SWERVE 1 by MagazineSwerve

WERVE

SWERVE

NEW WRITING

WINTER 2021

NEW

WRITING

WINTER

2021

POETRYPROSE

CORK COLLECTIVE

THE CORK COLLECTIVE

I was ap Service considera in these would ha from all collectiv E and have there ha allowed. creativel of the m collectiv would lik and hope C showcase at Cork difficult his poem

Matthew Geden

ppointed Writer in Residence for Cork County Library and Arts on the first day of the lockdown in March 2020. My first ation therefore was to work out how the residency might proceed new circumstances. It was obvious enough that anything I did ave to be online and this seemed an opportunity to unite writers l over the county in writing workshops that became writing ves. Eighteen months later and all three groups are still going strong e developed their own individual identities. We still meet online but ave been some actual physical meetings when restrictions have . I am very proud of the work done by these writers, not only ly but also various projects and ideas that have begun to arise out meetings. Swerve arises out of the hard work of one of the prose ves and in particular the willingness and vision of Mich Maroney. I ke to congratulate her and all the contributors on this publication e it is the first of many editions. Cork is a county of abundant writing talent and this edition es that and all of us involved in the collectives are grateful to those County Library and Arts Service for their continued support. In times writing is indeed a consolation, as Derek Mahon puts it in m "Everything Is Going to Be All Right": The lines flow from the hand unbidden and the hidden source is the watchful heart:

Page

R SMOKES Munir Hachemi (trans. Matthew Geden) ............................ 16 OUP Jennifer Redmond ................................................................................ 18 HE BAR Jordan McCarthy ....................................................................... 26 INTER ON THE BEACH Jordan McCarthy .......................................... 30 POEMS Sean O'Riordan ........................................................................... 32 A VIDA Assumpta Gaffney ........................................................................ 36 POEMS Bernadette Knopek ................................................................ 40 NG ROAD HOME Janet Heeran ............................................................. 48 EY'S END Gerardine Hedigan ................................................................... 54 HER Nick Smith ........................................................................................ 56 POEMS Ruth Elwood ......................................................................... 60 POEMS Ciara Flynn ............................................................................ 64 BOURS Sue O'Connor .......................................................................... 72 POEMS Mona Lynch ................................................................................ 76 LIES OF THE KITCHEN Mich Maroney ................................................ 82 MUNDI Mich Maroney ................................................................................ 92 GOTHS AND STRAWBERRY BLONDES Traze Irwin ...................... 96 E AND CHALK Traze Irwin ................................................................ 106 POEMS Lauren O'Donovan ................................................................. 108 RAE Amanda Leahy ............................................................................. 114 D ME Valda Rumley ............................................................................. 116 D FLOW Gerardine Hedigan .............................................................. 118 GHT BLINKS Catherine Ronan ............................................................ 120 YE Catherine Ronan ........................................................................... 122 T TO REMEMBER Moze Jacobs ...................................................... 124 C ACCOUNTANCY Moze Jacobs ......................................................... 126 MPTY LAKE Moze Jacobs .................................................................. 128 HOLD Niall O'Sullivan ....................................................................... 132 NG Niall O'Sullivan .................................................................... ......... 134 R FIESTA Donal Hayes ...................................................................... 136

Hachemi

father sti or an op that now (

ated by Matthew Geden

father th to hide t

father sm the night t

the night l t

ill doesn’t know he’s a father, that a different atmosphere, a change of medium pening breath has been its labile invisible frontier, w he will always be a father (and that, reader, constitutes an act of courage)

hinks about the red door. thinks “what a cowardly thing to paint something with oxide the fact that some day, irretrievably, it will rust”

mokes and looks at the world as if it were a revelation t watches father smoke slowly tracing - without knowing it - the ﬁrst gasps of the child

t watches father smoking full of wonder and hope like looking at a premonition that was always going to be fulﬁlled

Mrs Pea from upstairs makes a great deal s a double buggy and a whining toddler, er keys and is on the brink of tears — it no one loves that woman. She is always elevator breaks. Her face is pulpy and grimace that portends the old lady she will rs Pea is in a spiral of calamity and abuse se. mes FX. He is a sly one. He has a pencil he seems to aspire to rather than keep. The vest peeps through his shirt. He has a gold Anthony medal on it, but he is slimy. He he corridors like a street cat. His bags are ur of Virgin Mary blue. He will never look nd he shifts from foot to foot — ill at ease when encountered in the hallway. They say a phone shop, selling second-hand phones. es, it leaves a hunted imprint on his face is shoulders. lives above this apartment. At four-thirty, m clink his way along the corridor, beers in under his chin yapping at the top of his ould care less about food.

fer Redmond

check th of noise. can neve seems as there wh puckered soon bec — a hop T moustach top of hi chain wi creeps th light — t you in th in conve that he w Whateve and a sto D you will his bags, voice. Du

Jen

hem in. Mrs Pea from upstairs makes a great deal

. She has a double buggy and a whining toddler, nnifer Redmond er find her keys and is on the brink of tears — it

s though no one loves that woman. She is always hen the elevator breaks. Her face is pulpy and d into a grimace that portends the old lady she will come. Mrs Pea is in a spiral of calamity and abuse peless case. Then comes FX. He is a sly one. He has a pencil he that he seems to aspire to rather than keep. The is string vest peeps through his shirt. He has a gold ith a St. Anthony medal on it, but he is slimy. He hrough the corridors like a street cat. His bags are the colour of Virgin Mary blue. He will never look he eye, and he shifts from foot to foot — ill at ease ersation when encountered in the hallway. They say works at a phone shop, selling second-hand phones. er he does, it leaves a hunted imprint on his face oop on his shoulders. Dunstan lives above this apartment. At four-thirty, hear him clink his way along the corridor, beers in , phone under his chin yapping at the top of his unstan could care less about food.

hand. His eyes a Hapsburg chin a filthy hovel, wit evicted. But it tu he tells me imm usual insults. I p spoon the stuff making perfect s It is twe and her beau are the food down t Cockroaches sc iridescent purple talking amongs complain and ke a little aggrieve door behind me. The apa am grateful for see gone. I enjo wrong to hunt th Those s have boundless the city spreads thousands of ho below and waiti shifts are over — hordes of worke am asleep within I do no afternoon, I mak in custody and t

are rheumy the left eyeball bulges in its socket, it stares right past me. He is a hoary old soul with a and a hook nose, now rosy with the drinking. The place stinks of unwashed flesh and urine. It is a th some very handsome but jaded antiques. In the past, the residents have tried to have De Pfeffel urns out that he owns the building. He pays a management company to look after it. When I enter, mediately that he is giving up the drink — the beer in his hand is the last one. Then we trade the place the soup and a spoon in front of him. He curses me and spits into the corner. But he lets me into him, his own hands are too unsteady. We sit like that, subhuman, grunting at one another but sense. elve-thirty. Outside in the corridor, there is a clatter of heels and the burble of conversation. Suzy e waiting for the elevator. De Pfeffel falls into a postprandial doze. I am hoping that he will keep tonight. I take his rubbish out and give the place a thorough cleaning — scrubbing every surface. curry for cover as I disturb their runs. They are not the usual brown colour but are a glimmering e, and they seem to glow as they scuttle along the skirting boards. I can hear them squeaking and st themselves. The apartment block is crawling with them, but not my place. The neighbours eep count of the sightings, as though it was a competition, but I cannot record a single one and feel ed at being shunned by the creatures. At about one-thirty, I let myself out of the flat and lock the . artment block is quiet now. Outside sirens wail and screech, evil spirits of the night are abroad. I the sanctuary of our building and our little community though there are a few that I would like to oy the cockroaches. I am charmed by their little noises and by the beauty of their shells. It is simply hem down. sirens have a rhythm – they seem to come in waves until about three-thirty and then calm settles. I energy at night, and so with a small whisky, I make my way up onto the roof of the building. Here s out under my feet. I listen to the hum — the cumulative din of thousands of machines in omes and buildings idling through the night. I walk around the parapets, surveying everything ing for the moon to appear from behind the clouds. At four, the building lights go out. The cleaning — the office blocks have a few hours to breathe — to be silent until they are assailed again by ers. The moon declines to show herself so, disappointed, I make my way down to the bedroom and n seconds. So soundly asleep that I do not hear the disturbance in the corridor outside. ot hear the sirens that have seared through the slumbers of the other residents. At five in the ke my daily dash to the fishmongers, and from his prattle, I learn that Leo’s wife has died. Leo was the children in care. I am cooking when the police arrive.

Tonight the fare is sole on the bone — straight into the pan with a knob of butter — a special treat, with a great, thick spine for the pot. The policewoman wrinkles her nose, and her partner is eager to leave before the smell of frying fish clings to their uniforms. I tell them not to close the door on their way out. The building seems unusually quiet this evening, I can hear toasters popping — there is very little cooking going on. I have decided to bake some biscuits – that will flush them from their rooms. The first to pass my open door is Mr Pea. He wants to apologise to Mr Samuels, but Samuels seems to be out. He knocks three times. Did I hear about Leo in custody, I did and cannot believe it. Then I see a purple cockroach scuttling across the hall. Mr Pea springs onto the cockroach smashing it with a satisfying crunching sound. Then he looks at me triumphantly. Smiling, I pass him the tray of warm biscuits and tell him to take some for the family — which he does. He reminds me about the residents meeting at Suzy's apartment at eight the following evening — I say that I will see him there. We part in a fug of camaraderie. Later on the roof, the moon reveals herself. She is close to the end of the first quarter. Her light is brilliant, projecting electrifying silhouettes onto the parapet and boiler buildings. I am entranced — gazing in awe at this scene when, at the periphery of my vision, something moves. A large nacreous shell, with polychromatic lustre, scuttles over the parapet and pauses companionably. It is an enchanting cockroach. I could swat it over the balustrade edge with a flick of my hand, but I am mesmerised, and the creature continues on its way, disappearing finally into a crack in the boiler house wall. My mind is tired; I am hallucinating, so I go straight downstairs to bed. But my rest is disturbed by an ugly nightmare in which De Pfeffel, Samuels, his erstwhile partner, Leo’s wife, all of the Pea family, and the cockroaches blend into a many-headed gelatinous hydra that spills from the faucets aiming to envelop and smother me. It is six in the morning, much too early by my usual standards, but I get up anyway and bake. The day drags on with recurring visions of the nightmarish creature that increase and sometimes overwhelm me. There is an ominous calm in the building. I leave a dainty package of home-baked cookies on the doorstep of the Asian men on the ground floor, with a note of welcome to the apartment complex. Then, I make my way back upstairs. At eight, I am at Suzy’s place laden down with cookies. She is making tea and talking about the awful affair with Leo’s wife. She talks with her mouth full of cookies and the crumbs fall to the floor. I see a group of cockroaches waiting at the corner of the skirting board, ready to collect the debris once the danger from her stamping heels has passed. There is a good crowd in the living room. There are many complaints about the cockroaches, about the Leo affair, about the stink from De Pfeffel’s place on the ground floor lobby. Everyone wonders where Mr and Mrs Pea are, there is no sign of Samuels either, and Dunstan — well, he never comes…

er, softened n muscovado sugar act

e of soda

owder olate chips

oven to 190C/fan170C/gas 5. oftened butter, brown muscovado and granulated sugar into a bowl and l creamy. he egg and vanilla extract. plain flour, strychnine, bicarbonate of soda and salt into the bowl and with a wooden spoon. plain chocolate chips and stir well. aspoon to make small scoops of the mixture, spacing them well apart on ng trays. 8–10 mins until they are light brown on the edges and still soft in the you press them. n the tray for a couple of mins to set and then lift onto a cooling rack.

uld make about 30 cookies.

he air feels thin; a full moon is rising and dominating the night sky. I stand with my hands enchanted by the lunar glow. The shimmering cockroach has sidled up to me and follows ger and bigger until she and I are the same size. Her eyes are enormous and luminous, ere pupils should be. spassionately at the flashing lights down in the car park where there is feverish activity. meone in a uniform, the queen cockroach thinks that those humans look like ants; with r shoulder. We talk about the moon — how beautiful she looks and how near she is to the roof. We think that it must be possible to reach up and to pull the moon closer so that we ity. I climb up onto the parapet — the moon does come closer; we vault and turn ever further up and out into the night sky, finally touching the moon, dragging it towards lutter — she squeals in delight and I… I am a shrieking silver gilded object hurtling, towards ineluctable earth.

R THE BAR

n McCarthy

OVE

Jord

ER THE BAR

dan McCarthy

he senior team. Scored a few tries as well. He would never hesitate to get the lowed by shots, especially after the latest league triumph. on’t get promoted next year,’’ he joked during the warm-up the following

heard about the tragedy. It was a Sunday morning. The WhatsApp group scovered upturned in a sand bunker at the local golf course. You think back hen you last spoke with him, when he last posted a cheeky comment on your night of the quiz in the clubhouse last month. Ye spoke then. He took a selfie at night. You told him to keep going with his college course and to take it tmas. This morning you followed behind your captain as the ashes urn was the sports complex. You planned to say something powerful. You wish you ke the moving speech you watched on You Tube last night. But you couldn’t. for you, the captain did the talking. You watched as the urn was passed back braced Mrs Cullen as she told you about how much her son had admired you . You clenched her tightly and wondered how empty she must feel. The right ut they just wouldn’t flow out through your mouth. orner is flapping, as if trying to make its way into the clubhouse for shelter. ing the match today. Is he surfing on the clouds? Is he peeping out from gine him standing behind the dead-ball line, beckoning you to kick it to him, the stands. ive voice awakens you from your rumination. ave to ask you to take the kick. You’ve had more than enough time. On with

We’re behind. Come on,’’ the coach’s voice booms from the pitch-side. the ball. You aim for the bit where the ball sits perched above the tee. You invisible point between the poles. It’s not the most difficult of penalties. At from the stands or those sipping from plastic cups in the clubhouse. But it’s u’ve just witnessed the ashes of a twenty-year-old teammate being scattered

E PAINTER ON E BEACH

dan McCarthy

the brush of light

ook on at your creation

the brush miliar palette beat

aves of love er on the beach.

EE POEMS

ONE O

h the old mill race. tare of a full moon. ver t of town.

Swirling & upside Shuttling Under t A bog b Slips sile

mountain grew. rom sheer rock faces wampy places.

An icy v fog & de Within Bursting Oozing

out

O'Riordan

ar below

es aze with worried faces.

blue in motion. when dark clouds join e single ocean.

Sea

Hard lik Soft as s Rising u In holy w Dispens To those

I am unb on the m The wo And blu And shr

HREE POEMS

OCEAN

g inside out

e down an g throughO'Riordan the old mill race.

the icy stare of a full moon. brown river ently out of town.

view ew a silent mountain grew. g forth from sheer rock faces out in swampy places.

ke ice snow up from far below wells sing graces e who gaze with worried faces.

bound & move. orld spins blue in motion. uer still when dark clouds join roud one single ocean.

s on ast dogs. Borzoi. g small ns. ys reets.

body our great nation. a hero.

ihilation.

ome with me

t the heavens.

he truth be told. ever meant oration. lie generation.

…little )

the trick Out of b

In the ris That sink All bets a

We knew Native la Calling fr We’re ﬁs Beating b

The tide’ Coming Going ou

You’re of We’re of No one’s

kle-down effect breath

sing tide ks all boats are off.

w your apping rom there sh out of water beating beaten.

’s long lost in ut.

ff the rails. ff the charts. s off the hook.

Assumpta Curran

nging sycamore, half expecting see their sharp eyes in peering down strikes at me. e of maintaining a normal bodytotemperature. Thebrown sun, mean its casting,

the fittest up into theincapabl overhan

oint. pair sitI there pompously, chests out, space. I think ce inAwinter. find that I tend towards thatsurveying little area,my going around andfleetingly around,

only adon’t limited spa They disappo

ion. the warmth promised by the feeble yellow glow.

never getting of theirquite exterminat

el back corner of my enclosure sight of the eucalyptus the child swing circles and swoops, unsure ofand histhe surroundings. He lands ontree, an overgrown fern

lone gul IAround the

it, time bringsI walked me backhere, to happier times. when and last it was toand thesimpler soundtrack of Times birdsong, theneighbours trees alive day

by pond. The stillthe hanging froml

d drop attuned in for a to cuppa and a chat andmy leave under friends cover ofsang. darkness a bellyful keenly the various notes feathered Now,with I swear at the

and night,folk my ear unbidden coulk

ache of gossip and tales. Not anymore. Covid has put paid to freedom and d by my own thoughts.

quietness, unnerve of wine and a ca

angs from the front gate. Perhaps a freshly baked bread, or maybe a cake from a

A basket h spontaneity.

singing inI my ear itofand lifekeep and walking. longevity,Even doesthe nothing to assuage tensions. eighbour. ignore dogs are unhappymy with the newI

well-intentioned Coldplay,n

ersonthe I fear. The ironyand of the theme - fear on of death and love of life, is not erred busy streets thesong’s sniff of the poles the routes they’ve come to

course. They the prefe have become p

versal of fortunes at the end and of the combined withconfines my endorphin-high, Today I am a slaveidea to my mind, so song, walking inside the of the black

know. lost onNot me. today. The reT

ious optimism. Or maybe the best thing we can believe right now is that St. Peter walls suits my oppression.

gates theagrey createand in me caut

ross. names. There has been too much. Numbers swim in my head and I play with them. I

I think will indeed call of oul

dred andI seventy, eight hundred and nauseous seventy-one, seventy-two… nalise. feel feverishly giddy and simultaneously. The curve is flatter

fractionise. I ratio Eight hund

I’ve done for unstable today. Time claim the basket from and make a he fear nowenough is of the ‘R’ to number. I continue to dothe mygate own counting.

than before, but th Ah damn,

hot. My joints hurt as one I make my way back to the house.ninety-nine I pull my pyjamas ety-eight, ninety-nine, hundred. First lapup done, another to go. I

Ninety-seven, nine cup of something

mycourse icy fingers, now turning the wind is too many times.blue Onefrom round of thechill. rectangular space covers one

have th sleevesmeasured down over

time torequisite tune in for thefor daily update, health see if we’re anywhere closer the to flattening the daily steps optimum and vitality. I scorn people who

hundredth the It’sof nearly

time. plan. How they’re fooling us, or me at least. I’m no closer to the promised ulous

promote ridicu curve forthis a second

n though I am now into my third month of this routine. The dogs, sitting together

health utopia, even

to be hatching a plan to escape, their disillusionment evident in their limp, low-

in a huddle, seem

beach, the trips to the woods - all now a distant memory. Even the solitary gull

hanging tails. The

oubt enervated by the prevailing mood of gloom and despair.

has taken off, no d

le of maintaining a normal bodytotemperature. Thebrown sun, mean its casting, nging sycamore, half expecting see their sharp eyes in peering down strikes at me.

ace find that I tend towards thatsurveying little area,my going around andfleetingly around, oint.inAwinter. pair sitI there pompously, chests out, space. I think

gtion. the warmth promised by the feeble yellow glow.

circles and swoops, unsure ofand histhe surroundings. He lands ontree, an overgrown fern ell back corner of my enclosure sight of the eucalyptus the child swing

it was toand thesimpler soundtrack of Times birdsong, theneighbours trees alive day mlast it, time bringsI walked me backhere, to happier times. when and

keenly the various notes feathered Now,with I swear at the ld drop attuned in for a to cuppa and a chat andmy leave under friends cover ofsang. darkness a bellyful

ed by my own thoughts. ache of gossip and tales. Not anymore. Covid has put paid to freedom and

hangs from the front gate. Perhaps a freshly baked bread, or maybe a cake from a

neighbour. ignore dogs are unhappymy with the newI singing inI my ear itofand lifekeep and walking. longevity,Even doesthe nothing to assuage tensions.

erred the busy streets thesong’s sniff of the poles the routes they’ve come to person I fear. The ironyand of the theme - fear on of death and love of life, is not

Today of I am a slaveidea to my mind, so song, walking inside the of the black eversal fortunes at the end and of the combined withconfines my endorphin-high,

wallsoptimism. suits my oppression. tious Or maybe the best thing we can believe right now is that St. Peter

There has been too much. Numbers swim in my head and I play with them. I urloss. names.

onalise. feel feverishly giddy and simultaneously. The curve is flatter dred andI seventy, eight hundred and nauseous seventy-one, seventy-two…

he fear nowenough is of the ‘R’ to number. I continue to dothe mygate own counting. I’ve done for unstable today. Time claim the basket from and make a

ety-eight, ninety-nine, hundred. First lapup done, another to go. I hot. My joints hurt as one I make my way back to the house.ninety-nine I pull my pyjamas

too many times.blue Onefrom round of thechill. rectangular space covers one rhis mycourse icy fingers, now turning the wind daily steps optimum and vitality. I scorn people who time torequisite tune in for thefor daily update, health see if we’re anywhere closer the to flattening the

dulous time. plan. How they’re fooling us, or me at least. I’m no closer to the promised

n though I am now into my third month of this routine. The dogs, sitting together to be hatching a plan to escape, their disillusionment evident in their limp, lowbeach, the trips to the woods - all now a distant memory. Even the solitary gull

doubt enervated by the prevailing mood of gloom and despair.

REE POEMS

nadette Knopek

The lake

in the se

Upside d

bathe in

Midges a

to the b

The dist

a contin

Barely a

of the b

to tiptoe

and retr

where m

e lies motionless,

etting sun.

down trees and cliffs

n gilded silence.

and moths minuet

blackbirds’ chirping.

tant waterfall releases

nuous cascade.

audible murmuring

breeze issues an invitation

e beyond the comfort zone

reat to the inner vaults

my soul ﬁnds sanctuary.

ronze

provide a

es pinwheel

where be

doscope of colour

nty road.

From shr

ruby hip

ers

and guel

tation

gleam in

magic carpet

ugh Autumn’s treasures.

Tree trun

display th

eavy

little dom

ries,

buff, apri

quet.

Human e

dying lea

berries -

But from

these are

or insects.

a haven

ees feed on nectar.

rubs and bushes

ps , haws

lder rose berries the afternoon sun.

nks and mossy mats

he amber collection:

mes of cream, peach,

icot and ochres.

eyes see fungi,

aves and berries.

m the magic carpet

e Autumn’s treasures.

Bare blac

sun’s dec

Darknes

Then Sol

Daffodils

In a celes

re-create

and bring

ck branches whisper of tyrant winter,

cline, lockdown and gloom.

ss of doubt and despair casts long shadows.

lstice dawns like a mother’s smile.

s peep, snowdrops are born.

stial embrace Jupiter and Saturn

e the Star of Bethlehem

g reassurance of brighter times.

My city c Mam hopes that b cows and bales w Mam likes it or bookies, pissing a theme of our mo listing previous at Accounts Receiva It’s an ill in the map of Bel that has my cousi us build pubs with “It’ll take she could plaster The sing backsides and he rubble. The Janua have a good dinne “Checkpo money to both sid not an option. Ar draining blood. H Instead, gun butts shock. “Out, now “Hands o We fall o Balaclavas and fa The mask cement-grey Xs t neck. I stop bre listen. I must hear

cousins live in terraces where such transgressions end in beatings and ordinary life ends in tears. by keeping me on the farm, far from the bright lights, I’ll be spared the fate of city boys. That will shield me from bullets and bombs. But my city cousins’ stories are my stories too, whether not. In the feature film of our lives, the madness can erupt anywhere: having a flutter at the at the back of the pub, holding your little girl’s hand on her first day in Reception Class. The ovie is random, pointless revenge. Its plot is predictable: There is a ledger in everyone’s head trocities; pick a massacre from your Accounts Payable and with a big bloody pen add an entry to able. Repeat until the cast are dead or have run out of steam. wind and all that. Us brickies are not short of work these days. Whenever a bomb blows a hole lfast, we are drafted in to patch it up and return the city to a semblance of normality. A normality ins unemployed, in jail or dead. That has Seamus’s lot shot on marches. Meanwhile, the eleven of h no windows, walls around walls and count the money in our pockets. e a power-hose to get the dust off us for the dancing tomorrow,” says Harry. “The mother says the wall with the bath water after me.” ging and wriggling keep us warm. The metal at our backs is cold and uncomfortable. Our eads are sore from bouncing over potholes—nature and man conspire to reduce the roads to ary gloaming throws shadows through the trees. At least it’s not raining this evening. Mam will er ready too. oint, lads. Shut up,” says Willie. This has not happened to us before. Good luck and protection des keep our show on the road—so, God knows who is signalling. Willie knows that flooring it is rmy, police, Provos, bored fellas out for target practice—would all turn us into a mobile sieve, He pulls up the handbrake. We hush to listen to the expected interrogation up front. None comes. s thunder on the two back doors. The windows shatter and rain in on us. Orders shake us from the

w.” on the side of the van.” over each other, arms and legs and feet. Cold air slaps us. “Checkpoint my arse,” says Harry. atigues. Who have they come for? Who are they? My lot? The other lot? ked monsters barking at us in the dark are straight from my night terrors. We form a line of typeset on the side of the dark blue Ford. I feel a cold steel O imprint itself in the back of my

eathing. Bile pushes into my throat. My heart is punching my ribs, deafening me. God, I need to r the instructions. Maybe the accent will reveal the director of this horror. He’s English.

sense. A plummy English accent sets the Catholic free. The rest of us are fucked. We’re

ill Seamus’ place. The darkness sucks my soul. Behind me, boots shuffle in the gravel as shifting position; feet move shoulder-width apart; toes face forward; knees flex; arms

move.” ay and piss ourselves and wait. e bloody lot of them.” ack. Deafening bullets drill into our bodies. My hip explodes. Then my knees, my ankles. us to run. I’m down. Harry’s head lands on my shoulder. He’s screaming. Willie moans than all, a pulsating, throbbing beat in my head. Live. Live. Live. The murderers are h. I heft my weight on my elbows and drag myself into the ditch like an old dog. My t the stones. My useless legs are pulled along. Blackthorn bushes and long grass—

.” creaming and moaning. I’m afraid to breathe or open my eyes. I’m a child hoping they ee them. I hear one last crack and the job is over. Another line in the ledger. ounds are muffled now—more orders, a car starts, tyres squeal and darkness descends. It my cold bed. me. It’s Seamus. Christ, he came back for me. old on, fella.” He lifts me under my arms and drags me past Harry’s bloody corpse to the breathe. My head rests on Seamus’ lap. His hand presses hard on my hip. “You’re grand, feel fucked but can’t argue with him. Jesus, he came back. He came back. hen stops. A woman shouts, “The road is blocked. A removal. They’re taking the lad shot ch.” I see her forehead press against the window. She weighs up my chances. “Shit. I’ll ing. Get that wee lad to hospital. Go on.” g. mbulance crosses paths with the hearse.

Down th

Barbed w Smack as Bursting Savourin

There lay Fuchsia a To an en Blue plas

A locked It’s “Sign” Cobweb Swings in

The hum Bore a se Un-trodd Branches

Nettles t To dare a My legs a My face f

As I get c Rearing a Of wild h My head

Memorie Breathe I tinker d Here wh

he “Long Acre”

wire and bramble s my lips fall on blackberries ng sweetness ends

y a broken fence and Lady Fern dance ndless audience of stic and empty cans

d gate whines ” a telling bs walloped as it n the still air

m of an empty ﬁeld ea of orange and purple den there by a lone tree s motionless wounded

taunt onto the road and stare are heavy feels damp

closer and closer and crash horses foaming reels in orbit

es a torrential downpour Exhale dabble and babble here I am ﬁnally here

MY FATHER Nick Smith

miled at the two visitors, one short, the other tall. Confronted with the transient, their fingers shuffled solid to grip, hands resting on the foot-board. Pleasantries were exchanged. Nice day. Nice House. nces. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece in the living-room below. Eventually he spoke, my father ving the awkwardness of others. ll have trouble getting me out of here,” he said, laughing, a wicked glint in his remaining eye. entlemen smiled benignly and made mental notes. The assistant, an uncouth rock of a man, rubbed ether. I half-expected him to spit into his palms. After more talk of little consequence their unusual ts inevitable conclusion and they bade my father farewell. They would meet again. Later. huffled out of the bedroom and onto the landing. The larger of the two paused at the top of the that twisted their descent to the hallway below. He shook the landing-rail. It wobbled gently, like a

s this come apart?” he asked hopefully, nodding at my mute response. “Thought not,” he muttered. wo men irreverently wound their noisy way downstairs, seeming to forget the purpose of their visit. another body. They made their way along the hallway to the front door and disappeared into blinding ld hear my father chuckling upstairs, his dying weight growing heavier by the hour. days later, in the early evening, he slipped away. We washed and dressed his body and strapped his he once wore. His false teeth, for once in their proper place, his eyelids weighted by two old coins. mother slept next to him, which I thought was brave. ollowing morning the two gentlemen returned to the cottage. The worn, plastic coffin they carried wn, used many times, always a different occupant. With no room for manoeuvre, it was passed he winding stairway, over the banister and onto the landing, a dress-rehearsal in reverse and we all ke notes. By reversing the coffin into the bathroom, we were able to guide it across the landing and y bedroom. It took a while, but we knew my father would wait. He was in no hurry, nor were we, e route that lay before us. offin was an ingenious contraption. The undertakers, like magicians, unclipped the lid, ends and e was prised beneath my father with dignity as though not to disturb. The components were snapped e and, with a final flourish, the lid, and he was lost to my view. We paused for a respectful moment r, wishing to avoid any awkwardness, took herself off to her garden whilst my father began his final

ingerly reversed the weighted coffin into the bathroom, onto the landing and balanced it on the stronger of the men slowly made his way half-way down the stairs while we paused and surveyed climbers about to descend Everest. unspoken agreement, the coffin was nudged forward to the fulcrum. The man on the stairs paused, we lifted our end. As it gained momentum, we guided it over the railing towards his supplicant hands. creaked but held. As the coffin tilted, my father’s body slid and gently settled. Instinctively we ned. Reassured, we continued in silence with muted grunts and hasty hands to lower the coffin onto ble step. narrow stairway we gave assistance as best we could but it was up to the lead man to turn the coffin rom step to step as though in a waltz with an overweight partner. My father, teetotal in life, lurched tep around the bend until he reached the hallway. We wriggled between door-jamb and coffin and my father onto the waiting trolley. We all were breathing heavily. This particular mountain had been

s w a u s

b h m m

The ancient path to the cottage had been laid with cobblestones. These often presented a challenge for the sure-footed let alone those on castors. The undertakers cajoled the trolley over the uneven surface as though wrestling an unwilling spirit. The two men, their coat tails flying, gripped the coffin like exorcists, restraining the apparent demoniac all the way to the narrow gate. I remained by the front door and watched my father go, trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle my tear-filled laughter. Eventually they reached their destination and my father’s coffin slid without resistance into the back of the patiently-waiting hearse. I knew the stronger man by sight. In a former life he used to drive cattle-trucks, more familiar with living beasts than the dead. After the doors were closed he stood and tucked his shirt-tails and wiped his brow. He must have felt my eyes upon him, or heard my laughter which, I hoped, he understood as grief. He turned and caught my gaze. He hastily restored his dampened handkerchief to his pocket and straightened his back. He looked up at me and shouted, with reassurance, “Your father wasn’t that difficult”. “Well,” I said to myself, “You didn’t know my father, did you!”

h Elwood

Wash nig Pours ov Water tr Vertical m Tapping r Fixed; let

Upperbo Onto po Tiles rev Plughole Wallow a Corpore

Lift sole, Unfurl, p Condens Name sig Runs awa

ght sweat, shower ver bowed head. rips off eyelash, morse code. razor, stubble drifts. tters, numbers manifest.

ody drapes over knees, fold orcelain tray. Squinting veal faces, ﬁgures. choked by foot, as murk rises over eal canvas, goosebump race.

, drain gasps, swallows. pause in chill, sation clouds glass gned in a loveheart ay.

s, d.

glass, um. .

ne,

es.

death

. .

nd the pull.

drawn. ford mental transactions. t funds, d balances.

rawn. nd was faster. a loser. No draw. rawn and quartered.

drawing. ment, no contract. conditions. n from this.

POEMS

Muddied I imagine A banque With lea And spec A ceiling Festive d Berries a To displa Under a Memorie Feelings Alone in In the ho

lynn

d and red from midday sun e a meal et of sorts for one aves for plates ckled skies g over which this dinner takes place and ﬂowers spread out ay this solo mission rich canopy of green es of sweet excitement of contentment n the woods ot summer light

Travellin An uptu broken and angr Crumple as far as

Burst ba The win taking w Roof top Workm while ele

Leaves l try desp Like Sha ﬁelds sin This littl Mandevi

Then Sp full of th brought A new s bringing and shin

ng a woodland road - Galtee bound urned tree - its roots showing nature's cruelty fences marked by strong winds ry gusts ed arboreal shapes line the surface of ﬁelds s an eye can stretch

anks carry debris from miles around nd has been and gone with it lives sacriﬁced to feed its frenzied ways ps - barricaded in by iron rods men replace broken slates ectrical vans dash around townlands

line the earth and remaining trees perately to shed more akespeare's Ophelia in her watery grave nk down deep from the aftermath of ﬂoods le town is quiet with a statue of ille keeping watch over each street

pring arrives – he smell of fresh ﬂowers. t on by rays of sunshine season has emerged – g brighter evenings ning a light on dark days past

minutes ﬂy by stands still e rhythm of the beat

eatures songs es of youth m the bottle owhere ground

ﬂash through the air entle heap of a man eek out from his pockets s help him up s-

hen - to board the bus d glass n an ambulance ft on the cold seat outside

ge and the sky feels low ovember day – im e journey

EIGHBOURS

been married for close to one hundred years. Elise was tiny and always wore kitten heels and skirts. hands all the time going off to do their chores, activities or going to church. You have a beauty there,” Morty said to my mother, meeting us in the stairwell. He grazed my cheek randfatherly hand. “We were never graced with children,” he said to my mother as she fumbled with gs up the stairs, always carrying more than she could manage. Morty was one of life’s Labradors, open, d not too sure where the line is. spent time with Morty and Elise in the afternoons. In the mornings, my mother would rise late and eat cardboard with chocolate milk. She would sit there in her nightdress in the heat watching soap operas. would get some madcap idea to cook us all dinner. I would try to dissuade her, telling her pizza was fine, she insisted on popping down to the shop to get ingredients. However, she would be so overwhelmed and the carrying of five litres of water that she would have to rest after walking to the corner shop. She me back and begin angrily chopping carrots that nobody wanted to eat. I would say I was going to visit ours. he never seemed to mind. Morty and Elise’s tiny apartment was always warm. They would cook with d never heard of before and use yogurt in their dinners. Every day Morty would get fresh bagels which till warm. ked to think I was keeping Morty and Elise company. They would make this special table for me in the heir sitting room. I would sit piled high on cushions, and the table an old hanging clothes dryer, a ey covered it over with towels and I would have to sit to the side of it as it had nowhere for my legs. me banana sandwiches and soda as they would call it. It was the nicest meal in the world. One day they uge colouring mat. It was full of fish and life under water. Every day I would visit, and we would pull ncils and start the colouring in. Inch by inch the fish came alive. Elise would sit by the window while uld crouch down on his haunches and colour with me. ne October morning. Mum arrived home and took down our clothes from the makeshift rail started to m into our suitcase. She spoke over her shoulder telling me that we were moving. I followed her asking ll be able to see Morty and Elise. She brought the case all the way down the stairs as I was still asking I purposely forgot my toothbrush. She knew I was a bit of a stickler for my toothbrush. So, she let me stairs taking two steps at a time. When I knew she was out of earshot, I crept to Morty and Elise’s door. oard outside their door was creaky so I knew where to stand and reach across to ring the bell. It took Morty to pad over to the door. His voice inside wondering to Elise who it could be. opened the door, and I ran into him and gave him a hug. Old age gently pressed down on his shoulder

Well, here, now, what is the matter, Molly?” am going away to live somewhere else.” When?” Today.” What, now?” Yes,” I said in disbelief myself. at’s it? That mother of yours, she really is something. I─” ow, Morty.” Elise called from the other room. “Sometimes a mother has to do what is right for

one foot While it she climb to the so from the to be enf and lulled

POEMS

She was in Christ the night She playe Later wh she told shed give If he gave

How do A ﬁst of A ﬁst of A pinch o A pinch o Sour milk I mixed, I Even the I never fe

t round, deep crossed. cooled on the windowsill bed the cobbles ound of the Angelus bell e church on the hill, folded in a cloak of incense d by the tinkling of the thurible.

playing Forty-Five ty’s Hotel t the ambulance took her. ed a trump card and collapsed. hen I visited me she promised the Sacred Heart e up the fags e her another chance.

I make the soda bread, I asked? brown white of soda of salt k to mix, she rhymed. I stirred, e dog declined. elt the weight of her ﬁst, or the size of her pinch.

“We bou Discharg Gifted it Covered Slowly, m to the w Pulled up star shap they cam A dwarf, A haven A friend bowing g Its stars into the

ught you a plant in a pot” ged, I took it to the fertile soil. a mulch of fallen leaves, d it in its warm blanket and waited. my Magnolia Stellate responded warm-hearted sun, the loving moon. pwards by the sky, it began to sprout ped flowers, delicate petal-like tepals, me even before its leaves. , a treasure with a low profile. for finches and sparrows. of the glitzy Cherry gracefully beside it. lead us out of Winter grandeur of Spring.

the rainforest, d my share of palm oil. threshing where cut after cut d nettles silenced Corncrakes. rricane Charlie lashed our shores pt our young across the Atlantic, his house. came in 2011, downing trees and toppling poles. ating my 70th in a coastguard cottage, e than my birthday candles. the one who had it in for me. roof from my sons’ school gymnasium. eighbouring gardens, y on our patch. d in the sand. oxide emissions in the late 50’s, evels steady for 800,000 years. emissions rapidly, as learned les Keeling and known as the Keeling Curve. overed the effect of CO2 emissions and the Greenhouse effect. e. I am learning about sustainable fabrics. an dishes for my grandchildren. ump my fabric conditioner, ea and its tiny molecules harm the ﬁsh. snails and slugs feasting on my plants, the frogs, toads, and hedgehogs. amage we have done is stalled ake over as it has done in Chernobyl. of a work in progress.

Maroney

pipes are never ch convenience then. The others dressed in an expe after Rousseau of had brought his la so radiantly beauti that evening garni touring the provin least were Pierre-G literary novels. G refresh themselves As was th and I was regarde example. No, I wa Fitting enough I s arrived as a young living. Either way nobody knew. My off with a penny could from the co under one of the s supervision of the The years return to Paris. Ro the library, reading occupied, my uncl was scarce though That was war for went unmanaged. farm after all, tho manager. We had e without flinching

hic. It was whispered that tweeds were not the only English custom he espoused. A marriage of . s filed in afterwards. Hippolyte, the high-court judge, fat and prosperous, and his wife, Henriette, ensive, understated travelling suit, with a small mink collar. Very correct. Jean-Jacques, named all people … was there ever such a dashed hope memorialised in unsuitable nomenclature? He atest … how shall I put it? … companion. Yes, companion, this one hardly more than a child and iful. Another lamb to the slaughter. The poor little thing, I may as well have been serving her up ished with parsley. Then Sybille, once a leading lady at the Comédie Francaise, now reduced to nces, accompanied by her actor-manager-husband, Claud. Bringing up the rear and last but not Gaspard and Charlotte, both members of the Academy and purveyors of absolutely unreadable Give me Maigret any day. After they had paid their respects they all retired to their rooms to s before the funeral later on that afternoon. Tea was sent up on trays. heir habit they had paid hardly any attention to me. I was the one poor relation in this menagerie ed as part of the furniture. Not even a valuable antique, one of the Louis Quinze commodes for as considered to be a far more utilitarian piece, a common-or-garden kitchen chair for example. suppose as the kitchen was my domain. From my earliest days at the chateau, ever since I had g girl, I had been trained. I had no fortune and I would be expected to marry or earn my own y, it was good training and I had shown a great deal of aptitude. Where this had come from y father had been an impoverished professor of philology and my mother his brilliant student, cut for making such an unsuitable, not to mention scandalous, marriage. I had soon learned all I ooks at the chateau and was sent, closely chaperoned, to one of the big hotels in town to study stars of the Cordon Bleu. When my training was over I took on the running of the household and kitchen. s passed slowly in the country. The house was shuttered during the winter when my uncle would ooms were closed and white shrouds covered all the furniture. I would spend the short days in g by the fire and hunting out old cookbooks and recipes. When the war broke out and Paris was le managed to escape the city and took to spending the entire year in the country. Naturally, food h I proved adept at providing, sometimes buying from poachers the game from our own estate! you. All our gamekeepers joined the maquis, the rest were sent to labour camps, and the land We had only the ancients and the young boys to help but we got through. There was the estate ough I had to learn farming the hard way, from one of the old village grandfathers drafted in as eggs from our own hens and kept pigs, sheep and cows. I learned to wring the neck of a chicken and soon learnt not to grieve when the animals were sent for butchering.

time to move on. The rest of the household remained in ignorance. We thought this best as it is e all been shot had we been betrayed. During this time Ange-Louis sometimes requested time which was always granted. I thought it best not to ask too many questions and he offered no to say he was visiting his aged aunt. On these occasions I would always give him a small s, as a present for her, in case he was ever stopped. Mostly it was peaceful. Soon the garden and weeds, coquelicot, bleuet and salicaire violette bloomed amongst the ancient roses. The with the tiny marguerite and pisse-en-lit so equally beloved by children and hated by adults. eir formal look, neat box hedging became wild and ragged and pears and apples rotted where s. The deer grew very bold and could sometimes be found grazing on the unkempt lawns. found my uncle lying very still on one of the overgrown gravel paths. I could see he was the help of Ange-Louis I got him to a chaise longue in the nearby orangery. His doctor was stroke. He would need round-the-clock care if he was to recover and this became my task for slowly he came back to life. At first, he had no appetite but I would tempt him with a little bit small helping of Souffle au Fromage perhaps, a little terrine of foie-gras, Potage Parmentier, out some bottles of the good wine. It is miraculous what a little drop of Chambertin or Nuitsdo. He rallied. The day he managed some Homard a l’Americaine (and believe me you could Black Market if you knew the right people) I knew he would live. He was pushed about in an et-chair but his mental faculties were unimpaired and by then the war was more or less over. peace came our lives hardly changed except that the grass on the lawns was cut close again and velvety texture. Roses, the Albertine and Gloire de Dijon which had run rampant on the walls, ed back. The deer, timid once more, remained in their woods. Life at the chateau returned to its s prosperity. It seemed that my uncle’s fortune had actually increased during the war. He had armaments, was a wily player on the Bourse, and whilst others had gone to the wall, he had her. The house gleamed with all this accumulated wealth. The parquet shimmered and maids, ack-and-white, dashed about with feather dusters. Every week the Sèvres dinner services were of their cabinets and washed. The rooms were scented with lavender and beeswax from our Once more the Meissen urns were filled with extravagant arrangements, blooms from the here they were grown in strict rows. The hothouses and orangeries were so full of produce that to Paris for sale; oranges, grapes, pomegranates, melons. We had more than enough for the nus grew even more adventurous. My uncle was most gratified and whilst we were never w that I was appreciated. passed without a hitch. The coffin was taken to the village church and the mass was well poachers and the well-known anti-clericals, the village communists and so on, had turned up.

“Ho He wanted. Th at the curta come later, “I’l Iw He upstairs, un I su my staff dr efficiently. necessary. S hooks, glea perfectly sm most satisfa The curtain Wh sherry wait their alread jolly, chatte table was c usual the ab setting bein would pers Candles gle interfere wi The The Meissen be door, waitin service wou Din

ow is my little kitchen lily, eh?” chuckled with his usual feigned bonhomie. I eyed him with distaste but said nothing. I knew what he here on the table was a bottle of champagne. Chilled to perfection. One glass. Sybille would be clawing ains by now, a deranged cat. The champagne would keep her sedated but not comatose. That would during dinner. ll have it sent up” would not have my guests behaving like waiters. scuttled off, relieved, and I motioned to one of the lads. He knew what was necessary and strolled nhurried and professional. I trained them well, the kitchen staff, and here at least I had a little respect. urveyed the room. All was in order. My kitchen was as impeccable as any of the big Paris hotels and rilled with military precision. I watched them with pride, each going about their tasks quietly and I would have no truck with the masculine habit of screaming and shouting in the kitchen. It was not Sometimes I would raise an eyebrow and that would be enough. The copper pans were ranged on their aming with polish. Marble worktops scoured and immaculate. An immense wooden table was pale and mooth with scrubbing. The tiles of the ancient terracotta floor were washed three times a day. It was all actory. I looked at my watch and clicked my fingers. Once. This was the signal. Dinner in two hours. n went up on my Ballet de Cuisine. hen my guests came down from their pre-dinner toilette there were canapés and glasses of chilled ting for them in the ante-room. The sherry tasted fresh, like distilled grass, carefully chosen to whet dy ravenous appetites, and the canapés so innocently tempting that one or two were not enough. It was a ering group of relatives who made their way through to the dining room. The long Directoire pearwood covered in its damask cloth, pristine as a snowdrift. I had decided on the Marly Rouge service and as ble looked impeccable. Hats off to you Ange-Louis I thought. He would have insisted on each place ng measured with a ruler. Woe betide the poor footman who was even a centimetre out. Ange-Louis sonally see to it that each of the glasses was carefully polished. There must not be a single mark. eamed next to centrepieces carefully arranged with flowers chosen for their lack of scent. Nothing must ith the tastebuds of my guests. I left nothing to chance. ey all took their places, eyes shining with ill-concealed greed. e head of the table was set as usual in respect for my absent uncle. I took my seat and tinkled my little ell, made in the eighteenth-century for a Prussian Archduchess. I knew Ange-Louis had his ear to the ng for my signal. He would silently motion to a footman stationed further down the corridor and uld begin. The curtain was about to rise on the final act of my perfectly choreographed little ballet. nner was served.

When the last drops of soup had gone, in came the fish. Filets de Sole Bonne Femme, innocuous and homely, but so fresh, the fish having arrived packed in ice on the morning train. I thought this simple dish could only be improved by vintage Mersault. What a treat! Glass after glass of the fine wine went down. Then the main course arrived: Caneton aux Navets, served with something of a flourish by six footmen. Six ducklings on six separate serving dishes, each duckling reposing on a bed of turnips. A sight to gladden the eye. The delicious little birds were crisp with crackling on the outside and tender and juicy on the inside. I watched Hippolyte lick his lips in anticipation, a most revolting sight. Each duckling was expertly carved by its footman and dispatched with a serving of Petis Pois Frais a la Francaise. To complement the duck I felt that Romanée-Conti would not be out of place. Extravagant, yes, but I knew it was warranted. Completely wasted on Sybille of course, who glugged down several glasses without even tasting the duck. The conversation at the table had become more raucous with each course and Parisian manners fell by the wayside. Hippolyte was stuffing as if he had not eaten in a month and had broken out in a fine sweat. And it was funny, but I had never noticed before that Henriette had such protruding eyes. Even Gaspard and Charlotte, normally so pale, bookish and ascetic were puce in the face. Jean-Jacques’ handsome features, distorted with wine and food, revealed him to be the roué that he was. Alone among the diners the pretty little girl had kept her composure and was eating thoughtfully and with finesse. Bravo Mademoiselle, I thought, you are the only one who deserves this feast. A little rest between courses was in order and I asked Ange-Louis to serve a little champagne before the salad. The conversation turned to the will, as I knew it would, scheduled to be read by my uncle’s old notary the next morning.They were all expecting a share, the question was, how much? My uncle had no offspring of his own. He had made his will many years previously but nobody, much less me, knew its contents or how he had chosen to divide his estate. The conversation was turning bitchy. “Well, Sybille, I hope all the years of flirting with the poor old creature will have been worth it.” This, from Jean-Jacques. “Don’t be so disgusting! I can’t help it if he found me charming, I didn’t do it on purpose. And anyway, what about your own brown-nosing? Don’t think for a moment it went unnoticed.” And so on, the others breaking in with their own grievances and accusations. In other words, a typical family dinner with my cousins. I only wished my uncle could hear them. I motioned to Ange-Louis to serve the salad. Time to get dinner going again. Copious amounts of salad were munched as an aid to digestion. It was all to the good and there was plenty more food coming. Next on the menu was the cheese course. They gorged again, the salad having done its work. I served cheeses that were easy to eat after a heavy meal, creamy and seductive, Reblochon, Tomme de Savoie. Fromage au Marc de Raisin, and Brie, nice and ripe. I watched my cousins wolf it down, unthinkingly, along with the luscious black grapes from our own hothouses. A little pause for a palate-refreshing sorbet, sharp and delicate, made with my own elderflower cordial. Then it was time for the pièce de résistance, the dessert. The footmen came in once more and the table was entirely cleared and reset.

emained. I sat back in my chair and surveyed the faces around the table all, except for the little girl’s, with satiety. Whilst they could still move I ushered them into the salon where coffee waited, black and recrimination. I left them to it along with the fine old marc of the chateau and any other liqueur they ncy after such an orgy of gluttony. I went to my room well satisfied with my work, as any artist would, a good day’s work had been done. The next morning I had arranged for the notary to arrive at ten o’clock, nice and early, knowing my wanted to hear the will without delay. They began to trickle into the breakfast room at about nine thirty. e reason they were all wearing dark glasses. It was like being at a convention for the blind. And ere was a notable absence of cheerful morning chatter around the breakfast table. No one seemed in the eat. They poured themselves coffee. I could see Hippolyte’s hand shaking. My uncle had favoured the country house style for breakfast, liking the easy informality. Chafing dishes stood on the buffet for guests hemselves. The door to the breakfast room opened and the girl clattered in, dressed in jodhpurs. “Did you have an enjoyable ride my dear?” I had found her wandering about early in the morning looking for coffee and had given her a little café in the kitchen before she went out to the stables. We had chatted of this and that. Her parents had both led in the war, she lived with her grandmother and was a student at the Sorbonne. She worked as a in her time off, where she had met Jean-Jacques. We found we had a lot in common. “Very enjoyable thank you Madame.” Such a polite, respectful girl. “Do please help yourself. There is no need to stand on ceremony.” She raised the lid of each dish. My uncle had enjoyed his English breakfast. If we had weekend guests we ways serve the full complement of dishes, even porridge! There were devilled kidneys, bacon, sausages, rambled, fried and poached), kedgeree, toast and marmalade. She took her time and inspected each dish. al lids of the chafing dishes came down with such a crash you would almost think she was doing it on It sounded like the timpani section from an atrocious modern symphony. There were groans all round. ques even went so far as to put his head in his hands. This would have been unthinkable in my uncle’s . What little time it took for standards to slip. The girl sat down next to Sybille and I noted with approval heaped her plate with kedgeree. I had made it myself. It was one of those strange English confections that rprisingly good. Fishy. Aromatic. It was funny how something as egregiously revolting as smoked could be made so delicious …. there was the sound of involuntary retching as Sybille pushed back her d ran from the room. We both tucked into our breakfasts with relish. I had chosen sausages. Fat and juicy, e made from a secret recipe from Yorkshire, in the north of England, most enjoyable. The notary arrived on the dot of ten and we all filed into the library for the reading of the will. M de was an old friend, he had been our radio operator in the war, and I was very pleased to see him. I ushered my uncle’s desk, and he began to lay out his papers. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, before we begin, I would like to request the presence of M. ” This was Ange-Louis. Rather surprising. The cousins looked around at each other. What on earth? Who M. Savarin?

of staff and so on. We then came to the main business. “M de Fontenoy wished me to inform you all that he was well aware of what was going on during the war and he was very proud of the part the chateau played in helping the Resistance and in particular of the exploits of M Savarin …” Then came the bombshell. In his measured and unemotional tones, (his calm and sang-froid had been such a reassurance at some very tricky moments), he made our uncle’s last wishes known. In the ensuing uproar, the shrieks from Sybille, the roars of rage from Hippolyte – “This is an outrage, we will sue ...”, – he remained entirely unruffled. “I think you will find the will is absolutely watertight Monsieur. He was of absolutely sound mind and took the extra precaution of adding an affidavit from his doctor. You will find it extremely difficult to challenge and I would advise against it.” Jean-Jacques started to laugh. The rest of them looked at him with fury. “You have to hand it to the old boy. Well, I’m off. No point in hanging around here.” I agreed with him. Something had told me there would be a surprise. I had given the staff the day off, first ordering the vintage champagne to be properly chilled and served to all of them in the kitchen. Luncheon would not be served. I live in the Midi now. With my uncle’s most generous legacy I opened a little auberge. We found an old house in the hills surrounded by gardens and pine trees. It overlooks a pretty fishing village on the Riviera called St Tropez and each morning we take a short drive to the jetty for fish. Then a little café complet on the quayside and it’s back for the day’s work. Two Michelin stars already! It helps that I have such a fine sommelier. I had a feeling about that little girl. She started as my waitress and then I sent her to the Cordon Bleu to be trained. It certainly paid off and she is known as one of best noses in France. One of our most faithful customers is Jean-Jacques who regularly motors down from Paris in his vulgar and hideous American car. The old rogue doesn’t change and is usually accompanied by … how shall I put it? … a companion. Yes, a companion. He has made connections in Hollywood and sometimes turns up with a carload of what he describes as “moguls”, whatever that means. I have never returned to the chateau. It is renowned as one of the best hotels in France, owned and run to the manner born by Ange-Louis.

OSA MUNDI

ch Maroney

a drawing by Toulouse-Lautrec.

blooms are the bloody handkerchiefs, fleurs du mal, of disease.

musk ros

Rosa mun Incarnad Annuncia of evenin

The after deliquesc blue-blac crepuscu

Lamps gl Children Bread an Cats squ

dled slops

In the str a stray co Trots aw satisﬁed Insoucian

per white

Drawn tenderly slumbering Spent

oods dazzle

Black stockings dangle Head back neck bent Curtains pulled against busybody sun Fly fumbles Drunk from curdled slops beneath the bed On the nightstand Blossoms open Crimson red Paper white Scentless yet stifling Ensanguined harbingers Relentless Desultory chat Memories of Shared childhoods South Daylight’s dazzle The cripple from the chateau A village girl Lulled by the day’s luxuriance she lies still Thin as a boy Bones taut under skin Cunt an inflamed musk rose

He ﬁnish Kisses he and they

Braced fo and caba the night and Wor casual cr

ndi dine ation ng

rnoon seeps cent into ck oboe ular

low n’s voices rise nd wine uirm in kitchens

reet ocks his leg way

hes er hand y part

or bars aret t’s work rld’s ruelty.

Rosa mundi Incarnadine annunciation of evening The afternoon seeps deliquescent Into blue-black oboe crepuscular Lamps glow Children’s voices Bread and wine Cats squirm in kitchens In the street a stray cocks his leg Trots away Insouciant He finishes Kisses her hand They part Braced for bars The cabaret Night’s work and world’s casual cruelty.

TRAWBERRY BLONDES

aze Irwin

Tra

TRAWBERRY BLONDES

aze Irwin

etermined to embrace his new look (one that would be the height of fashion in Milan). Although, he had been ting some backlash, jeers of “Gay Gordon”, “Ye’ big bloody jessie, ye’’ and worse, managed to cut deep. He ed to focus on more pleasant matters. “Aye. Just one more day to go. And it’s all down to what went on at Tosh’s party.” * * *

Queueing to leave the station, Gordon reflected on the party. Andy Mackintosh, known to his pals as Tosh, bout to hit the big time. A far cry from the juvenile obscenities he once scratched into old school desks, Tosh ritten a successful novella, and a short story collection. He was now celebrating the launch of his first novel, a ng-of-age story with a serious twist. Sex, drugs, and an unhealthy obsession with football were the central s. There was huge pre-launch hype, including talk of the BBC, and film rights. With an invitation to his old aunch, Gordon was happy to absorb any reflected sunshine from the glow of new-found celebrity. The room had been filled with arty-farty types. Guys with surnames for Christian names. Names like enzie, Finlay, Campbell or Lennox. Chances are, you might find a Tarquin or a Julian in there. They spoke a plum in their mouth, some of them sporting dodgy Duran Duran haircuts, while the Human League set barely ged “a poor man’s Phil Oakey”; all of them, with jacket sleeves pulled above their elbows, delivering ntious handshakes or empty embraces. Gordon grabbed another glass of wine from a passing waiter. “Where the hell’s Tosh?” Having met briefly on Gordon’s arrival, Tosh had been whisked away. He downed the wine. “I could murder a bloody pint.” Lighting a cigarette, he scanned the scene. Tosh was, as his agent put it, still “working the room”, and no f the old gang anywhere. Forcing a smile, Gordon wandered through the crowd. “Aye, just as Billy says. About as welcome as a fart in a bloody space-suit.” He occasionally nodded, waved and raised his empty glass to imaginary friends on the other side of the

“Where the hell’s that bloody waiter?” He was about to call it a night, when he saw her. Josie Murray, with her porcelain skin and gentle auburn that bounced as she laughed. Not much had changed since high school. Still surrounded by male admirers, was a pure stunner. Gordon froze. His pals said that Josie had spent the last few years modelling and was a serious contender is year’s “Miss Caledonia Contest”. Staring at his glass, he considered retreat. His legs refused to comply, and

Gordon chemistry”. Max “Yes, I h Gordon noticed t and her family ha “Aye, we world either.” “You’ve She gigg Gordon’s from pale blue to More wi hand. “Call me - see a film or so The “or choice! Glued to taste and knowle horror, it was the Followin mentally played comfort, and wh comfort and sens

Radio instruction the all-clear. Allo

had read enough of his sister’s magazines to know that “aesthetics aside, humour encourages ximising this potential, he slipped some of his continental adventures into the conversation. heard you just got back from Europe,” Josie said, smiling. that her Glasgow brogue and use of slang had softened since school. His pals mentioned that Josie ad moved to a more expensive part of town. ell, don’t suppose the dulcet tones of broad, Glasgow gravel go down too well in the modelling

a lovely colour you, Gordon. All sun-kissed.” gled. ’s face flushed again. In The World of Gingers, “a lovely colour” usually meant you had gone o somewhere on the salmon spectrum. Watching Josie beam, he chose to make peace with it. ine, more of Gordon’s jokes and Josie’s laughter, and she was pressing a slip of paper into his

e,” she said, smiling. “I’ve to get up early for a photo-shoot, but maybe we could go out sometime omething.” something” had Gordon’s imagination racing, but he chose to focus on the task at hand – film o the television since childhood, Gordon was a serious film and cinema fan. Proud of his eclectic edge, all options were considered. A romcom was too obvious, and although, not usually a fan of e genre most likely to encourage physical contact. He settled on “Halloween 2”. ng more magazine advice, Gordon had waited two whole days to ring Josie. During that period, he the impending scenario – dramatic music, predicting a “slasher scene”, Josie leaning into him for hen things got hard-core, clinging to him, burying her face into his shoulder, seeking additional sitivity once they hit the night-air. ***

ns from base disrupted Gordon’s reverie. Driving his bus to the front of the queue, he waited for owing his mind to drift once more, he thought of Josie, and their phone call. ***

’ bloody tube, ye”. for the earlier staff room debate, regarding Gordon’s most fitting doppelganger. Dale n had ranked highly. Gordon blamed Glasgow’s summer rain. It had washed away ed tone. Recalling Josie’s compliments, he had applied some tanning lotion, before

in the mirror. ing it the day.”

***

e in fake tans, Gordon had thought it best to leave a twenty-four- hour window, e colour, before the big date. Unsure of the shade options, he had turned to the shop

of Irn Bru or Oompa Loompa,” he told her. n, they settled on Caribbean Kiss. ***

en a trip to a trendy, high street hair salon earlier that week. Heads”, the receptionist said. ere busy chanting, “Don’t You Want Me, Baby?”, over the sound system. The tune, sures, helped him relax. The most he ever got at Bobby The Barber’s, was Andy Your Trousers” or Lena Martell’s “One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus”. ough Gordon’s hair, Myra, his “assigned stylist”, offered a few suggestions. He wasn’t ra’s vibrance, or kindness (she mentioned “the lovely kink in his strawberry blonde at Bobby’s was Baw Heed, Brillo Pad, or just plain, old Ginger), but Gordon left the highlights, his mullet layered, trimmed and blow-dried. Normally, this kind of thing r him, but he welcomed the change. Myra, as it turned out, was from a neighbouring cracking, and he suspected she might have been giving him “the glad eye”. Despite ghter, Gordon was chuffed. His mind turned to Josie, and the promise of Saturday

ys to go now.” r's, “Staying Alive”, another of Gordon's guilty pleasures, began playing in his mind. Gordon raised his mullet and strutted on down the high street. oming up roses.”

100

Gordon smiled. “I am.” “There you are, Pet”, she said, handing over the fare, and patting his hand. “Keep the change.” Eyeing the extra ten pence, Gordon smiled again. “Thanks very much.” As she teetered her way down the bus aisle in high heels, the back-seat crooning came to a halt. “Well, hello, Senga! How ye’ doing sweetheart? Looking as gorgeous as ever, so ye’ are!” “Och, away you go, Dougie.” Checking Senga was seated, Gordon pulled back onto the road. Minutes later, he noticed them in the rearview mirror. Both, in a tight clinch on the back seat; arms and legs coiled around each other, lips locked, grunts and groans escalating. “Must be the pair the lads were talking about.” The other drivers often shared their antics about this late-night route. How they would wait for things to get hot and heavy on the back seat, then pump the brakes. The result – a dishevelled Senga and Dougie tumbling like one big, pungent, hairy, high-heeled bowling ball, straight down the aisle. Gordon didn’t have the heart for it. The big night had arrived. Josie, the newly crowned “Miss Caledonia” was coming straight from a photoshoot and interview. They had arranged to meet outside the cinema. Checking his breath, Gordon saw her in the distance. “Jeez. She’s only wearing the bloody fur-coat!” His mother had filled him in on “The Miss Caledonia” prize package as he was leaving the house that evening. According to Sadie Gilmour, the whole estate was buzzing about it. “Aye”, said his mother, giving Gordon’s jacket the once-over with the Brush-o-matic, “the winner gets a fortnight’s holiday to Corfu. There’s a good bit of money, and some fancy jewellery. Other stuff too. Cannae remember it all right now, but there’s some lovely prizes.” She straightened his collar. “You’ve a lovely colour, son. Looks smashing with yer white shirt.” Gordon smiled. He had decided to give his face and neck a quick top-up with some Caribbean Kiss, before getting dressed. She picked some remaining lint from his jacket. “Oh, that’s right, and there’s a fur-coat too. A real one! Can ye’ imagine?” Gordon rolled his eyes. He knew that nothing would please his mother more, than to be able to sprint down to the Bingo, broadcasting that her son was going steady with “Miss Caledonia, 1981”, who just so happens to own a genuine fur-coat.

101

lovely Magnum P.I. on the telly.” “More like a bloody porn-star” his father chimed in. “Archie Gilmour. I swear….” ***

Gordon smiled nervously. The theme from “Jaws”, those two alternating notes echoed inside him, as Josie fur-coat advanced. “Sorry I’m a wee bit late,” she said, catching her breath. “Things have been crazy since the contest.” Gordon smiled, leading her inside. “Nae bother. And congratulations, again.” Josie’s face lit up. “Still can’t believe it.” She watched as Gordon approached the popcorn machine. “None for me, thanks.” He pointed to the sweet counter. “Help yerself to the Pick n’ Mix, there. Get yerself a big bag.” Settling into their seats, Josie opened the bag of treats. “Didn’t get much chance to eat today. Help yourself.” He smiled. “I’m fine, thanks.” The first feature was finishing, during which, Gordon had endured fifteen minutes of Josie unwrapping mping on sherbet lemons and assorted toffees. “Hell's bloody bells,” he thought. “Could she not have picked some marshmallows, some wine gums loody Macaroon bar.” Josie shook the last sweet from the bag, as the main feature began. “Her timing’s no’ too bad, I suppose.” He settled back to enjoy the film. It wasn’t long before the background music took an intense turn. Josie’s dened. Gordon watched and waited. Her grip on the arm rests tightened. He smiled in anticipation as she owards the screen. “Any moment now,” he thought. “God no. He’s behind ye” Josie shrieked. More dramatic music and sound effects. “Oh my God. Get outta there. Now!” As people stared, Gordon leaned forward. “Josie, d’ye think ye’ could….” “Jesus, no. He’s gonnae kill ye’.”

103

ant continued, Gordon felt sweat streaming down his neck. To avoid stains on his white shirt, he

d as one of the No-necks turned with a growl. hut yer bird up?” Gordon would have been delighted with that assumption. That he and Josie were ‘an item’, but ard once again, Josie’s outbursts reached new and explosive heights. ***

y home was long and silent. Struggling to process recent events, and the unpleasant aftermath, he meeting Tosh the following day. hey met after Sunday dinner. at him. man.” dded.

she puked all over yer good, suede shoes?” we’re not just talking back-splash. It was a direct hit.” ed. go ahead and enjoy yerself. But it was torrential, man. Swear to God, I was waiting for her head

keeping a straight face, as Gordon sighed. e bloody Gucci, man. Got them in Milan. Cost me a fortune, so they did.” el yer pain, man. But, ye’ were out on a date with Josie Murray. Josie bloody Murray! That’s finding the holy bloody grail.” all the ballin’ and shoutin’. Don’t care how gorgeous she is. She should come with a bloody

. ‘Ye’ can always go to the pictures yerself.” ut…” , man. Okay, so a couple of things got on yer wick. But it’s Josie bloody Murray! You cannae go e one o' they Power Couples.” ’t there, Tosh. I was lucky to get out alive.” No-necks?” ght. Faces like skelped arses, and personalities to suit.” gonnae do now?”

104

“Do “Fa “Ay Stro set in motio Tos “Jo Go “My

on’t know.” ancy a pint down at Jock’s?” ye. Why not?” olling towards the pub, Gordon thought of Myra, and smiled. His internal soundtrack was once again on. This time, Foreigner's "I've Been Waiting For A Girl Like You". sh grinned, giving Gordon a playful shove. osie bloody Murray.” ordon sighed. y good, suede shoes.”

105

EESE AND CHALK Irwin

when the to the ba

Now, late some cid some sen onto a ch

And with to Joe D they wer

Now, jus with road they trie ‘Away ou reality sla

You see, his tail ba between And with came sw some win

‘So I’ll se But her l ‘Sure I do ‘To be fa

And whe and his p didn’t Tra ‘Hiya Ken

106

ey met at the door ar at the Buttevant Derby

er came dancing, der and prancing, nsual fumbling, and eventual tumbling heap fold-out bed

h much intense spooning Dolan’s crooning, re clueless to what lay ahead

st before sunrise, d-maps in both eyes, ed to break free of embrace utta that’, cried Black and White Cat, apping his face

his fur was entangled, adly mangled, n the hinges of Barbie’s cream thighs h reluctant approval, wift hair removal, ncing and ear-piercing cries

ee ya’ tonight’, said Barbie, eyes bright lover was somewhat subdued on’t think that’s wise,’ said Black and White Cat air like, I’m not in the mood’

en Black and White Cat pork-pie hat were barely out of the door, ailer-Park Barbie get busy with texting n, d’ya fancy a cure?

107

REE POEMS

en O'Donovan

108

on a tear under th of a thou glass pris First I giv blue nest Then sug She rede to make A solid t to try an She grow we both greasing ﬂour, cra hand so We stir t unless in I watch h furious w lifting, po slick with Her love

r soaked floor, he rage splattered walls usand square-foot son. ve stacking spoons, ted cups, a mixing bowl. gar, flour, water, butter. ecorates while I bake motherhood tangible. thing to put upon the scale nd counterweigh my failure. ws a little more and then are on the floor tins, folding acking eggs with her light on top of mine. together with one spoon nterrupted by ‘Me do.’ her face, with concentration, ouring, powdering, h oil and butter. e is my ingredient.

109

nto Nietsche’s abyss. nce now; I ﬁnd I miss the screams.

Failure b

around and comes around arousel at light speed. makes me nauseous.

Fuzzy ve

Tendrils

Chunks h

Like an o

he kettle black. my poetry racist and says with its internalized misogyny.

between the lines about line-height and

An ashtr

its cards right, eft, up, down, diagonal, know how to play 52 card pickup.

Tumbling

In a spew

w fries short of a happy meal. it, but the staff at McDonalds ll disappointment now.

Monitors

A monum

ddle wrapped up in an enigma usion and deep fried in despair h a side of failure.

a dead horse rested for deﬁling a corpse. st time. Now it rots in jail.

112

blooms in the cracks of kebab snake

eins reaching for the taps

hang in the curdled air

overcrowded gibbet The mouse, the mouse, I’ll go to war, I’ll fuck the mouse. This house… the mouse... It’s all the mouse’s fault.

ray erupts on the table

g yellow corpses

w of greasy tephra

s tower over the lithiﬁed

ment to high function

113

fronded

a weddin

from fjor Do I tell

how mat

and are r

Cups, bo

such thin No.

I go to th

separate

from the

assemble

into a gre

and ferned,

ng gift

rds. you

terials crack, break,

reclaimed?

odies, marriages,

ngs.

he bin,

e the pieces

e refuse,

e them

een mosaic.

115

Rumley

The top by sticky as we ro Golden R His warm our sides as we ro Salt air s Window Choc ice Our eyes to the m “Are we where m and wind to old m and show to get th

coat of our knees stripped y heat on maroon leather olled unrestrained into each other Retriever saliva slapped on glass m furry coat cushioned s from the stab of door handles ocked around corners snuck in through triangular ws of the lettuce green Ford Cortina e wrappers stuffed in every nook s switched from kind saluters behind magnetic world of waves ahead there yet?” poked at the front row maps were perused dows wound down men who peddled information wed us the location hat toe dipping tingle

117

dine Hedigan ove

sion

ms nnerving way

drenched gh the realms

wistful glow d soul eturn again

118

rine Ronan

Through Doused Rising to

Loops ar So easy t When th In darken Music ca Of tomo

h a walnut keyed wardrobe in the scent of late night bubbles o the lips of rooftops red

re a strange friend to become tangled he world’s oyster sleeps ned shades of a new palette ased until the kaleidoscope orrow rides again

121

ODBYE

Caves fall b Mouths lic Arms thro Into ﬁne pr

erine Ronan

Coffee cup A lifetime h Tears lost o Goodbye m

122

before water cking truths ow tomorrow rint reminder

p eyes bury hard held in two hands on torn wind my friend

Jacobs

nches her fists. Nothing makes sense. Tears burn behind her eyes but she doesn't here, in a crowded pub. Not now, with Christian leaning on the bar, his back turned, oesn't see her. Fingers trembling, she retrieves a fag and puts it in her mouth. The a single match. It snaps when she tries to strike it. Why doesn't she have a lighter? yes, she searches her pockets as the din in the pub swells to a roar. e is tapping on her shoulder. Pulse racing, she looks up. It's not him. A stranger . on't you use mine?” cally, she stoops to ignite her cigarette. The man is no spring chicken; in his actly Mr. Handsome. The pimples on his wobbling chin make her feel sick. He grins

u OK, Miss?” pples through her. Miss? Miss! As if she is an old maid. Yesterday, she reached ne. It doesn't bear thinking about. She tries to appear cool and confident, as if one who is sure to turn up. 10 minutes from now. In a quarter of an hour. The beers her a pointed look. Her head jerks away. She scans the room for Christian. And n animated conversation with a red-haired girl. Her heart skips a beat. The girl is e the secretary type that is. His eyes constantly stray to the woman's plump breasts. And they all fell for it. It's so easy. Flesh is cheap, after all. up abruptly and leaves the pub without paying. Someone calls after her. Could be rd. Or the barkeeper, Frank's his name. Whatever. He did not look at her once. the rain is pouring down. She wipes her eyes but they remain wet. She hasn't nd her blouse is soaking. She opens the buttons one by one. t if I get ill,” she says out loud. She pictures herself, lying in bed. Alone. It would s before anyone came to see her. If anyone could be bothered, that is, apart from the e her sister, the beautiful one, once she returns from Tenerife with her playboytest in a long series of men with money who are prepared to fork out – sn't see the onrushing headlamps until it is too late. The lights blind her. She hears a and then nothing. ely nothing.

She clenches her fists. Nothing makes sense. Tears burn behind her eyes but she doesn't ze Jacobs cry. Not here, in a crowded pub. Not now, with Christian leaning on the bar, his back turned,

ng he doesn't see her. Fingers trembling, she retrieves a fag and puts it in her mouth. The tains just a single match. It snaps when she tries to strike it. Why doesn't she have a lighter? seeing eyes, she searches her pockets as the din in the pub swells to a roar. Someone is tapping on her shoulder. Pulse racing, she looks up. It's not him. A stranger er a light. “Why don't you use mine?” Mechanically, she stoops to ignite her cigarette. The man is no spring chicken; in his . Not exactly Mr. Handsome. The pimples on his wobbling chin make her feel sick. He grins

“Are you OK, Miss?” Rage ripples through her. Miss? Miss! As if she is an old maid. Yesterday, she reached milestone. It doesn't bear thinking about. She tries to appear cool and confident, as if for someone who is sure to turn up. 10 minutes from now. In a quarter of an hour. The beerman gives her a pointed look. Her head jerks away. She scans the room for Christian. And s him; in animated conversation with a red-haired girl. Her heart skips a beat. The girl is f you like the secretary type that is. His eyes constantly stray to the woman's plump breasts. bimbo! And they all fell for it. It's so easy. Flesh is cheap, after all. She gets up abruptly and leaves the pub without paying. Someone calls after her. Could be gy bastard. Or the barkeeper, Frank's his name. Whatever. He did not look at her once. Outside, the rain is pouring down. She wipes her eyes but they remain wet. She hasn't a coat and her blouse is soaking. She opens the buttons one by one. “So what if I get ill,” she says out loud. She pictures herself, lying in bed. Alone. It would and days before anyone came to see her. If anyone could be bothered, that is, apart from the . Maybe her sister, the beautiful one, once she returns from Tenerife with her playboyd, the latest in a long series of men with money who are prepared to fork out – She doesn't see the onrushing headlamps until it is too late. The lights blind her. She hears a ng bang and then nothing. Absolutely nothing.

ection

Huge fallo

y ﬂesh e fabric

Icy ﬂame, Lightning Outsider Steamroll

acobs

Moze

o 2D

No conta Always a Now delib

Indebted Blessing o I don't rem

omb

Moze Jacobs

out; (r)ejection

e Jacobs

, fuelled by ﬂesh forks the fabric forever lered into 2D

act fact of life berate

to the womb or curse member

Jacobs

Moze Jacobs

mical landscape s, spleen nes, uterus, ghtly packed –

an obscure substance ) s of reeds.

my instant before daybreak arrive.

e had died

small boat without oars ainer Maria Rilke

py marriage ers, elegies and sonnets estorm

bwebs

g? ? Awful? Terriﬁc?

A densely - liver, gallb the large a kidneys and

and artiﬁci into nine d

Somewher a vacuum e

A vast grey (gaseous o dotted wit

It is twilit, m trapped in a day that t

This is whe I met my fa bobbing up muttering

Born in 18 the only ch who produ during a sa a hurricane that wiped of a writer brought on

Ein jeder En All angels a he wrote, or should t Dreadful? A

populated anatomical landscape bladder, pancreas, spleen and small intestines, uterus, d stomach, all tightly packed –

ially divided different regions.

re down there exists

y lake ﬁlled with an obscure substance or maybe a liquid) th the silhouettes of reeds.

misty the chilly clammy instant before daybreak takes forever to arrive.

ere, long after he had died ather p and down in a small boat without oars vaguely about Rainer Maria Rilke

875 hild of an unhappy marriage uced, among others, elegies and sonnets avage creative ﬁrestorm e of the spirit d away all the cobwebs r's block n by depression

ngel ist schrecklich. are terrible,

that be terrifying? A terror? Great? Awful? Terriﬁc?

s eyes.

Come w Into war And clo

all embraces , enfolded: y.

An emb Four and Plenty c

n ep in touch:

A friend Stops by Still with

e ate as I approach:

A gentle Opens b Slowly le

r ek before it falls: of her soul into the abyss.

A glisten Dampen Carrying

A ﬂickeri A silent p A sharp

O'Sullivan

whisper.

Nia

sunsets from beyond of the Bull Rock:

A sunse The thre Calls he

Come w

with me

rm arms all O'Sullivan ose your eyes.

brace of all embraces d more, enfolded: company.

dly robin y to keep in touch: h us.

e breeze back a gate as I approach: eaving.

ning tear ns a cheek before it falls: g some of her soul into the abyss.

ing ﬂame. prayer. wind’s whisper.

et of all sunsets from beyond eshold of the Bull Rock: er softly.

with me.

O'Sullivan

ds spilled meter of a desiccated heart mouth much space air at ﬂoating:

s your voice.

ere

urning to this chair

core mly many words

ng ear:

134

said, “Am I?” he said “Look over there and there and there. It’s an old famine village” . e enough, bramble covered ruins dotted the fields all round us, some as low as foundation level repaired and being used as farm outbuildings. round here say that the first person to die in the great famine came from this very village – but eh?”. She was sounding far more West Cork than Westphalia now. Closer to Baltimore than

e old burial ground?” I asked. quite a different story” she said. ew that already. aven harbour is tear drop shaped with a bit taken from the bottom that is the entrance. On the west known as The Batteries and the Eastern side is Reen point. This is where the burial ground is. d my bike and climbed the ditch to cross the farmland to a path that leads to the mouth of the orm was driving in from the Atlantic and I leaned into it to protect myself from the whipping rain out of control cape. of any height grows in this environment so as you reach the brow you can see for miles. The e one I am on, is owned by a renowned Australian artist who is famous for installation pieces using maché cows and other animals. He has dotted the farm with pieces of his work and now in the he life size kangaroo across the field looks quite real. down the cliffs another artist has installed a number of huge pipes vertically on the cliff and now oked like a huge church organ with the wind playing haunting airs. The morning was taking on air – however none of these objets d’art would have been visible to the men whose graves I am

winter of 1601 the Spanish forces under Don Juan Del Aquilla sailed from Spain to Kinsale to join orces of O’Neill and O’Donnell with the intention of banishing the British from Ireland for once was no little skirmish on the edge of Europe. This was full on, heavy weight, eyeball to eyeball Europe on the brink of war. the Spanish fleet made it to Kinsale but many were wrecked in that December storm. One of ked right here on Reen Point. She would have been smaller than most of the ships with only board, fifteen crew and a Spanish nobleman. Maybe she was heading for the safety of Castlehaven be she was trying to find protection to the lee of the Galley Head but she foundered on the jagged oint and all hands were lost. owing day the local people of Reen village retrieved all sixteen bodies and brought them to the eing buried. Because so few trees survive in this wild landscape it was very difficult for them to imber to make sixteen coffins so they buried the men in wooden coffins from the waist up and s from the waist down.

138

that would never see them again. And their only brief glimpse of Ireland was in the moments before they died and the only time they visited was to be buried. The waves are crashing on the rocks below and the wind is whistling and shrieking all around me. Almost motionless above, is a lone, hardy seagull. Head down into the wind he stands sentinel. Across the land there is nothing, no crosses or monuments or plaques in Spanish and Irish. But there are spirits here and their Spanish fiesta is in full swing – complete with windpipes and cows and life-size kangaroos.

139

The writ to expre Matthew visionary very diff I everywh supportiv in all its

142

ters of the Cork Collective would like to take this opportunity ess their sincere thanks to Cork County Libraries, and w Geden, Writer in Residence, for the innovative and y series of workshops that brought us all together at such a ficult time. Initiatives like this are the lifeblood for creative people here, serving to foster and promote new writing and truly ve communities, so essential for the continuation of culture aspects.

143

IMAGE

Page 18:

Page 73:

Page 96:

Page 102

All oth

144

FISH SOUP: "'New York Skyline Sunset 1'" by thenails is licensed under CC BY 2.0 NEIGHBOURS: "New York Brownstone" by KevinJewell is licensed under CC BY-NCND 2.0 TOFFS, GOTHS AND STRAWBERRY BLONDES: "Blue Suede shoes at Saint Henri metro #montreal #dieppa #restrepo" by _HAAF_ is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 TOFFS, GOTHS AND STRAWBERRY BLONDES: "Pick 'n' mix Leylands" by The return of the spiceymexrice! is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0

145

146

DESIGN Mich Maroney Windfall Studio

147

148

and all others we have lost

Printed by Inspire Design & Print 149

SWERVE