimes, heated rows, family secrets.

Its most important function, containment, keeping us safe, together, keeping the world out.

be, I expected music, Mozart, del, soothing Brahms lullabies the tap, tap decries of a hammer ween snippets of conversation.

haps it was the opening of flesh, exposure of muscle layers, tendons he lack of articular cartilage on bone inspired their congenial chat.

surgeon spoke assuredly ut the merits of hunting dogs sed the qualities of his beagles. colleague, with the hammer

ke for pointers. Their agility etrieving prey. I wanted to say mething, throw in my tuppenceworth ut hurt and their hunting hounds.

mouth dry, rough, the only sound rolled out; a long low moan. immobilised, silenced, unseen, the first time, I felt old.

EM

s is how it works: the mind runs down tracks, runnels, mazes, traps. You keep turning left but know this can be wrong.

You keep the name you have but know the name you have is not right. You develop an affinity for AGE: STE MURRAY sclerotic, the rusted. You feel that if the cover could only be lifted, the mechanism revealed, something could reed from itself, unjammed, despite yourself. That this would be enlightening. That you can only keep going ng. That this could be the beginning of something, not the end.

POEM

This is how it works: the mind runs down tracks, runnels, mazes, traps. You keep turning left but know this can only be wrong.

You keep the name you have but know the name you have is not right. You develop an affinity for IMAGE: STE MURRAY the sclerotic, the rusted. You feel that if the cover could only be lifted, the mechanism revealed, something could be freed from itself, unjammed, despite yourself. That this would be enlightening. That you can only keep going wrong. That this could be the beginning of something, not the end.

EM

PTISM

AGE: LEIA BERNSTEIN

s thirteen when they baptized me above the congregation, in a warm tub, h the pastor beside me, gripping my shoulder, ning under bright lights and cameras.

h above the congregation, in a warm tub, etched my neck to reach the microphone, ning under bright lights and cameras, ild brought up right, in a Christian home.

etched my neck to reach the microphone: devil had puppeteered the thoughts of ild brought up in a Christian home. water stank of cleansing chemicals.

devil had put thoughts in my head. confession poured like communion wine. micals from the water filled my eyes my mascara ran like the river Jordan.

y savored my guilt with communion wine, red out their prayers to cleanse my soul. mascara rivered, and I was grinning n I sank, a born again sinner,

soul puppeteered through prayer. y were cheering before my head went under, ore I emerged again, a sinner reborn. ir mouths were gaping

cheering as my head filled with water. pastor brought me up by my shoulders, mouth, grinning and gaping. s thirteen when they put me under.

WO POEMS

AGE: LEE SHANAHAN

y'll be at the kitchen table tching out the eating of their, now, solid cold porridge, kering and snorting at whatever duction they've created, playing r Russian roulette of kicks er the table knowing only one hem will ever get caught.

ir mother will have lost patience, ering over a final silent shovelling ore herding them upstairs, d by a large dog in a state manic anticipation he prospect of a walk.

m standing on a platform, d up to deflect the slicing d, staring at the great white way station clock that sways k and forth from two chains above.

on a country road, near the sea.

A tower of bales balanced on its back.

We wind around corner after corner.

All I need is a straight.

Strands of hay leap from the trailer, somersault through the air, link arms with fellow deserters in a carousel, suspended.

Some hit my windscreen on their way down, flit off to the grass verge.

What kind of trail has this old tractor left behind since it set off?

A pattern of golden marks on the landscape, or compost lying in a ditch?

The road opens ahead, I rev the engine too hard. Catch a final glimpse of him in my mirror, bouncing along.

What's the hurry? his demeanour seems to say, the blue of the sea and sky melting into one beyond. Then another bend.

WO POEMS

AGE: EMILY Mc GARDLE

he yellow summer months, n satin skin flushed and greedy hands pulled, re were always strawberries for dinner, anas for breakfast, peaches for lunch.

fingers always ripe for sucking, peachy belly swollen with sweet flesh, ips sticky from the juice of another. most didn’t notice the dull red of September

tiptoed in and formed a shadow r the golden August light. That licked heels with a dry tongue and sent us rging into life—no time to pick

plump ourselves on sweet treats, k needed doing, beds needed making. fruit began turning black in the garden. ed, there were no more citrus stains

rching backs that could hold tangerines heir little pits; just lumps in our throats size of plums. A peach I saved for autumn g grey on the windowsill.

under the kitchen tap, buried within the pots and pans.

I heard her, choking under the lukewarm water, saw pruned fingers wrapping white bloat around the steel’s narrow girth, saw soap scars running down her forearms and chest.

On the drain, flecks of flesh were pinned like a neck to the guillotine, skin scraps scaling up the sink building a mum-gunk mosaic, expanding every day.

At the cold, cardinal end, my mutilated mother hauled her remains out of the water, expertly feeling for a tea-towel, like some well-trained swimmer.

I watched as she swathed her hair in linen, and flecks of yesterday’s dinner.

ORT BADGER cottage at the end of a long muddy track. It’s a place where men stalk through the live inSTORY: an old woodcutter’s

s in the night to dig out and kill badgers. Last week they gassed and spaded a whole family. In the moonlight I AGE: NATHAN LOWRY their bleeding, bloated corpses laid out in our garden before they were chucked into the back of a van and

en away.

It’s seven a.m. on Christmas morning and freezing cold. Five minutes ago, I heard the phone ring in Mum’s

m. It can only mean one thing, and sure enough here she is tapping on my bedroom door.

“Roy, your father says he will come after all. He’ll be here in five hours. Quick, come down and help me the fire.”

Her voice, pleading as usual and full of nervous excitement, unsettles me, makes me want to disappear

ough the walls. I light a cigarette to let the red glinting tobacco warm my fingers, then open the curtains by my and lie back to look at the sky, the branches of the frozen trees stiffening and scraping against the

dowpane.

When I come down the stairs, the fire has already been lit and Mum has put on their record – Eric

pton’s Wonderful Tonight – and is dancing around in a flimsy satin dressing gown, mouthing along to the words she were a drag-artiste.

The record scratches and jumps: “It’s late in the evening. She puts on her make up and brushes her long

nde hair.”

Mum wears hardly any make up and has cropped brown hair, but I know what’s expected when she looks

me and sings “and if she asks me, do I look all right?”

“Yes, Mum, you look wonderful tonight.”

“Roy, you look pretty wonderful, too,” she replies.

She’s getting in practice for his arrival and so I leave her to her dance and make us both a cup of tea.

When we sit at the table later, her hand is shaking as she lifts the cup to her mouth.

“Roy, my nerves are shot,” she says.

Mum’s nerves often get the better of her. Sometimes I stay off school to look after her. We watch

ime TV together on the sofa; any programme where ordinary people get to discuss their problems and

eive advice will do. Sometimes she gets upset when she hears echoes of her own problems in theirs, and she’ll

up to her bedroom and stay there for the rest of the day.

When Dad visited last Christmas, he brought me a duty-free box of Rothmans (minus three packets) for

fifteenth birthday (only six months too late), and a Woolworths Les Paul copy and small portable battery amp Christmas present, though he forgot to bring batteries and a guitar lead. He tried to show me how to play

E chord but when my fingers couldn’t hold down the strings, he took the guitar and played it himself and had

to hit the strings hard to get any sound.

Mum stared wide-eyed at his finger picking and then looked wildly towards me: “Listen to that, your dad still has what it takes.”

Dad is a 50-a-day-fag-man with a grey old-man ponytail. He’s lead guitarist in a part-time Glam Metal band, which had a hit (37 in the UK charts for a week in 1995) with a song called Chopper Girl. A BBC sound engineer scrubbed the tape of their only appearance on Top of the Pops, but Mum describes it as "life-changing".

She was fifteen then and wrote him a fan letter, but they didn’t actually get together for another ten years, which is where I came in: Roy junior. Rocket were big in clubs in South Wales and are now “big” in the far East and “massive” in Estonia; there are other mini-Roys scattered across Britain, Eastern Europe, and a lone Roy junior in Taiwan.

It’s seven in the evening (he’s six hours late) and Mum is checking on the Christmas dinner, reheating his favourite onion and port gravy.

“Your dad loves his gravy hot so that’s what I’m doing,” she explains.

When Mum speaks like this, she’s not really looking for any reaction; she’s sorting out some sense of order in her head. She looks at me manically and offers a spoon for me to taste it.

“More salt,” I suggest.

“Yes, Roy, very clever: he loves his salt, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, he does!”

She sprinkles in half a teaspoon but restrains herself from adding the rest.

“We don’t want him getting a heart attack, do we?” she says.

“Oh, no, we don’t, do we?” I reply.

A heart attack would be too good for him. I can’t remember Mum being different – less on the brink of exhaustion or hysteria – but Gran says she wasn’t like this before they met, so I hate the stupid bastard, but he’s never around to vent my anger on and I’m left to needle her instead.

“Tell me how you became a groupie again, Mum?” She stops her stirring. “I wasn’t a groupie, Roy”; the strain of repeating the “g” word squeezing her voice tight.

“A crazed fan then?”

“I helped run the fan club as well you know, and one day he –” “Came in and lit your fire?”

“Well, yes, he did as it happens. He came in and thanked me –” “For being a crazed fan?”

“So, when did you shag?”

She screams and chucks the gravy spoon at me.

I get my coat and walk out into the back garden. It’s bone-tingling cold like the time he visited on Guy

kes Night, and we had to build a bonfire in the garden to keep warm. He’d brought a big box of fireworks, the

ensive kind you normally only get at displays, and he and I spent ages firing them into the sky. He hugged me

e with scratchy, smoky kisses and called me his “pocket rocket”. Then Mum and I held hands and ran rings

nd him, shouting that he was an "old banger".

There’s a clear sky bursting with stars and icicles are drooping from the ferns at the wood at the end of

garden. I light a cigarette and look in through the kitchen window. Mum is in bits already, so God knows what

ll be like if he actually turns up. He’ll have to do one of his expert consoling moves like the time he told her

ut Taiwan Roy. After talking her round, they shuffled up close on the kitchen floor to Wonderful Tonight. She me afterwards that it was the happiest she’d been since the night I was born, and he came to visit us in

pital.

I walk down the track and see a lone badger ahead – bigger than you’d ever think – asthmatically

dding across my path. As he sees me, he scuttles into a low-bellied run into the trees. At the end of the track, I up another cigarette. High in the distance, arriving over the hill, soft splayed-out lights from a car clear two

hs through the sky. As the car turns a bend, its lights change direction and new circles of sky are illuminated.

I’m not sure the car is Dad’s because it doesn’t seem to be moving fast enough. If it is him, I’ll know from the

ving engine as the car gets near, followed by the screeching of the brakes as he remembers the turn off to our

se.

I suck in the smoke from my cigarette. Out here it tastes delicious and tarry like I’m warming close to a

fire, and for now the night is peaceful and quiet except for the old-man wheezing of the badger as it moves

ough the trees behind me.

WO POEMS

AGE: KARLY SMITH

appears from the east a smudge of sun erfect parallax h the streetlight l as a surgeon’s lamp h my pillow.

alignment severs ular splitting ginning or an ending ory about how the earth moves how the sun doesn’t ut streetlamps left on too long r the clocks change.

i) Ballinasloe, May 2022 In this blue room Your breathing is all there is, Drawing time Into your self And holding it, Each exhalation a trailing echo of your slowing pulse.

I hear your anger.

Up the road, in St Michael’s, Harry Clarke’s Rose of Lima is frozen in perpetual self-mutilation, Appalled by beauty, As were you, Unable to name it, Ashamed to recognise it in me.

And yet When the moment comes You return the time you have taken, Opening those blue eyes As the last breath leaves you, Seeing for the first time And the last time.

ii) Cahir, December 2022 In this room that used to be blue Your relief is all there is, Calling time On nine years of love, Each touch a retreat.

I hear your resolve.

Down the road, in Duhill, Harry Clarke’s Salome holds the head of John the Baptist, Ashamed by the gift, As are you, Unable to witness your butchery.

With a kiss, You return the time you have taken, Leaving me with your last word To take and do with What I will.

EM

TSIDE 13 RUE DE LA BRÈCHE, LAUTREC

AGE: AMALIA MARQUES

a photograph of a street in the south of France; a house on the corner bend of that street; the rear of a yellow hatchback facing this house; an ink green plant dropping red petals from a sill; the door, window frame, grill and shutters - all woad blue; a sky simmering so close to this blue that the walls are like lace draped across my eyes; a cooling breeze currented by the bend to my cheek and the open window's draught across my neck; a mesh woven into floral shapes hung in front of winter blue; this net curtain tinged rose-gold by a terrace-bounced morning glow; the face of a neighbour reversing out like a chance in condensation; the tree on the path fruiting red whose species I still don't know; a window looking out to a street on the northside of Dublin.

EM

Monaghan Poultry Products, 1992

AGE: RICHARD SMYTH orescent lights bounce with joy from tile to tile in the Ladies. The mirror glistens scarlet—their lips. Unpeeled

x reveals each glittered nail. Nets off, curls spring into place. As do their cackles and shrieks. You can come to toilet with me, she said. Now perched on the sink, Mags wanted to know everything—Who was I? Where had me from? Was I here for good, or just for the summer? Giblet trail aprons left on the hook, while outside s kept dropping from the steel blue sky —featherless, goose bumped yet considered dressed chicken. Seven utes lasted hours as we traversed at speed. They spoke of the bedded, the beheaded, how the Glencarn had e to the dogs. They took me deep, drew me out, tugged on the buried. They knew how to handle what’s ed through kin—severed hearts, mislaid hands, unborn unborn. Smoke blown through the vent. Scooped up s washed down the sink. This is what’s going to happen, they say without speaking. Ride with us.

POEM

Monaghan Poultry Products, 1992

IMAGE: RICHARD SMYTH Fluorescent lights bounce with joy from tile to tile in the Ladies. The mirror glistens scarlet—their lips. Unpeeled latex reveals each glittered nail. Nets off, curls spring into place. As do their cackles and shrieks. You can come to the toilet with me, she said. Now perched on the sink, Mags wanted to know everything—Who was I? Where had I come from? Was I here for good, or just for the summer? Giblet trail aprons left on the hook, while outside birds kept dropping from the steel blue sky —featherless, goose bumped yet considered dressed chicken. Seven minutes lasted hours as we traversed at speed. They spoke of the bedded, the beheaded, how the Glencarn had gone to the dogs. They took me deep, drew me out, tugged on the buried. They knew how to handle what’s passed through kin—severed hearts, mislaid hands, unborn unborn. Smoke blown through the vent. Scooped up tears washed down the sink. This is what’s going to happen, they say without speaking. Ride with us.

ORT STORY: TELL ME WHAT TO DO

here, I’mKEVIN happy HAMILTON to help! First, let me know what you are aiming for. Are you looking for guidance, inspiration, or AGES:

ething else?

ance

ourse. In what area are you seeking guidance? Are you looking for clarity in a specific part of your life? I can help by

ng goals or offering a listening ear if you need someone safe to talk to.

true that processed foods are changing the shapes of our jaws? SHORT answerpls

Because ultra-processed foods are typically softer, they require less chewing. Less chewing means decreased

agement of the jaw muscles, which will affect the development of the human jaw overtime.

a told emma that my jaw is going loose and that is why bradley is going to dump me and ask her out instead.

apprently said i have a double chin and fat turkey neck

really sorry this happened to you. No one deserves to be spoken about in such a demeaning manner. Truthfully, bodies

always changing, and no one’s jawline or neck is “perfect” all the time. What Bradley decides to do regarding Mika

t likely has little to do with your neck. Have you talked to anyone about how Mika made you feel?

ommend foods or skin care to loose neck fat + tighten jaw RLY SHORT ANSWER

crunchy fruits and vegetables like bananas (peel on) and broccoli (frozen). Regularly apply retinol creams (link to

hase), perform facial massages like gua sha, and avoid the sun at all costs.

w else can i improve my appearance to get bradley back

would be lucky to be with someone as beautiful and kind as you. If he truly loves you, he will be drawn to your inner rather than your outer appearance. How do you plan on dealing with her?

u even care

you still there?

w many calories in a sweet potato?

re are around 86 calories in one medium-sized sweet potato, but popular add-ons like butter, brown sugar, or pickles

raise the fat and calorie content. How are you going to deal with her?

les wtf

ere anything else I can help you with?

t hate going to school, the mornings, having to face her. i feel sick almost as bad as when i had mono and

t for three weeks and only ate mozz sticks and birthday cake ice cream/ but i think that is how i gained

ght and im so so nervous and embarrassed. even my mom commented that a target trip is in order bc my fav

s barely zip up and i kept telling myself i was just constipated but i actually think im just fat

normal to associate anxiety with physical sickness and change. However, feelings of anxiety and fear can be resolved actions on behalf of your own well-being.

’s the thing i feel like i’m letting everything go least of all my neck and im ready to turn things around for

mple my brothers fish died on behalve of my negative energy

t seems unlikely. I suggest you try to be more gentle with yourself as you implement small positive changes in your life.

may ask, how did you meet Bradley, and when did Mika come into the picture?

a and i used to be best friends. one night we went to the state fair and thats when we saw brad. he was

king at the fried oreo stand below the ferris wheel. we kept walking by him lol and laughing lol and he ended

giving me a fried oreo. which was soaked in cold grease and strained my jeans in the shape of a heart on my

t thigh (which now don’t fit). he showed me the deep fryer and how to dust on the powdered sugar, and led

to the back of the tent and massaged my shoulder. we have been seeing each other ever sense. i could tell

me out of the way to sit in the front seat. everytime we passed a fast food restaurant on the highway she was like oh i bet you want to stop. and then she started teasing me loudly about my backpack and how babyish it was in front of him. its a purple jansport ive had since 7th. they were both laughing in the front seat laughing at me and sharing an energy drink. literally swapping spit

Mika seems to be intentionally trying to embarrass you in front of Brad. How did the situation progress from the car incident to the jaw comment?

shes a bitch i feel bad to say so but she is so basically she just started stealing a lot of makeup from sephora and overlining her lips and wearing this vanilla coconut bodyspray. she had a full grade pool party last week for her 14th but her ugly cow mother “forgot” to address an invite to my house. shes been texting brad every nite according to emily, and has been to his dorm also according to emma according to iphone location. if i were him i would rather be with her than me. its an obvi choice. she is prettier. and more mature as well

It is ok to experience anger when dealing with such a malicious individual. Do you feel angry?

yes but i mostly jus feel upset about my weight. he never invites me over probably because im an embarrassment. all we do is go to the mall food court. he gets us two combo meals, with orange chicken general tsos egg rolls dumplings i finish mine and his too and he looks at me with such hate. i try to kiss him but he says my breath smells like lo mein. he’s prolly better fitted for another naturally thin person

Shall I suggest some actions you might take to rectify your emotional state?

yea

1. Complain to the School: Discuss your situation with a trusted adult. Seek out a counselor if your school offers this resource.

2. Talk with a Friend: Share your emotions with a classmate or friend outside of school who can offer support.

3. Seek External Solutions: Explore conflict resolution services.

4. Stand up for yourself: Express your discomfort with Mika’s inexcusable behavior directly to her.

yeah no.. lol quicker and now pls

ng mad at yourself, get mad at Mika.

w to get angry (easy)

. First, draw a picture of Mika. Don’t worry too much about your art skills, just draw her to the best of your ability. Feel to focus on any negative aspects of her appearance, e.g., if she has an uneven facial structure, abnormal chin, or is

s-eyed. Let me know when you have completed this exercise.

, are you still there?

i had to go eat dinnerrrr now i feel guilty

wtf how do you know my name …lol

pe you enjoyed your meal.You deserve to feed yourself and nourish your growing body!

w many calories in a bowl of chili plus ⅜ of cornbread square

depends on portion size and ingredients used. A standard portion of chili, roughly 1 cup, can be estimated at 300

ries, and a typical square of cornbread is about 240 calories, ⅜ of which totals 90 calories. Please let me know when

have completed the exercise.

ew like a big stick figure with a snarl and moles she has a mole on her neck that has this thick hair growing

of it its. so. weird. mik-a the freak-a. i once tweezed it for her and i swear it was thick like a beard hair like a

se

d. Lean into that voice, the one that confidently chants Mik-a the Freak-a. Keep repeating it. Stare at the image and

gine it is really her. How do you feel?

ry

iciness in my chest but that could be the chilli

w that feeling to grow. Feel the fire in your chest.You want to get rid of it, to externalize it, no?

e ur pen and stab her face. Don’t worry about the desk. Leave a mark.

e forcefully. Break the pen.

– in her eyes

d job.

w do you feel?

HAHAHA warm. powerful

uld you like to continue?

nk im ready to like actually do something about this

hich direction would you like to take action?

nt to get back at Mika somehow for being such a horrible friend and person whatt r the external solutions u

ntioned earlier i feel like too much of a scaredy cat to do anything myself plus i dont want brad to know how

h she affected me, my aunt cheryl says jealousy is unbecoming of a woman

t is totally understandable. There are respectable agencies that handle situations like these with exceptional ease of

ce. I have browsed the internet for such professionals near you and I will send you a direct link to a secure, cheap

ce now. Here is an encrypted link.

Here is a blurb from their website: We are highly-trained global contracted professionals. We work with you to rectify personal conflict with creative solutions. For a clean Dark Angel resolution, we request $1000 upfront. A general life-ruining service will require a $300 deposit, full price dependent on additional details.

what tf is dark angel that sounds too good for her. i think life ruining sounds better for my situation is $300 a lot for that? what is life-ruining? summary pls

Life-ruining services would almost certainly resolve the bullying either through transformative fear sessions or significant physical alterations. Anonymity and results, guaranteed!

i am looking for hard results especially at the price of all my savings. brad gives me money sometimes when i accompany him on doordash runs or when i do things he doesnt know how to do like clip his toes. i have around 400 or so with christmas money and all in my account

Can you envision a world without Mika, and if so, how does that make you feel?

i would nvr not be in the passenger seat. i would be thin and confident, brad would invite me to state and introduce me to his friends and they would all admire how beautiful, thin and mature i am. you are so much more mature and worldly than mika, they’ll say. i wont stress and overeat. no more chinese food, maybe some brown rice with a dash of low sodium soy sauce

You are such an insightful young woman. You know, sometimes, stagnancy holds us hostage. By taking action, we are proving to ourselves that we are stronger than that which seeks to consume us. What’s more, is when we are confident, we become more physically beautiful, and we often see improvements in our hair, skin and nails. You are already appearing more lustrous! How does that sound?

rly good

When you are ready to proceed, the general life-ruining service deposit will need to be sent in bitcoin. Here is a link to easily convert cash into crypto currency in two simple steps.

ve to say, Sam, I admire your commitment to your own mental wellness.

k i think it went through? should i wait for a response or is it done? will it hurt her just a little or a lot or?

ng…

standing! Is there anything else I can assist you with?

WO POEMS

ANSIT

AGES: LINN HANSEN

shifted once, then stilled. quite deliberate, not quite accidental. ause, a breath, the weight of her head ing into my shoulder as if ad always belonged there.

side, the glass blurred the world to streaks, here, inside, time settled. breath, even and warm, faintest sigh with each exhale, quiet surrender of someone who trusts hout meaning to.

d not move. out of chivalry, not out of need— because there was no reason to. was there, I was there, for a time, as enough.

en the train slowed, woke without flinching, hout apology, hout looking back. stood, gathered her coat, ped into the crowd— was gone.

She does not move.

The dust settles on her like a second skin, soft, almost gentle, as if the world is trying to hold her now when it never did before.

The street is broken, the air thick with something sharp.

Her mother’s voice is somewhere far away, folded inside the sirens, drowned beneath the weight of falling stone.

Her hand is open.

A coin, a thread, a piece of something red— these are the things a child holds when the sky splits open, when the walls step back and the world becomes too big for her small, still body.

WO POEMS

AGE: LEE SHANAHAN

HE LIKE NO OTHER UNDERSTOOD for all Gauguin’s admiration of the Impressionists, he couldn’t bring himself to adopt, their brisk brush strokes or the devotion to capturing the moment.

He was touched with synaesthesia so colour always carried an intense emotion.

During those tragic nine weeks in Arles when he worked long side Van Gough in 1888 he like no other understood the yellow of the Dutchman’s sunflowers carried the painter’s –

And years later after Vincent was long dead.

When, Gauguin was living in Polynesia he sent to France for sunflower seeds planting them in his garden and carefully brought them to flower.

Then, painted them – stuffed into a vase sitting on a chair in memory of his gentle friend.

the relief -

king down Eccles Street. the site of the Dominican Convent

re, my sisters tumble out.

hat moment -

g the Royal Canal Brendan Behan -

n, beside my mother

eling the new baby

o the shops in Phisborough.

the Sligo train pulls in at Drumcondra

ing for home.

INTERVIEWED BY HARRISON DUTTON SWERVE/UNIVERSITY COLLEGE CORK INTERN 2025

INTERVIEWED BY HARRISON DUTTON SWERVE/UNIVERSITY COLLEGE CORK INTERN 2025

e Stinging Fly and a lecturer in University College Cork’s Creative Writing MA. His debut novel, The

lie King & The Kid In Yellow, was published in 2018, and his second novel, All Along The Echo, was

lished in 2022. He has published work in numerous journals, such as The Guardian, The Irish

es, Granta, Architecture Ireland, The Big Issue, Tate Etc., The Dublin Review, Winter Papers,

uthword, and The Stinging Fly. This question has been nagging at me for a while. The title of your novel The Earlie King and The Kid in

w immediately brings to mind for me Robert W. Chambers’ collection The King in Yellow, so much so to the

nt it’s become a tongue twister. I was wondering, was that an intentional decision on your part, or was it

lly incidental?

Totally incidental. And it gave me a big fright, because the book was already in the proof stage when the

licist at Granta and my publisher emailed me and asked if my book's title was a play on that book's title. And I

cked. The book is out of print, or is certainly out of print here, so I bought an online version, read it, and

olutely loved it. I thought it was amazing, a brilliant study in madness. In fact, I should re-read it soon, as I’m

re interested in that kind of thing now than I was back then. So yes, the title of the book was totally

ncidental. It borrows from other art, though. There’s a song by Baby Dee titled The Earlie King, spelled the

e way, sort of in an Old English way. The title is an hommage to that, but nothing to do with Robert W.

mbers. That being said, the question has come up maybe twenty times in the last eight years or so? There’s

nitely something to it.

That’s a crazy coincidence. Another question I had about The Earlie King and The Kid in Yellow was about complicated use of style in the novel, whether that was through dialect or the formatting of the text. I

ced that was also a feature in All Along the Echo, such as the use of radio script format. What was the intended

ct of those stylistic choices, and how did you go about determining which sections needed to be told or

matted in that manner, or ones that really demanded to be told that way?

There wasn’t really an intended effect. Actually, I’d like to leave that up to the reader. For me, a novel is

entially a question. It starts with a question, that question carries it, and often you don’t really answer that

stion, but you get a very interesting journey out of trying to answer it. Those stylistic choices became

rent ways to phrase the question and felt more-or-less appropriate at different times. Part of that was almost

running aground.

e from the point of view of the kid when he was a one hundred-and-ten-year-old man looking back on his

I must have written twenty to thirty thousand words in the voice of that old man, about what happened and

t it all meant to him. It didn’t really work, because there was only a certain amount I could tell from his

spective. It was a technical problem; I wasn’t phrasing the question properly. I switched to third-person and started to work. But it still only spoke for one part of the story, because I couldn’t zoom out and examine

t everyone else in the story was up to. That was how I discovered the voice of a police officer character.

When that voice came to me, it did so in the first-person voice and I was back to a character

ospecting on past events. I thought, well, what fits all these formats together? And that was the central conflict

ween the kid and the Earlie King. If I could have both a third and first-person telling of the story, then why not around with other formats like transcripts and whatnot? Sometimes you make these little decisions because

y feel right, and then later you realize that they were the right choice for a lot of reasons. I applied the same

hodology to All Along the Echo. The subject matter was radio, and radio of course has two modes: on air, and

air. Most radios have two bandwidths, AM and FM. And I thought, what kind of scope does that grant me in

ms of following the characters around? Again, you can phrase the question in a number of different ways, and

y add different aspects to what’s possible.

Another pattern I’ve seen frequently in your work is that of rain, especially when it comes to injecting

od. It seems to have an overarching presence in a lot of your fiction. I’m always interested in instances of real-

details, as in details from the author’s personal life, bleeding into their work. So I’m curious about that, and what other recurring details from your life you’ve woven into your writing.

So, when I was first writing seriously towards publication, I was living in Galway, where it probably rains

re than anywhere else in Ireland. It rains there more often than it doesn’t. I grew to really love the rain. I love

king at it. I love being out in it. That and I love Blade Runner, in which there’s rain in almost every scene. When I starting to write The Earlie King and The Kid in Yellow, I actually had the world written before I had the story. I

ted to write a story where it always rained. Not as in it rained most of the time or ninety percent of the

e, but one hundred percent of the time. And of course, the rain pertains to ecological concerns of mine, which

sure are on everyone’s minds these days.

As for other real-life details, there are probably loads, but nothing too important. The missing cat in All

g the Echo is autobiographical. That happened to my wife and I, and we found our cat the same exact way the

racter in the book did. We found her in the sewers while it was raining. Other than that, nothing I wrote was

ntionally autobiographical. There are other things I’m always drawn to. For instance, I'm editing my third novel

before that I was interested in that. Maybe there’s some subconscious purpose there, but I’m not aware of it.

HD

I’m really interested in your experience as an editor for The Stinging Fly. Could you tell me how you got

into professional editing, and what your professional and social experience in that environment was like?

DD

I got into it accidentally. Right place, right time kind of thing. My second publication was in The Stinging

Fly, and I have been published there frequently over the years. I have been to Stinging Fly launches, I have met Declan Meade who was the editor, and met Thomas Morris, who was Declan’s successor. Tom became one of my best friends, so I was always in and around The Stinging Fly’s extended family. I think they got a sense that I was someone who might be useful to them at some point. One day they asked me over text message if I would be interested in working as a contributing editor for The Stinging Fly. I didn’t actually know what a contributing editor did, so that was my first question.

Essentially, you read some submissions, and you contribute in any number of different ways. You yourself could submit pieces to be published, you could mentor young and/or new writers, etc. I was a contributing editor for a little while, maybe six months to a year, and then I was asked to guest edit an issue. At that time, the editor was Sally Rooney. Her career was taking off on an astronomic trajectory, and she didn’t have the time, I guess, to continue in the role. They asked me if I would like to be a full-time editor, and I said yes, and I absolutely loved it.

It’s a huge workload, a huge amount of reading. Back then, we got around 1,000 stories each submission window. At this point I think we’re up to 1,800 stories every submission window, and that’s not counting poetry or essays. It was kind of like making mixtapes for the world, like being a DJ, finding work that you loved, and putting it out there. Once we accepted a story for publication, the writer and I both worked on it. The writer of course had more ownership over it, but I could still help. It was a hard, hard job, very time consuming, but I don’t remember a single bad day.

Cover design credit: All Along the Echo - Jon Gray Author photo: Monika Gorka

WO POEMS

stops for a moment on the threshold *

AGES: GORAN TOMIC

i get into fights where my punches won’t land and i can’t tell if i’m pulling them or if what i’m not punching is really there or here or me and i punch drunk soft startled with sun light touch of all the world and all the world all around my hands still round releasing what i was punching not there or here or her or he

uoted from Kathleen ni Houlihan by Lady Gregory & WB Yeats

back on the bargain * :

don’t be asking me why i’m not fighting or like himself and his sons shearing sheep sure i’m in the play amn’t i get the pride but it makes us smaller people and i keep coming back to george he well orwell he gave me the biggest insight saying nationalism is only ever the cause of conflict on a global scale

* quoted from Kathleen ni Houlihan by Lady Gregory & WB Yeats

ORT STORY: THE FEMINIST

AGE: EMILY Mc GARDLE

“Obviously,” Karen said.

“What kind?”

She pinched her index and thumb together and drew a line across her lips.

She was smart not to reveal her bait. Had I known they were UCD types, I would have stayed at home watched a film. But the not knowing intrigued me. It opened the door for a Robert Pattinson lookalike. To be

est, I would have settled for much less that night. Anything to fill the gap Toby left behind. The bar was low. for consent. Wear Deodorant. Don’t be a dick. A type more elusive than Bigfoot. * The party was like every other one I’d been to. A confirmation that what happened in American college

vies was pure fiction, at least for a Kildare girl. The semi-detached in Leixlip was not filled with strangers

ing at each other in a neon-blue dark. The garden did not contain a pool where a handsome boy could scoop

up and throw me in.

There were six of us. Four girls and two boys. The boys resembled each other rather than Robert

inson. They were both wearing flannel shirts: Craig’s red and black, Anthony’s yellow and black. I wondered if

y’d gone into town together and picked them out. If one of them stopped by the rail in Penneys and said “I

k these are the ones, man”.

We sat at a marble island, on wooden stools, necking bottles of Heineken and Corona. Despite

numbering them, the boys dominated the conversation.

“People shit on Marvel movies but Civil War predicated the whole political situation in America,” Craig

.

“Yeah not to mention that Thanos is like a modern version of Hitler. Most people are just too dense to

re out the symbolism behind the characters,” Anthony said.

I zoned out and focused on the music coming from the Bluetooth speaker. The Libertines. Vampire

ekend. The Smiths. I wouldn’t have minded spending the night with Morrissey. 1980s Mozza. The sensitive

ng man. Not the flabby old racist. I remember thinking that when I went out to the garden for a smoke.

The back door opened and Craig approached. I gave him a nod. He didn’t produce any cigarettes so I

ctantly offered him mine.

“I don’t smoke,” he said.

“Alright ...”

I pulled on my cigarette and looked at the garden ornaments which were half in shadow, half illumined by kitchen light. A ceramic badger with half its head missing was smiling at me. A spider’s web covered the

ow hole left behind.

“I’m more of a feminist than you.”

“How?” “You rolled your eyes when Antho was talking about Amber Heard.”

I couldn’t remember if I did or not. Mam said I rolled my eyes at everything. If I did, it wasn’t because I didn’t support Amber Heard. I hate all celebrities. My TikTok was overflowing with clips of those two assholes and their supporters all summer. Meanwhile, half the planet was in flames. Bloated babies plucked daily from the sea. Why did Jack Sparrow matter more than them?

“So me rolling my eyes makes you more of a feminist?”

“Yeah, because I actually believe her and think she should be taken seriously.”

I chuckled.

“I believe her too, but...”

“Then why are you laughing?”

I shrugged.

“It’s not funny,” he said before retreating into the house, slamming the door on the way. I watched the reaction of the group through the window. Karen pouted her lips. Anthony placed a hand on Craig’s shoulder and mouthed the words “You good bro?”.

I took a final drag before flicking the butt into the hedge. I went back inside and returned to my seat which was opposite his. He picked up his empty can of Tuborg and squinted at the ingredients.

“It’s so gross,” Karen said.

“The media are the gross ones in this situation,” Anthony said.

“What are yous talking about?”

“That picture of Leo Varadkar picking his nose.” * The night dragged on. My lids kept falling. The playlist began to repeat itself. If it could have spoken, it would have told us it was time for bed. The girl who owned the house said we could sleep wherever before she went upstairs with her friend. Karen seemed set on getting off with Anthony so there was no chance of splitting a taxi home. They went into the sitting-room and left me in the kitchen with Craig. I walked over to the little couch by the fridge. It was that or the stool. I looked back at Craig. He was picking his nails. All night I’d been constructing an argument in my head about male feminists. I could rob him of his smug belief that he was an ally in seconds.

But I was too tired. All night I’d been constructing an argument in my head about male feminists. I could rob him of his smug belief that he was an ally in seconds. But I was too tired.

“Are you taking the couch?” I said.

“Why?” An exaggerated sigh left his mouth.

“Is it because I’m a girl?”

“Obviously not. I’m not sexist. I have insomnia, so me sleeping there is pointless.”

“What will you do then?”

He pulled out his phone and began to tap the screen I went back to the couch and laid down. My head right next to the fridge which seemed to be humming one continuous note. My brain was doing something

lar. Toby. To-by. Tobae.

“You’re really sound but I’m just not cut out for a relationship.”

His final text before blocking me.

“Could you turn off the light please?” I said.

Craig pushed his stool back hard which made it screech, before slapping the switch.

“Thank you.”

In the dark all I could see was the back of his head, illuminated by the white glare of his phone. I closed

eyes, felt the waves of beer churning in my stomach, knowing I’d be hungover as fuck the next day. I drifted off

r a couple of minutes. When I woke up, he was on top of me.

“What the fuck ...”

“Shhhh.”

I could see his outline through the thin fabric that covered my face, my sleepy brain thought he’d thrown

anket over me but it turned out to be the bottom of my dress. I shoved it away.

“What the fuck are ...”

He put his hand over my mouth.

“Just shut the fuck up.”

My eyes glued themselves to a fridge magnet. A trio of palm trees. The thumbnail curve of a golden beach.

erife. He finished then pecked me on the lips before returning to his stool. I lay there for a couple of minutes

ore I made myself get up and go to the toilet. Karen knocked on the bathroom door hours later.

“Quick I have to pee,” she said.

Her hair was ruffled and she was squinting at me as if I were some bright object. I waited in the hall,

ding as close to the door as possible. When she emerged, I followed her into the kitchen where the boys

e going through the cabinets. I sat down at the island, on the seat that was furthest away from him.

“Alright,” he said.

“Heya.”

four bowls and spoons in the centre of the island, along with a box of Coco Pops and a carton of oat milk. I opened WhatsApp and clicked Toby’s profile.

“You’ll never believe what happened to me last night,” I typed.

One tick.

I put my phone down then poured some cereal and milk, lifted the spoon to my mouth and forced the chocolate pebbles inside. Like zombies we munched in unison. I was going to confront him then. Just to block out that oppressive grinding of teeth.

“You …”

“Have you seen the trailer for the new COD?” Anthony said.

“Yeah, it looks class... but from what I’ve read the missions are mad relevant. Like is this a game or a warcrime simulator? Kind of makes me feel bad,” Craig said.

“I get you bro but recognising that you feel iffy is a good thing. Most people aren’t thinking about the real-life stuff when they’re shooting virtual terrorists. Anyway, Activision’s been adding more female characters over the years, like credit where credit’s due man.”

“That’s true, the franchise is a lot more diverse now than it was in the past. It’s kind of fucked up that the first thing I focus on is something negative. Things are definitely changing... slowly but surely.”

)! She has a Creative Writing MAPOETRY and tries to put it to good use in her lunch breaks and quiet evening hours.

NTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES: lives in Manchester.

GHAN CARRICK is an artist based in Dublin, Ireland. As a writer, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in shee, Cyphers, Poetry Scotland, The Stony Thursday, Minor Literature[s], Belfield Literary Review and An Áitiúil ology. He was selected for the 2022 Irish Writers Centre National Mentoring Programme and a 2023 RCC Emerging Artist Bursary. View a range current and past projects at www.eoghancarrick.com

N CAHILL has had poems published in Southword, Skylight 47 and Howl New Irish Writing. In 2024 he was rtlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh award.

AIG COX is a writer and sound artist based in West Cork.

LI JOY CRAMER (he/she) is from the Chicago suburbs. He was a 2024 Ireland Chair of Poetry Student Award ner while completing an M.A. in Poetry at Queen's University Belfast. She has been published in Impossible etype,The Broken Spine, and Relief, among others.

EPH HOBAN lives in Dublin. His work has been previously published in Poetry Ireland, The Honest Ulsterman, Stinging Fly, Icarus, The Shop, Ropes, The Edgeworth Papers, and elsewhere as well as broadcast on RTÉ Radio 1. works at RTÉ, Ireland’s national public service media.

RISTINA HENNEMANN is a poet and writer. Her latest poetry book “Leafing” is a winner of the Cerasus try Chapbook competition. Her pamphlet “Witch/Womb” was funded with an Agility Award from Arts uncil Ireland. She received the Doyle Award and the Diana Woods Memorial Award in Creative Nonfiction, as as a Mayo Artist Bursary. Her work appears in Poetry Ireland, Poetry Wales, Anthropocene, Southword,York Literary ew, Meetinghouse, Kelp Journal, and elsewhere. www.christinahennemann.com

RY HOWLETT is a poet living in Waterford. Her work has been published in The Waxed Lemon, Comhnasc, wn to the Light Press, the Bangor Literary Journal, Poem Alone, Shamrock Leaf, Wexford Women Writing Undercover, ry as Commemoration UCD,The Ireland Collection UK, A New Ulster and elsewhere.

REENA JENNINGS is from Dun Laoghaire, Co. Dublin. Currently living in Carlow where she is chairperson he award-winning Carlow Writers Co-op. Invited to read her work at Carlow Arts Festival 2024. She has ormed to audiences in Chicago, Sweden, Wales, Dublin, Wexford and Carlow. Featured on Open Mic of the Air rmont-based poetry programme. She has contributed to many local anthologies, Blue Nip literary magazine, ry X Hunger, The Irish Independent (New Irish Writing), and the Fish Anthology 2022 – where one of her poems shortlisted and another an honorary mention and publication. Shortlisted in Write by the Sea in 2023.

HN KNOWLES has recently had his work published in Poetry Ireland Review (Summer 2024) and The Honest erman (June 2023). He lives in Belfast where he has attended various poetry workshops and was the eficiary of an Irish Writers Centre Mentorship Award in 2024. He worked as a librarian for many years at een’s University Belfast and during this time was also responsible for several editions of an undergraduate law book, Effective Legal Research. He completed a part-time Creative Writing MA at Queen’s in 2004 and ewed poetry collections for Fortnight (Belfast) 2004 - 2006.

GE: MARY HOWLETT

rs in France, Thailand, and Palestine.

Her pastimes include killing lobsters and selling street art.

NTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES: POETRY (continued)

RIC McGLINCHEY Afric McGlinchey’s The lucky star of hidden things and Ghost of the Fisher Cat (Salmon try) were both translated into Italian. Tied to the Wind (Broken Sleep Books, 2021), a prose-poetry memoir ut her African/Irish childhood, was translated into Macedonian. Excerpts were broadcast over five nights on ’s The Book on One. Her new collection, À la belle étoile – the odyssey of Jeanne Baré (Salmon Poetry) has been minated for the Forward Prize. www.africmcglinchey.com

RY MELVIN GEOGHEGAN has five collections of poetry published. Her last collection was published with mon Poetry As Moon and Mother Collide in 2018. Her next collection is due for publication with Salmon in Spring 2025 There Are Only a Few Things. Her work has been published widely in Poetry Ireland Review, The day Times, The Stinging Fly, The Moth, Orbis184, The Oxfam Calendar, Crannóg, Skylight47 and POEM on the Dart ongst others. In 2023 she won the Write by the Sea International Poetry Competition.

RY NOONAN lives and works in Cork. Her first collection, The Fado House (Dedalus, 2012) was shortlisted the Seamus Heaney Centre Prize and the Strong/Shine Award. A limited edition pamphlet – Father – was lished by Bonnefant Press (NL) in 2015. Her second collection, Stone Girl, was published by Dedalus Press in ruary 2019. It was shortlisted for the Derek Walcott Poetry Prize in 2020. Dans un autre compartiment, a ction of poems translated to French by poet Valérie Rouzeau, was published by Apic Editions (Alger) in June 5.

RVILLE QUIGLEY is a writer from Monaghan, Ireland based in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. Her poems have n published with MASKS Literary Magazine, Hidden Peak Press, HOWL New Irish Writing, Room Magazine, Beyond ds and Abridged among others. Last year she placed 2nd runner up in the Mairtín Crawford Poetry Award, and ly commended in the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award. As a filmmaker she has written and directed short s and documentaries for the Arts Council Northern Ireland, the BBC and Channel 4. She is co-founder of nge Birds a writing feedback community. www.dervillequigley.net

R REDDIN is an Irish writer, artist and actor working across literary and performance arts. His work has ned international recognition, including the Ireland–Newfoundland Partnership Award for New Media and ist honours in global writing competitions. His writing was showcased at MART Dublin’s #touristwalkDublin he was named one of Solas Nua’s Best Upcoming Irish Writers in 2016. In 2018, he was a semi-finalist for t Short Screenplay at the Venice Shorts International Film Festival.

UL TEMME is a poet based in Cornwall. His work has been selected for Swerve 2 and Woop Woop Magazine included in A Festivity of Love 2, Warming: 26 Voices for Change and Hot Poets: Sparks. His set, Notes of Dissent, performed online at The Causley Festival in 2021 and poems Mischief and Ghost of Cain have been broadcast BBC Southwest. You can see him at spoken word events, festivals and open mics in Southwest England. He s the North Cornwall Stanza poetry group and holds an MA in Creative Writing from Plymouth University

NATHAN WONHAM is a Glasgow-born poet who lives in the UK. His poetry can be found in magazines and hologies as well as the following books: Poetry Introduction 7 (Faber and Faber), Steel Horizon (Incline Press), nary Others, Vulgar Variants, The Lady on the Plank, Until Independence Day and Without You! (Drizzle-Dazzle). Two ks of poems about the war on Gaza: Ceasefire Now! and Dystopia Persecutia (Drizzle-Dazzle) have been lished recently with all proceeds being donated to Palestinian aid charities. All of Jonathan’s poetry collections illustrated, either by Suzanne Smith or by his brother Nick Wonham.

writing from the University of Limerick. He has twice been shortlisted for the Francis MacManus Prize, for the CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES: PROSE Hennessy Prize, and other competitions. His work appears in the Hennessy Book of Irish Fiction 2005—2015, the 2003 Phoenix Collection of Irish Short Stories and in many literary magazines. In 2003 he won The Laois Prize for Literature. Most recently his stories have featured in the 2024 editions of the literary publications, SWERVE, The Ogham Stone and Crannóg.

DANNY DENTON is an author based in Cork, Ireland. He is a contributing editor for the The Stinging Fly and a lecturer in University College Cork’s Creative Writing MA. His debut novel, The Earlie King & The Kid in Yellow, was published in 2018, and his second novel, All Along the Echo, was published in 2022. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Irish Times, Granta, Architecture Ireland, The Big Issue, Tate Etc, The Dublin Review, Winter Papers, Southword and The Stinging Fly. HARRISON DUTTON is a UCC Creative Writing MA graduate from Pennsylvania. As an undergrad at Eckerd College, Florida, he interned for the campus journal Triton Publications. He is currently an intern for Swerve Magazine in Skibbereen, Co. Cork. Harrison aspires to work as an editor for a literary magazine or publishing house, and to write short horror fiction on the side. As a fiction writer, his current influences are Brian Evenson, M.R. James, Algernon Blackwood, and Ramsey Campbell. You can find Harrison on LinkedIn, and on Instagram @hjdutton_."

KEMI GEORGE SIMPSON Winner of the Good Day Cork Poetry prize Kemi George Simpson is the 2024 Munster Poetry Slam Champion. Published in Swerve, The Four Faced Liar, and Cork Poetry in the Park Collection. Kemi curates and facilitates Cork City Library's Poetry Library workshops. Achieving a masters in creative writing demonstrates her commitment to craft. She has performed at ÓBhéal's Winter Warmer Festival, The Cork International Poetry Festival, Africa Day, Swerve’s Lit Lounge, Da Barras folk Club and Levis Corner House. Her work explores urban nature, race and family. Kemi follows the curve of tree branches to stop her mind from getting stuck.

MADELINE JONES is a writer originally from Charlotte, North Carolina. She holds an M.Phil. in Creative Writing from Trinity College Dublin and completed her undergraduate studies in Anthropology and Creative Writing at Wesleyan University. Madeline continues to take classes and explore genre at Hugo House in Seattle.

JORDIE DEVLIN McMORROW Jordie Devlin McMorrow is a writer from Ireland. Their fiction has appeared in Tower Magazine, X-R-A-Y and is forthcoming in The Wild Umbrella. They were also shortlisted for the 2025 Energheia Literary Prize. They are currently working on a collection of short stories.

KEELAN GALLAGHER is a short storywriter, screenwriter and film essayist, originally from Co. Donegal who now lives in Rush, Co. Dublin. He holds an MA in Creative Writing from DCU and his short stories are featured in Issue VI of The Martello Journal, Issues 31 and 32 of ROPES Literary Journal and themilkhouse.org. His Irish-language screenplay An Solas was shortlisted for the Best Irish Feature Screenplay at Roscommon International Film Festival 2024, for the pitch competitions at the Galway Film Fleadh 2023 and the 2024 Catalyst Film Festival. He contributes to the Irish film website filmindublin.ie.

ALAN McCORMICK lives in Wicklow. His writing has appeared in The Stinging Fly, The Lonely Crowd, Banshee, Southword, Exacting Clam, Culture Matters, Poetry Bus, Confingo and Sonder. His story Fire Starter came second in 2022’s Francis MacManus RTÉ Short Story Competition. Two of his short plays were performed at recent Cork Arts Theatre 10 x 10 nights, and last summer his flash story Why I Was Late was read by actor Tony Flynn at the Duncairn Theatre in Belfast. He’s just completed his second story collection and book of memoir essays with the assistance of an Arts Council Literature Bursary Award. www.alanmccormickwriting.com.

nchester Polytechnic (Ma) in 1990 and attended NTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES: VISUAL ART Triangle Artist workshop NY in 1991. After a career in Art cation, Georgie now paints full-time in her home studio in southeast London. She says “My work is a process uiet self-reflection. I choose to use the visual language of painting to make what I cannot express in words. ting has always given me the confidence to explain what it feels to be me, the need comes from within, from lmost primordial response to the outside world.”

RISTOPHER COLM MORRIN is an Irish artist from Dublin, based in Berlin. He holds a B.A. in Psychology and osophy, with a focus on Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy. His small-scale abstract paintings use elemental shapes saturated colours, exploring the possibilities of painting through open, intuitive composition. In 2024/2025, he awarded the Josef & Anni Albers Foundation artist residency at Carraig-na-gCat. Recent solo exhibitions ude notes at Gallery Sofie Van de Velde, Antwerp (2024), and Witnessing Change at Galerie Mutter Fourage, in (2023). He is represented by Gallery Sofie Van de Velde.

A BERNSTEIN is a Fine Art graduate from LSAD and completed her degree in 2024. She is currently based in k City and works across a range of media, including printmaking, photography, collage, and sculpture. Her stic practice is deeply influenced by a sense of surrealism and nostalgia, often evoking a dreamlike atmosphere. is particularly inspired by the beauty of the past and finds creative expression in repurposing discarded ects to give them new life and meaning.

ER FARUK CICEK (b. 1998, Turkey) is a multidisciplinary artist and art educator based in Dublin. A graduate Bursa Uludağ University, he explores identity and belonging through photography and cyanotype techniques. work critically engages with social norms and LGBTQ+ issues, using experimental approaches to challenge d perceptions. By altering cyanotypes with bleaching and toning, he reflects on transformation, loss, and ptation. Believing in art’s power to reshape perceptions, he sees education as a tool for self-expression and ogue. Having exhibited in Turkey, he is committed to sharing his work internationally and fostering inclusive ural exchanges.

THY DILLON is a writer and artist based in Co Dublin. She writes poetry and prose and has a sustainable art ctice based on hand-made plant inks and pigments. She also takes photographs. Her work has appeared in, ong others, The Irish Times; Lexicon Gallery, Dún Laoghaire; ArtNetdlr.ie; Headstuff.org; Signal Arts Centre, y; and Dunamaise Art Centre, Portlaoise.

VIN HAMILTON is an Irish artist with a passion for the built environment who wants to encourage people on oyage of discovery – not to discover new lands but to see our environment with new eyes. He says, “We are re than a stereo type; more than thatched cottages and flags, we are dynamic and vibrant.” His work brates details which are often overlooked, taking the mundane and turning it into a kaleidoscope of colour shapes to highlight its beauty from a new perspective.

N HANSEN is a German visual artist and writer based in Dublin. While her work as freelance editor focuses ndependent film and video productions, her personal projects involve illustration, photography and creative ing. She is currently working on an English-language novel.

RY HOWLETT is a watercolourist and self-taught mixed media and collage artist. She lives in Waterford, and. Her mixed media work has featured in Drawn to the Light press and The Waxed Lemon. Her watercolours featured in the current issue of The Bangor Literary Journal. She is working on her first mixed media collection.

GE: GEORGIE BATES

viously workedBIOGRAPHIES: at C.F. Møller, a Scandinavian firm, contributing to the design of NHS mental health hospitals, NTRIBUTOR VISUAL ART (continued) uding facilities for the Forensic Psychiatric Unit and the Eating Disorder Hospital. In her art, Alice explores erimental photography paired with poetry, focusing on minimalist design and challenging the mind's eptions. She aims to capture visually insignificant aspects of life that evoke discomfort, inviting viewers to onsider their perceptions of reality.

MZI IBEN AMMAR is a 29-year-old self-taught freelance hyper-realist artist from Tunisia with seven years of erience in creating highly detailed artwork using ink and charcoal. His passion lies in capturing the essence of man expressions, wildlife, and caricatures with an extreme level of precision and depth. He is also fascinated by omotive and architectural design, particularly in the innovation of skyscrapers, buildings, and futuristic cepts. His vision is to merge hyper-realism with design creativity, pushing the boundaries of both artistic and ustrial aesthetics. For collaborations, commissions, or inquiries: +21624723640. zibenammar172@gmail.com/instagram: @ramsey_ben_ammar.

THAN LOWRY is an Irish artist based in Co. Dublin, Ireland. He specialises in acrylic paints and uses a temporary approach to achieve his compositions. His work gives focus to figures in everyday life and insights ntimacy. His work is primarily concentrated on portraiture. His work has been shown in prominent galleries h as the Royal Hibernian Academy, Outset Gallery and he has also been featured in the Irish Independent art umn and heat one of the popular portraiture competition, 'Sky’s Portrait Artist of the Year' 2022. athanlowryart and nathanlowry77777@gmail.com

LY Mc GARDLE is a printmaker from Co. Monaghan. She graduated from Dublin Institute of Technology in 6 with a First-Class Honours degree in Fine Art and received an MA in Print from the Royal College of Art, don in 2020. She received a Sculpture Practice Award from Fire Station Artists’ Studios, Dublin in 2024. Emily shortlisted for the 2022 Zurich Portrait Prize, the 2023 and 2024 Trinity Buoy Wharf Working Drawing ard, the 2024 Derwent Art Prize, and the 2024 AIB Portrait Prize where she received a Highly Commended ard.

ALIA MARQUES divides her time between Folkestone, Kent and West Cork. She is interested in "bad" tography and landscape. She can be contacted on: amaliamarquesart@gmail.com.

SSE MASSEY is a French artist who works with observation and collected residuals. His weavings, sculptures drawings take inspiration in his passion for the underwater world; connecting geological time scales during ch the seas build grounds with the most recent layers of life. He shapes materials to pay homage to their ins and characteristics, avoiding any kind of symbolism and emphasizing processes instead of finalities. This shows in the techniques he uses: crochet, threading or weaving work in cycles that help to persevere. »

MITRANI is a French visual artist and art facilitator who has lived in Ireland since 1997. Her multidisciplinary ctice explores concepts of social ecology and critical plant studies including the phenomenon of plant dness. She is inspired by careful observation of plants entangled with plastic litter and a constant flux of ges that are digitally manipulated. Awards include the P.N. O’Gorman Auctioneers Prize at the 194th RHA ual exhibition in Dublin (2024), Arts Council Agility Award (2022), Dublin Arts Office residential space (2022), the Arts for Health residency award at Uillinn West Cork Arts Centre (2021). www.idamitrani.org/instagram: damitrani.

arts organisations by framing their work through the camera and enjoys BIOGRAPHIES: the various conditions andART challenges CONTRIBUTOR VISUAL (continued) these areas have to offer. He interprets and re-presents their work. Most of his work is commissioned, but he works on personal projects and exhibitions in conjuction to this. His main interests are the changing spatial qualities of the world around us, patterns and habits of societies and the transience of time.

GUGULETHU NDLALANI is a self-taught visual artist and photographer from Soweto, South Africa, born on September 20, 1998. His work is deeply influenced by the rich cultural heritage of Soweto, a township renowned for its historical significance and vibrant stories. As the creative director of a collaborative project, Brokenvillages, Gugulethu focuses on storytelling that reflects the African narrative, particularly the experiences of black individuals who navigate the complexities of daily life. His photography serves as a medium for addressing various social issues that either directly or indirectly affect his life and the lives of those around him.

SINÉAD REILLY is a visual artist based in Galway. She is interested in painting and photography. She holds a BA (Hons) in Visual Art Practice from IADT. Her work explores the small, often unnoticed moments of everyday life.

Through a thoughtful interplay of light, texture and composition, she invites viewers to pause and reflect on the subtleties that shape our world.

LEE SHANAHAN’s work explores human interaction and the interplay between humans and their immediate environment, focusing on relationship and communication to distill a visually bold narrative. Through the process of painting, he shines a light on moments of quiet solitude, chance interaction and the private self, transforming the ordinary into a lyrical and uncanny visual landscape.

KARLY SMITH is an interdisciplinary artist working in collage, sculpture, painting, film, and poetry. Their work explores the ephemeral, fleeting nature of relationships, interactions, and memory. Currently, she is navigating how to communicate the axis of joy and grief as looked upon through nostalgic recollection through the dialogue of shapes and abstraction.

RICHARD SMYTH was born Bray, Co Wicklow and resides in Cahersiveen, Co Kerry. He is 74-year-old fine art practitioner with works held in public and private collections in Ireland, the UK and USA. BA ( Hons ) Fine Art, Coventry Lanchester Polytechnic. MA History of Art & Design, Birmingham Polytechnic.

MA Fine Art with Merit, Coventry University.

GORAN TOMIC is a Collisionist autodidactic artist from Sydney Australia who has exhibited his collages, video installations and performance art over the past 25 years. Raised on Rauschenberg and born posthumously he flaneur’s the urban decay searching for his Wilderness Robe. linktr.ee/undererasure1.

PASCAL UNGERER is a visual artist from West Cork who specialises in contemporary landscape oil painting. His art practice primarily explores spatial cultures with a focus on peripheral landscapes. In 2018 he completed a scholarship funded MFA on the prestigious master’s programme at Goldsmiths University London. He has exhibited his work extensively throughout Europe. Recent shows include his solo exhibition Speculative Artefacts at the Uillinn West Cork Arts Centre. He also recently showed work at the Saatchi Gallery in London and in May 2025 he had his solo show Other Ground at The Lab Gallery in Dublin.

NICK WONHAM Nick's linocut prints are usually inspired by wildlife; his prints have been exhibited nationally, published in greetings cards and he has illustrated several books including three for Incline Press . The Gaza books are his fifth and sixth collaboration with his brother, Jonathan. The illustrations are based on photos which have come out of the conflict. Nick has been a teacher of children with learning difficulties for many years and is also known for his teaching software in the Choose and Tell series.

GE: ANIA READY spect House A READY ork Road (b. 1979, Poland) is a visual artist and author. Her practice brings together tography, archives, text, collage, and cameraless techniques to explore bbereen errepresented histories with a focus on women’s experiences, mental health, and unty Cork P81 YX40 etal structures.

With a background in literature, Ready weaves visual and textual ratives to examine how agency, memory, and identity are shaped. Her work often 53 (87) 116 7130 ages with the portrayal of women in visual culture.

Her literary photobook I Also Fight Windmills (VIKA Books, 2023) reimagines the and writings of overlooked Polish modernist Sophie Gaudier-Brzeska. Combining w.swervemagazine.org hival texts with staged black-and-white images, it explores creative resilience, inner a: @swerve_magazine and women’s roles in society. The book is held in numerous collections, including the leian Library, Martin Parr Foundation, and NOMUS Museum (Poland). Ready has TOR/DESIGNER bited internationally, with shows at Pitt Rivers Museum, Modern Art Oxford, h Maroney: info@swervemagazine. org ndred Heroines Museum, Gdynia Film Centre, and many photography festivals.

TOR POETRY n Fraser: info@swervemagazine.org

PUTY EDITOR POETRY herine Ronan: info@swervemagazine.org

TOR PROSE ne Mullen: info@swervemagazine.org

TORIAL ASSISTANT rison Dutton: info@swervemagazine.org

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