tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49823241829010266422024-03-13T16:48:02.273+00:00Orla FayOrla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.comBlogger521125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-87267018521468678372023-11-21T12:22:00.000+00:002023-11-21T12:22:03.456+00:00Word Skin Poetry Book Launch <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBh7c-MpPR2NZLTUlDFw-1f3_yeubTVZGzEHFDqKhCSi-mTvRy7Jib6fS0bee73xfOk4srJt7_0vSFyTqZswgvhjMCwzR_vEg0yRJiV3bSRgtu4hOBwma5wF7WsJkn6cwIqI52Rkq47ytbFoCcj1R2xOK_P3vSYZbbLHrHlTQdyKqL49lkf60aHznMdciE/s2000/Orla%20Fay%20%20invitation%20%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1428" data-original-width="2000" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBh7c-MpPR2NZLTUlDFw-1f3_yeubTVZGzEHFDqKhCSi-mTvRy7Jib6fS0bee73xfOk4srJt7_0vSFyTqZswgvhjMCwzR_vEg0yRJiV3bSRgtu4hOBwma5wF7WsJkn6cwIqI52Rkq47ytbFoCcj1R2xOK_P3vSYZbbLHrHlTQdyKqL49lkf60aHznMdciE/w400-h285/Orla%20Fay%20%20invitation%20%20.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I'm delighted to launch my debut full length poetry collection, <i><a href="https://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=600&a=373" target="_blank">Word Skin</a></i>, from Salmon Poetry. The event will take place on Sunday, 03rd December at 2 pm in <a href="https://antoniasbookstore.com/" target="_blank">Antonia's Bookstore</a>, Trim, Co. Meath. The collection will be introduced by Boyne Writer, <a href="https://limerickwriterscentre.com/product/troubles/" target="_blank">Michael Farry</a>. I will read some poems from the book and sign copies. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=600&a=373" target="_blank"><i>Word Skin</i> </a>can be ordered online from Salmon Poetry and they ship worldwide.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">https://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=600&a=373</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3LCC3bE9CZqp2MbAUd7RbIoGABuE6zBGwHzhMnbuUVUDmkijWN3hFEG6ziukrDgBF8GInOYtU0ASTtJPjNhS_Xov0TG55pL5Y_bF155AuQyC-JAhtqXgmdxSKoNRw_C0sx0P9I75vU4VU2AupzxH6KzVjbDisfjOvns87IRzGnDhY3P6aM3hRmQva6h_b/s2806/WordSkin_frontcover_b72dpi%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2806" data-original-width="1818" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3LCC3bE9CZqp2MbAUd7RbIoGABuE6zBGwHzhMnbuUVUDmkijWN3hFEG6ziukrDgBF8GInOYtU0ASTtJPjNhS_Xov0TG55pL5Y_bF155AuQyC-JAhtqXgmdxSKoNRw_C0sx0P9I75vU4VU2AupzxH6KzVjbDisfjOvns87IRzGnDhY3P6aM3hRmQva6h_b/s320/WordSkin_frontcover_b72dpi%20(1).jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-20052017812514452392023-10-25T10:01:00.001+01:002023-10-25T10:01:53.446+01:00Issue 10 Drawn to the Light Press<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoh1LaZnv5nnL11lO6HsFGsddNZCeAHDL-XciK5oAP6hSOwTN1MpcqoLW4MS2kQ2wQUuqX2aENwmlJEMi5WEk9dJOJu7eTfcoKROYXwXV7NfvImGWCx8v4O_YRldQEa4sVVgGEggWJKTyaetcFagI7nCQArE3MDp-mL7xp8RV4AMtftwt5Aff5JNEv4oa/s552/IMG_3958.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="443" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoh1LaZnv5nnL11lO6HsFGsddNZCeAHDL-XciK5oAP6hSOwTN1MpcqoLW4MS2kQ2wQUuqX2aENwmlJEMi5WEk9dJOJu7eTfcoKROYXwXV7NfvImGWCx8v4O_YRldQEa4sVVgGEggWJKTyaetcFagI7nCQArE3MDp-mL7xp8RV4AMtftwt5Aff5JNEv4oa/s320/IMG_3958.png" width="257" /></a></div><p>Issue 10 has gone to print and will be available to view online next Sunday, 29th October. Really excited to share this issue with everyone. It contains the ten poems shortlisted for Hold Fast to Dreams Poetry Competition, and more. The print issue can be ordered online for a limited time here</p><p><a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/issues/">https://drawntothelightpress.com/issues/</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OFVOX_BsNjFGNLWBMrjqkr9moz1gGEunrqYMB5gETlaaPPc2G16iYqvyK-SWZo_20YRKIbF-obL_pVEiCyVCZJU4lcS_sD8Pn43U_lP17b8i-cLudIyr0VBKKIGS2rePTCJJpYR0o6EV29WaxXCuae3GUmdAfDXbITKTMPG7Z_PP2BpgYk69JB7TFrJo/s506/IMG_3883.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="506" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OFVOX_BsNjFGNLWBMrjqkr9moz1gGEunrqYMB5gETlaaPPc2G16iYqvyK-SWZo_20YRKIbF-obL_pVEiCyVCZJU4lcS_sD8Pn43U_lP17b8i-cLudIyr0VBKKIGS2rePTCJJpYR0o6EV29WaxXCuae3GUmdAfDXbITKTMPG7Z_PP2BpgYk69JB7TFrJo/s320/IMG_3883.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-42924672197437705702023-08-11T10:49:00.001+01:002023-08-11T10:49:18.473+01:00Hold Fast to Dreams Poetry Competition <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0luuEGpi9zATrLL6FRK_fsO0eLcWZ6ci95G9AmzRAhOZHno0QeSArptIlnv2DD6RRy-cq39OLDMNiwPFvWOWE7AJvG1nZ-cM2URYRv-_K2ixobaCVGbIcyJvi1a7gznO-JyOegCkd1MgIxc_aeZpQacqZKmHidk43he-YgwRCA_OhFsnSh--TtkcHWu1j/s3316/aurora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3316" data-original-width="2437" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0luuEGpi9zATrLL6FRK_fsO0eLcWZ6ci95G9AmzRAhOZHno0QeSArptIlnv2DD6RRy-cq39OLDMNiwPFvWOWE7AJvG1nZ-cM2URYRv-_K2ixobaCVGbIcyJvi1a7gznO-JyOegCkd1MgIxc_aeZpQacqZKmHidk43he-YgwRCA_OhFsnSh--TtkcHWu1j/s320/aurora.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">To celebrate the 3rd year anniversary of Drawn to the Light
Press this October, <b><a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/hold-fast-to-dreams-poetry-competition/" target="_blank">Hold Fast to Dreams Poetry Competition</a></b> is
announced. Langston Hughes wrote<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Hold fast to dreams <br />
For if dreams die<br />
Life is a broken-winged bird<br />
That cannot fly.</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What dreams do you have? What do you aspire to? What colour
are your dreams? Do you vividly recall a dream? Do you daydream? What is it you
secretly wish you could have done? What do you intend to do? Will you act? What
is your passion?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The competition will be judged by editor Orla Fay. A top ten
poems will be included in issue 10 and the winning poet will receive a cash
prize. The competition closes on Friday, September 1st at midnight.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is an entry fee of €5 per poem and poets may submit as
many poems as they wish.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Poems should be 40 lines or less and written on the theme of
‘Dreams’. Please attach the poem separately.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Poems will be judged anonymously and should not include the
poet’s name on the poem itself. A cover letter should include the poet’s name,
email address and title of entry.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Enter <a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/hold-fast-to-dreams-poetry-competition/" target="_blank">here</a></p><br /><p></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-70592284803407743642023-07-24T23:23:00.005+01:002023-07-24T23:30:34.157+01:00Summer Poem by Mary Oliver <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrw0LuJlqavYGXRkAjS6NjYVA7fsDM1owIIRnHtTHBkQyZkgcgD5x0E_HsmfuupMEXBJHKj6YmZVgOAOA_NdmsJKqYCUrf5ldiRXBUGNldpWhUex1P3-ZNSrs0mr59AudyjS5pJ9fbmxZt4SbatmzSujuRl3b5KCAq428faZIr6bYT-3i76izbwtXz9cx/s2016/water%20lilies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrw0LuJlqavYGXRkAjS6NjYVA7fsDM1owIIRnHtTHBkQyZkgcgD5x0E_HsmfuupMEXBJHKj6YmZVgOAOA_NdmsJKqYCUrf5ldiRXBUGNldpWhUex1P3-ZNSrs0mr59AudyjS5pJ9fbmxZt4SbatmzSujuRl3b5KCAq428faZIr6bYT-3i76izbwtXz9cx/w300-h400/water%20lilies.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Water Lilies on The Royal Canal Greenway Co. Meath</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Summer Poem</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Leaving the house,</div><div>I went out to see</div><div><br /></div><div>the frog, for example,</div><div>in her shining green skin;</div><div><br /></div><div>and her eggs</div><div>like a slippery veil;</div><div><br /></div><div>and her eyes</div><div>with their golden rims;</div><div><br /></div><div>and the pond</div><div>with its risen lilies;</div><div><br /></div><div>and its warmed shores</div><div>dotted with pink flowers;</div><div><br /></div><div>and the long, windless afternoon;</div><div>and the white heron</div><div><br /></div><div>like a dropped cloud,</div><div>taking one slow step</div><div><br /></div><div>then standing awhile then taking</div><div>another, writing</div><div><br /></div><div>her own soft-footed poem</div><div>through the still waters.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Mary Oliver</i></b></div><div><br /></div>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-53362590335564174942023-06-29T16:25:00.001+01:002023-06-29T16:25:48.960+01:00Issue 9 Drawn to the Light Press<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitudnKToCEAwNSLfEB2g2-2Qisf-8lkentjz6DAxKJRwaDWWrBdKduaj08BhafhIjImODamDnT6LyvJwyOuU_pvl_1STI-inflADo0NsBWn_eN3Ah-4XhfxoZdEtdKiGCnf6w4uK-uj1vNGu5FFyFimoFTeep7SL0efWrBQtKVwhnTZzJy_QpPC3TRr39/s516/Issue9cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="399" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitudnKToCEAwNSLfEB2g2-2Qisf-8lkentjz6DAxKJRwaDWWrBdKduaj08BhafhIjImODamDnT6LyvJwyOuU_pvl_1STI-inflADo0NsBWn_eN3Ah-4XhfxoZdEtdKiGCnf6w4uK-uj1vNGu5FFyFimoFTeep7SL0efWrBQtKVwhnTZzJy_QpPC3TRr39/w309-h400/Issue9cover.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p>Issue 9 is now online and it can be read<a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/issues/" target="_blank"> here</a> </p><p>If you wish to order a print version, you can do so via PayPal on the website </p><p>https://drawntothelightpress.com/issues/</p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-20485804300622187492023-04-12T13:11:00.001+01:002023-04-12T13:11:56.511+01:00Drawn to the Light Press Issue 9 Seeking Submissions <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXwnHpALpR85tGCXnsySDJ1pm-wAhOkCgG1o8PFmqUtYjcPfv-PuPnDM5xyuIAbxxST9U6wsEakGZ2yiT2Qh0jWoCvsliu2Jv4j1hT9y2x1QLaK-TpoZGHA83-4VT0dXyK4DCdYBcZ7sEA6XWVvlmpsSacN5CuNEtCIBSxv9sdg9c1a9P4QUw2yaYUAA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXwnHpALpR85tGCXnsySDJ1pm-wAhOkCgG1o8PFmqUtYjcPfv-PuPnDM5xyuIAbxxST9U6wsEakGZ2yiT2Qh0jWoCvsliu2Jv4j1hT9y2x1QLaK-TpoZGHA83-4VT0dXyK4DCdYBcZ7sEA6XWVvlmpsSacN5CuNEtCIBSxv9sdg9c1a9P4QUw2yaYUAA" width="227" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Aurora </i> Deirdre McKernan</div><p></p><p>Submissions for issue 9 of <a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/submissions/" target="_blank">Drawn to the Light Press</a>, June 2023 are now invited. The window will close on Friday, 12th May at midnight.</p><p><br /></p><p>Send up to 3 poems of 40 lines or less, using Times New Roman Font 12, single spacing. Poems should be previously unpublished. There is no set theme for the issue.</p><p><br /></p><p>Submissions of artwork and photography are welcome.</p><p><br /></p><p>Those submitting must be over 18 years of age.</p><p><br /></p><p>Send all work to orla.a.fay@gmail.com</p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-53527890219160511722023-03-14T00:08:00.000+00:002023-03-14T00:08:04.928+00:00A Spring Night (in March)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5-Qr21Rtp15IFq5tCYnNNZSYR4GyoFIVJdOjIkI0A7AjXZyvMZSog-2cP061-O2iVOpngLE0R7qLCH3auB-a9-_tzHFciq3y6Yw1q0vicK7xLBOff4Rg5WAXUhSU5_4jPBlfv1erjYzmWwlOr6BbbG-Yoh15LY0876I47obpfl0WAp97ZuWvC4vFLdw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="1440" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5-Qr21Rtp15IFq5tCYnNNZSYR4GyoFIVJdOjIkI0A7AjXZyvMZSog-2cP061-O2iVOpngLE0R7qLCH3auB-a9-_tzHFciq3y6Yw1q0vicK7xLBOff4Rg5WAXUhSU5_4jPBlfv1erjYzmWwlOr6BbbG-Yoh15LY0876I47obpfl0WAp97ZuWvC4vFLdw" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sandro Botticelli, La Primavera, c.1482</div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A Spring Night (in
March)</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">What it is to be
alive,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">to know this twinkling
ice of stars,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">to know the burn
of untouched scars,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">to riot with the
daffodil <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">when the light is
terrible, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">and terrible
before the dark<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">the perfect time of
shudder-earth,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">the birth of all there
is to care<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">in the vixen’s
stolen glare, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">the rolling on of hours<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">when her warmth offers<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">flowering fruit,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">and winter is, at
last, consumed?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Orla Fay<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><br /><p></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-16731215057222283422023-01-02T09:05:00.001+00:002023-01-02T09:40:03.365+00:00Little Fires of Brigid Poetry Competition <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hdsUAzU-XtpiRlVamuB_VDT1vzUfHdddwkjK3JXP4rvLxNTwkg87jTog8kXD9N8Uz59QF8REMy449PQeuj39-dkxQ0z2oD2QmWSrM5KQFQq9Znn_LeCyDhf7HzqCDR5VrIiSdcceqQqOoBDcdSapuUHvMYrpevFUPjfbFVPhDR5CRVSOcsIAb2ehPQ/s2449/42AE3428-E0EC-44A2-9C60-28573197C908.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2449" data-original-width="1828" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hdsUAzU-XtpiRlVamuB_VDT1vzUfHdddwkjK3JXP4rvLxNTwkg87jTog8kXD9N8Uz59QF8REMy449PQeuj39-dkxQ0z2oD2QmWSrM5KQFQq9Znn_LeCyDhf7HzqCDR5VrIiSdcceqQqOoBDcdSapuUHvMYrpevFUPjfbFVPhDR5CRVSOcsIAb2ehPQ/s320/42AE3428-E0EC-44A2-9C60-28573197C908.jpeg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">St. Brigid’s Cross</div><p>To honour St. Brigid’s Day and the inaugural Bank Holiday in Ireland celebrating Lá Fhéile Bríde, Drawn to the Light Press is pleased to announce a poetry competition. The competition opens on Sunday, 04th December and closes on Sunday, 08th January.</p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 21.312px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">Send poems to orla.a.fay@gmail.com using the subject line<em style="box-sizing: inherit; max-width: unset;"> Little Fires of Brigid Poetry Competition 2023</em>. Poems should be 40 lines or less and previously unpublished. Poems should be on the theme of Brigid, Spring, Fire and Renewal. </p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 21.312px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">Poem are judged anonymously and the poet’s name must not appear on the poems themselves. Details should be included on a separate page. </p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 21.312px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">The overall guest judge is Siobhán Mc Laughlin, a poet and creative writing facilitator from Co. Donegal, Ireland. Her poems have appeared in <em style="box-sizing: inherit; max-width: unset;">Drawn to the Light Press, The Honest Ulsterman, The Waxed Lemon, Bealtaine magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, The Poetry Village </em>and recently made the longlist for the Bangor Poetry Competition in September 2022. She has a MA in Creative Writing and works as a creative writing facilitator for adults, both online and in person, hosting writing classes and a series of writing for wellbeing workshops. She has previous editorial credits on the international literary magazine, Beyond Words and curates a collection of seasonal poetry on her blog <a href="http://www.a-poem-a-day-project.blogspot.com/" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #ca2017; cursor: pointer; max-width: unset;" target="_blank">www.a-poem-a-day-project.blogspot.com</a></p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 21.312px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">The winning poet will receive €200 and be published in Issue 8 of Drawn to the Light Press. A runner-up will also have their poem published in the February Issue. </p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 21.312px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">There is an entry fee of €5 for a single poem entry. Poets may submit as many poems as they wish. Please include your PayPal reference number in your entry email. Those who wish to enter by post may do so by contacting the email address above. </p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 21.312px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">Winners will be announced on Monday, 6th February 2023. </p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 21.312px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">Enter here <a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/little-fires-of-brigid-poetry-competition/">https://drawntothelightpress.com/little-fires-of-brigid-poetry-competition/</a></p><div class="jetpack-simple-payments-wrapper jetpack-simple-payments-1181" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: inherit; margin: 21.312px auto 1.5em; max-width: 100%;"><div class="jetpack-simple-payments-product" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; display: flex; flex-direction: column; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", "Palatino LT STD", "Book Antiqua", Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16.666669845581055px; max-width: none;"><div class="jetpack-simple-payments-product-image" style="box-sizing: inherit; flex: 0 0 30%; margin-bottom: 1.5em; max-width: none;"><div class="jetpack-simple-payments-image" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-width: none; min-width: 70px; padding-top: 343px; position: relative;"></div></div></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-16985723941223884192022-11-22T23:27:00.001+00:002022-11-22T23:33:30.774+00:00A Poem for Thanksgiving<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinZBII1L5A-HvxeSzHrDxLL7XFuoGjwZGU4MvolPccgiw9VilZdz77Fgw2mVlWyk_zTfEXkF0mRXriIDMxugt23NLzvXx7fyPcxpmb3xNqfw4wYrBkg9jwG2zq-tzYX6TzWWS0ier8ZWBOCh28vfYQQZ7swECu5DlTqXx5BDHPB3M8M7y83NJXdhNHDg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1017" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinZBII1L5A-HvxeSzHrDxLL7XFuoGjwZGU4MvolPccgiw9VilZdz77Fgw2mVlWyk_zTfEXkF0mRXriIDMxugt23NLzvXx7fyPcxpmb3xNqfw4wYrBkg9jwG2zq-tzYX6TzWWS0ier8ZWBOCh28vfYQQZ7swECu5DlTqXx5BDHPB3M8M7y83NJXdhNHDg=w315-h400" width="315" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Freedom from Want</i> Norman Rockwell</div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Since it's Thanksgiving on Thursday, I've edited an older poem to share. I know that in the world there are too many who are not free from want. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Thanksgiving
Invictus<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">after Wilde & Henley<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Struggling
for grace in morning’s prison<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">he wipes sleep from eyes, stretches<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">yet-darkness
before lighting a candle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Enthralled
by beauty, the warbling flame,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">dancing
shadows cast, he hums an old, familiar tune,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">remembers
a friend he loved, heard joy,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">sonorous
bass in lifeblood,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">drumming
heart. This same ritual,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">performed
for centuries. The pilgrim, home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Day
stirring, frees herself, maiden<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">white
with mist, gowned for occasion,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">her
grey veil gradually lifts, and there is bonniness<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">in
simple tasks while robins chirp reminders:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">make
coffee, make toast, mix the Christmas cake,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">how
good it is to breathe, taste, see</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">There
is no gallow anon, no plank to walk.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">This
is no <i>Ballad of Reading Gaol.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Stronger
than any epoch is the resolve <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">that
spring will return, jungle of cornucopia.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Snowdrops,
previewed through dew,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">in
New Year’s baptism, rise renewed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Orla
Fay<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ed.
22/11/22<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-19335254486314042142022-11-19T23:07:00.001+00:002022-11-20T00:09:41.732+00:00The Tinder Stick Road<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSTfRncZJVAGc-8THo61qyrIcHer69pJCndzx0l8ITZmnCbRj_ugScLMYMqs2y4WrkkabttThFt6ai1OLYgYylbeBJjUdtkBjScEwi6fqNdW7KcmDzPeKK5mzqnNWQHX4rH_ldJdZyehlhA-p-z4ZzmheaIXB4fVAZY0Tbf-4CG10pY9Or1gVBTnOKdw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSTfRncZJVAGc-8THo61qyrIcHer69pJCndzx0l8ITZmnCbRj_ugScLMYMqs2y4WrkkabttThFt6ai1OLYgYylbeBJjUdtkBjScEwi6fqNdW7KcmDzPeKK5mzqnNWQHX4rH_ldJdZyehlhA-p-z4ZzmheaIXB4fVAZY0Tbf-4CG10pY9Or1gVBTnOKdw" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Ulysses 31 1980's cartoon</div><p></p><p>Hey blog, as usual it's been too long. So here's an update. I was delighted to win Fingal Libraries Poetry Competition 2022: Travel with Joyce:1922-2022, commemorating the centenary of the publication of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulysses_(novel)" target="_blank">Ulysses </a>in Paris. The winning poems can be read <a href="https://www.fingal.ie/libraries/travel-joyce-1922-2022-winning-entries" target="_blank">here</a>. Thanks to the judges Enda Coyle-Greene & Máighréad Medbh. I was also grateful to have been granted an Agility Award by the Arts Council of Ireland.</p><p>Issue 7 of Drawn to the Light Press can be read <a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/issues/" target="_blank">here</a>. I had a poem published in Meath Writers' Circle Annual Magazine (<i>The Tinder Stick Road</i>) and I have another forthcoming in The Stony Thursday Book, edited by Annemarie Ní Churreáin. Currently I am working on my debut full collection with Salmon Poetry's Jessie Lendennie. I'm sharing <i>The Tinder Stick Road </i>below<i> </i>and I'd also like to dedicate an older poem to my constant, and inspiring, Sarah. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>The Tinder Stick Road</b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p>Do not expect the way to be easy,</p><p>that branches will not sharpen like knives,</p><p>that thorns will not adorn the middle ground.</p><p>From a past you no longer serve</p><p>be free. Set one naked sole after another</p><p>on the coals until they are doused.</p><p><br /></p><p>Imagine the end, all the little endings</p><p>of the journey, the daily living.</p><p>Imagine that comfort in the hold of the rose,</p><p>the soft pink, and red, petals and folds.</p><p>Did any voyage ever begin with certainty?</p><p>Not Ithaka! Not Bethlehem! Not Jerusalem!</p><p><br /></p><p>Look to the stars, to Polaris and Orion.</p><p>Never be dissuaded, so that they may orbit you</p><p>when seeking them in the glittering beyond.</p><p>Let the heavens swarm like bees in the godlike centre</p><p>of your existence, your heart writing clefs and quavers</p><p>in love for yourself, this life, this humanity.</p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><b>I remember (love)</b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><a href="http://orlafay.blogspot.com/2010/12/rainer-maria-rilke.html" target="_blank">- After Rilke's <i> You, You only, Exist</i></a></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p>So long it has been but now and then</p><p>(and on dark winter nights)</p><p>it is with gladness of heart</p><p>that I greet the form of you</p><p>come back for an instant</p><p>to make me smile</p><p>like the flame from the fire</p><p>or a forgotten voice</p><p>resurgent</p><p><br /></p><p>but you are gone,</p><p>far down the river,</p><p>whispering back so that I know</p><p>you were true, shadow</p><p>that cut deeper than any blade,</p><p>that raised my eyes to the sun</p><p>and laughing, suddenly you were done!</p><p><br /></p><p>No thanks could be given. None at all.</p><p>But I take you with me to a blue sky</p><p>to the calligraphy of the birds</p><p>with pounding chests</p><p>drenched with rains of light</p><p>on their wings.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-65438099472204069582022-05-14T00:18:00.001+01:002022-05-14T00:18:19.087+01:00Cork International Poetry Festival 2022<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnBwpmgtdHPPP765-4TIW3MoLZ-b5Dn3dukY9oMpIWdCUsflgwtu9Dxw9gglkjO5j7bybsRS5CUOdmcj90uAANotveSKKXQyucytKNvxnpSKYjsGVhLKbEoG2cvnBVZsfIKvczUVy3ChVNq7YdbrfEZDyMArtaMTwOGlCGA3HdtR1ACDTzKZba9GMdQ/s1003/greencarnations.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1003" data-original-width="978" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnBwpmgtdHPPP765-4TIW3MoLZ-b5Dn3dukY9oMpIWdCUsflgwtu9Dxw9gglkjO5j7bybsRS5CUOdmcj90uAANotveSKKXQyucytKNvxnpSKYjsGVhLKbEoG2cvnBVZsfIKvczUVy3ChVNq7YdbrfEZDyMArtaMTwOGlCGA3HdtR1ACDTzKZba9GMdQ/w295-h320/greencarnations.jpg" width="295" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I'll be reading from <a href="https://www.bookhubpublishing.com/product/green-carnations/" target="_blank">Green Carnations</a>, an anthology of LGBTQ<b>+ </b>poetry next Saturday afternoon at the wonderful <a href="https://www.corkpoetryfest.net/" target="_blank">Cork International Poetry Festival</a>. The festival begins on Wednesday, 18th May and runs through to the 21st. Thanks very much to Patrick Cotter, director of <a href="https://www.munsterlit.ie/" target="_blank">Munster Literature Centre</a> and John Ennis, editor of Green Carnations for asking me to be involved. I'll be sharing the stage with fellow contributors Diarmuid Fitzgerald and Leah Keane. The event will be moderated by Kate Moore at 4.30 in Cork Arts Theatre. More information <a href="https://www.corkpoetryfest.net/saturday.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Tickets can be bought <a href="https://www.ticketsource.eu/whats-on/ireland/cork-arts-theatre/cpf-2022-green-carnations-readings-from-irish-lgbt-poets/e-dxgyvj" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Full programme of events <a href="https://www.corkpoetryfest.net/programme.html" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>“Why the green carnation?”</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>The short answer is that it’s a symbol of Oscar himself. In 1892, Wilde had one of the actors in Lady Windermere’s Fan wear a green carnation on opening night and told a dozen of his young followers to wear them too. Soon the carnation became an emblem of Wilde and his group—no doubt aided by his having scandalized critics after the play by appearing on stage smoking a cigarette! Indeed, an amusing parody of Wilde was published in 1894 called The Green Carnation—and which the horrified author withdrew from publication during the Wilde trial because he felt it had helped bring Oscar down</i>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">One poem I'll be including from Green Carnations is...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UZnBlqSmUBDM_DwbBiDpSQwhLJgsRh1hHA4cVK4G7A-VLnQE4YvzUeyrssZsk--xVY_LabdomVgeRCcpp3KfUVX9zIKGCo-Uz_CYcHHZhKeMjEBSh4Lkzeh9aAVE5B6KabTW3Bli9JGuw5d9jiVXxQ74CYrWzZruDqq95_BYspwhruGC_EIDEv9NSQ/s4032/GreenBook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UZnBlqSmUBDM_DwbBiDpSQwhLJgsRh1hHA4cVK4G7A-VLnQE4YvzUeyrssZsk--xVY_LabdomVgeRCcpp3KfUVX9zIKGCo-Uz_CYcHHZhKeMjEBSh4Lkzeh9aAVE5B6KabTW3Bli9JGuw5d9jiVXxQ74CYrWzZruDqq95_BYspwhruGC_EIDEv9NSQ/w300-h400/GreenBook.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-30496532237030333162022-04-25T13:31:00.004+01:002022-04-25T13:50:18.394+01:00Submissions Sought Issue 6 Drawn to the Light Press<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRajYNeMmIrwaXWVi7yZquStL6mC8mmbHiGC-KeK3H48xwdst5DM_tFlTjJAIk1SXXssmeIIUdz9yHNWF6z-aVhPpP-bl7S9k3-tEtuUzxo_oOGMpDphaGnQrrjIAzQSMkLt1V57T3Vz1zWQszdeL1cVobYcqlyA90z7-G7sX2q1mougCDlBbEeyosQ/s3316/aurora.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3316" data-original-width="2437" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRajYNeMmIrwaXWVi7yZquStL6mC8mmbHiGC-KeK3H48xwdst5DM_tFlTjJAIk1SXXssmeIIUdz9yHNWF6z-aVhPpP-bl7S9k3-tEtuUzxo_oOGMpDphaGnQrrjIAzQSMkLt1V57T3Vz1zWQszdeL1cVobYcqlyA90z7-G7sX2q1mougCDlBbEeyosQ/s320/aurora.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">Aurora </i>Deirdre McKernan</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03p9M_EPUGoYIW8aamsf3HqeCFLdDwAqdZXg0rzyu3TIvcKKDeiGp5B9hIxND8FEbaiBrO8jn4UEOwo7seLlxDs8X4HOPFGp3Ymlexk_wPxnTZtC9ZAe4-8tHryP2GyZcksG9u2qBF39xMvPkYDdg79RcsurQr4ymSWLc1ei1Rm7Tsp1v1TCMvCPH5A/s1660/Submissions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1660" data-original-width="1125" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03p9M_EPUGoYIW8aamsf3HqeCFLdDwAqdZXg0rzyu3TIvcKKDeiGp5B9hIxND8FEbaiBrO8jn4UEOwo7seLlxDs8X4HOPFGp3Ymlexk_wPxnTZtC9ZAe4-8tHryP2GyZcksG9u2qBF39xMvPkYDdg79RcsurQr4ymSWLc1ei1Rm7Tsp1v1TCMvCPH5A/w271-h400/Submissions.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">More, <a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/" target="_blank">here</a> </div>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-83023319046430931702022-03-29T21:03:00.003+01:002022-03-29T22:26:08.868+01:00Washing Windows Too: Irish Women Write Poetry <p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicl_fjjzzkQl4kuQbslXz-UJShkjNOTj_16rqoZjIBgrYfJH5u2RSV18wwNuy7jza1cBfU8qAHce_ktVJmvPy9_C6fub2zFOhwXwBfPh28BOU9tJ6y9atMp-95__z5xWiDc2fLLjKLILuyYqRDjerVNwjjY2C0-YSlTvoYFQfeHuq5bnVe4mAdoFK1xw/s1280/washing-windows-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicl_fjjzzkQl4kuQbslXz-UJShkjNOTj_16rqoZjIBgrYfJH5u2RSV18wwNuy7jza1cBfU8qAHce_ktVJmvPy9_C6fub2zFOhwXwBfPh28BOU9tJ6y9atMp-95__z5xWiDc2fLLjKLILuyYqRDjerVNwjjY2C0-YSlTvoYFQfeHuq5bnVe4mAdoFK1xw/w210-h320/washing-windows-2.jpg" width="210" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJB6BGZAA5gBfRUnR-zSJWi4qXJYMw6L9wcPxztC0FYeAp70DBo0-iKbE940k0dniv2jtK51bRmj4E0BMbuYpvZrSS0C2_-1iBUfiEVw6g-8Ynl-BjB_fHciwLzpsRU2sUHbyYC7A_cvLcmmS4hr02KHTihGYcJcO3Q2E4m_040wDriLf3L6Q-Rnqt4Q/s2048/washing-windows-21.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1308" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJB6BGZAA5gBfRUnR-zSJWi4qXJYMw6L9wcPxztC0FYeAp70DBo0-iKbE940k0dniv2jtK51bRmj4E0BMbuYpvZrSS0C2_-1iBUfiEVw6g-8Ynl-BjB_fHciwLzpsRU2sUHbyYC7A_cvLcmmS4hr02KHTihGYcJcO3Q2E4m_040wDriLf3L6Q-Rnqt4Q/s320/washing-windows-21.jpg" width="204" /></a></p><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Washing Windows Too: Irish Women Write Poetry</i> has recently been published by <a href="http://arlenhouse.ie/" target="_blank">Arlen House</a> and is available from <a href="https://booksupstairs.ie/product/washing-windows-too-irish-women-write-poetry/" target="_blank">Books Upstairs</a>. It contains 100 new poems, selected by co-editors Alan Hayes and Nuala O'Connor, by women who have not yet published a full collection. It is the successor to <i><a href="http://arlenhouse.ie/books/washing-windows-irish-women-write-irish-poetry/" target="_blank">Washing Windows?</a> </i>which was published in 2017.<i> </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Alan Hayes’ preface on ‘Poetry, Power and Privilege’ makes for very interesting reading. In it he details the inequality of opportunity between male and female poets. He writes that 'from the 1950s onwards, conservative powerbrokers chose to champion their male peers, and in most instances female voices were silenced.' He believes that women authors today owe a debt of gratitude to Catherine Rose (founder of Arlen House, Ireland's first feminist press), Dr Margaret Mac Curtain (feminist activist and seer), and Eavan Boland. Apparently, Eavan Boland travelled Ireland in the ‘80s giving workshops to women. One woman didn’t want to ‘go public’ as a poet because her neighbours would think she didn’t wash her windows. Hayes calls for a more open, independent and honest arts world.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I'd like to thank <a href="https://nualaoconnor.com/" target="_blank">Nuala O'Connor</a> for her introduction, 'A Voice Answering a Voice'. She opens </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>'...let the soft animal of your body/love what it loves' Mary Oliver wrote in her poem 'Wild Geese', and what a pleasure it is for a reader to see what subjects new poets love enough - feel urgently enough about - to be moved to create poetry.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">What subjects these are, you'll have to have the joy of discovering for yourself within the pages. I was more than delighted to get a mention in the introduction (along with many others) in the same paragraph as Virginia Woolf's <i>Orlando</i>. It was a book I read in my late teens and I've never really recovered from Woolf's soaring stream of consciousness and oft beautiful imagery. She left an indelible mark on me. She's still one of the most stylish writers out there.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Available to order <a href="https://booksupstairs.ie/product/washing-windows-too-irish-women-write-poetry/" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbtKSx1MA2JHj_eqDsms6iySiC4goL_9Qsd_NcZwzHbXmAvKIG8Snega5iZxa4MMj0ETgOl3i4P3Ab5DnAvuOtfxUXlRpbJk_jlPv4bwecfQRqzZ-exnJaWsXwI_cXOUX-h6y0O_HlGaf7Iz4H9HvHcv9JOLfRBuQeNnUF4_QnpQInESjAMGnc9a7Tg/s640/wwvw.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbtKSx1MA2JHj_eqDsms6iySiC4goL_9Qsd_NcZwzHbXmAvKIG8Snega5iZxa4MMj0ETgOl3i4P3Ab5DnAvuOtfxUXlRpbJk_jlPv4bwecfQRqzZ-exnJaWsXwI_cXOUX-h6y0O_HlGaf7Iz4H9HvHcv9JOLfRBuQeNnUF4_QnpQInESjAMGnc9a7Tg/s320/wwvw.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-11880931907541125792022-03-12T22:53:00.004+00:002022-03-12T22:59:03.706+00:00Bitumen and Pitch by Eithne de Lacy <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYEFHYSil3NFCCRAZ-g5NCcKbm-5-DXB_zog6cqFsGKA-msnJDKQKl5zxG9pTDJWCSje2IeTzQWooj7py_1u3WQc-N6N1NDHf76hT5ZxFfqn-vs6kd0FOdvskfbjBVk1ohDOjKTI5Qod2kvTW0ZbJX8koZhHJs5x5H6wbx8h6gKJf7K11_n4syR97kCA=s636" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="378" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYEFHYSil3NFCCRAZ-g5NCcKbm-5-DXB_zog6cqFsGKA-msnJDKQKl5zxG9pTDJWCSje2IeTzQWooj7py_1u3WQc-N6N1NDHf76hT5ZxFfqn-vs6kd0FOdvskfbjBVk1ohDOjKTI5Qod2kvTW0ZbJX8koZhHJs5x5H6wbx8h6gKJf7K11_n4syR97kCA=s320" width="190" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Thanks to Dr. Cathy Fowley of <a href="https://www.silverthread.ie/" target="_blank">Silver Thread</a> for asking me to launch <a href="https://www.silverthread.ie/product/books/bitumenandpitch/" target="_blank"><i>Bitumen & Pitch </i></a>by Eithne de Lacy. Silver Thread believe in the power of stories. Their mission is to listen and encourage older people to tell their stories, and to publish them as part of their legacy. Their ethos is to be inclusive and person-focused. Silver Thread was founded in Spring 2017 by Dr. Cathy Fowley and Carmel Conroy, who both had a background in education for older people in third level institutions. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">In her introduction de Lacy says, "The cover of the book depicts a woven basket placed among reeds on a river, an image taken from the Book of Exodus... The Bitumen & Pitch were used to make the basket of Moses waterproof, thus ensuring his safe journey on the Nile." Further she notes, "Bitumen & Pitch ensured Moses' safety as he was passed from one mother to another...just as I was."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And so we begin the journey with the poet in this exploring collection. As a 43 year old de Lacy discovered, before her mother's death with dementia, that she had been adopted as a baby. The collection pays homage to her mother, Moyra, and her birth mother, freshly discovered, Bridget. She writes, "My pen refused to stop. It led me into an exploration of my two mothers, Moyra, the mother I knew, and Bridget, my birth mother who had died before I discovered I had been adopted. Two secrets. A hidden birth, a hidden adoption. Secrets, always secrets, the backdrop to many lives." Such words of truth. In the poem <i>Rúnda </i>(Irish word for secret) we find </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>She named her baby</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Rúnda, and though</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>She never suckled her</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>She kept her close,</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>And held her tight,</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Cradling her in the</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Pulsing chambers of her heart.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Lovingly written and produced, the collection is divided into 5 sections; <i>Childhood</i>, <i>Unearthing</i>, <i>Mothers</i>, <i>And Now</i>, and, <i>Finally</i>. In the last poem of the book, <i>On Elephants</i>, fittingly<i> </i>de Lacy writes</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>'Well done to you</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>And to your women folk.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>So very well done.'</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Bitumen & Pitch is a poetry collection and memoir of a woman relearning who she is. Calling on the Irish language, religious iconography, myths, stories and childhood, these poems, filled with scents and sounds, colour and wonder, are an exploration of a daughter, the mother she knew, and the mother she never met.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Available <a href="https://www.silverthread.ie/books/" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p><i><br /></i></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-37699582575624970372022-02-25T06:47:00.006+00:002022-02-25T07:08:44.179+00:00Times Present and Past by Liam McNevin <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrxJQceIg6cMsONSNbRtZ7QTOyHm5CdOCcq11nnSg2FlNYmmakO4lZ5VURXzB4bRYEk7Da3RLNa5XShfTB81028nk37L1eE9beLQ3ldhmav1bCndI3f516zg75f88GEocdFphK0W4PhOhwFDx52Bg_TFtmVc2Fvhz5PlTrvdq7Z20p5nQi5qZqIaRYHA=s1703" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1703" data-original-width="1105" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrxJQceIg6cMsONSNbRtZ7QTOyHm5CdOCcq11nnSg2FlNYmmakO4lZ5VURXzB4bRYEk7Da3RLNa5XShfTB81028nk37L1eE9beLQ3ldhmav1bCndI3f516zg75f88GEocdFphK0W4PhOhwFDx52Bg_TFtmVc2Fvhz5PlTrvdq7Z20p5nQi5qZqIaRYHA=w260-h400" width="260" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Published by <a href="mailto:liamedia15@gmail.com" target="_blank">Swan Press</a>, Dublin, <i><a href="https://www.alanhannas.com/Times-Past-and-Present_9780993341571" target="_blank">Times Present & Past</a></i> is <a href="https://www.echo.ie/times-past-and-present-poet-liam-is-launching-his-debut-collection/" target="_blank">Liam McNevin</a>'s first collection of poetry. Liam is from Dublin and has been writing for many years. He is a member of <a href="http://www.ruared.ie/whats-on/event/virginia-house-writers#:~:text=Virginia%20House%20Creative%20Writers%20Group,network%20for%20writers%20in%20Tallaght." target="_blank">Virginia House Creative Writers</a>. His work has appeared in journals such as <i>Boyne Berries</i> and <i>Flare</i>, <i>Tallaght Soundings</i> anthologies, and online in <a href="http://pendemic.ie/reminisce-a-poem-by-liam-mcnevin/" target="_blank"><i>Pendemic</i></a>, <a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/issues/" target="_blank"><i>Drawn to the Light Press</i></a> and <a href="https://liveencounters.net/2021-le-p-w/03-march-le-pw-2021/liam-mcnevin-turn-of-the-day/" target="_blank"><i>Live Encounters</i></a>, among others.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Opening with <i>Amour Vitae Meae </i>(love of my life), a serenade to his wife, McNevin has an unsullied sensitivity of spirit found throughout the book in poems such as <i>Soulmate</i>, where he feels the calming presence of his passed father come to him on his son's confirmation day. He appreciates moments. The poet has a talent for rhyme. Of falling leaves in <i>Autumn</i> he writes,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>They remind me of dying embers,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>of life coming to a close;</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>fiery blenheim garlands,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>in restful repose. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">McNevin has a deep appreciation for the beauty of nature and nuances of light. In <i>Campus </i>he notes 'Early sunrise, IT Tallaght', and stops 'to take a photo/to put into verse and leave grass frost/footprints in my wake.' In <i>Morning</i>, while observing the crescent moon he sees 'jet lines and pinkish cloud/paint a winter sunrise'. While in <i>Skyscape</i> he is 'enthralled by the dawn/of a winter sky.' He spies in the darkness a </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>flickering star,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>a lighthouse flung-far</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>amidst a sea</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>of inky blue.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">McNevin remembers those who have touched his life in character poems. Of <i>Buddy</i> he says 'Of course I'd like to see you as you always were./When as a young fella we'd meet', continuing with the wisdom of the line '...elders give credit...saw our show for attention as the anxious/thing.' He recalls the man who sold the Evening Herald newspaper with 'face similar to his tanned cap' in <i>Selling the news</i>.<i> </i>From another in <i>Fisherman's blues</i> he learns the perk of fishing, 'To step away from the routine of everyday/and let his mind wander at random.' Of a colleague, <i>Valerie</i>, he pens, 'No words spoken could ease your going;/but time allows for a tribute in a poem.'</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The poet is concerned with the art of writing and in improving craft. In <i>Ballpoint</i>, an ode to the pen, he muses, 'should I really say that?' <i>Sombre days</i> finds him experiencing 'this threading water/while waiting for a topic to arrive.' <i>Work in progress</i> unearths his mission and mantra,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>The task: To have a piece of writing</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>that is sturdy when the unveiling mist lifts</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>which assists in keeping lit, the pilot light</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>of confidence. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I enjoyed the grace of this collection. Liam McNevin wears the true, heart-and-soul cloak of a poet, sensitive to moments of beauty and wonder about him, and ready to step out of the ordinary into the act. I particularly loved <i>Holiday morning</i> which captures the quiet, stillness of a moonlit night so vividly. Looking again to the skies he understands, 'Creation I'm a part of;/significant, though small.'</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">For more information contact <u>liamedia15@gmail.com</u> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-45912082263308071982022-02-23T20:32:00.004+00:002022-02-25T19:15:52.402+00:00Odd as F*ck by Anne Walsh Donnelly <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKLZ4S0OqUsZsciqkvFD2OW0n3OOY24YjKaTRrtTN9dA4YznkZ4sdhFxV_-eWSvHGUKrF7Kbkv-F3HY7ZVBRAXbAm-4gGex0JlpX-2JDbchxF4gUETvdSGJLAYjkZvyvTAFWAtD5uyZw-hB3JsPUkc_bL1PaBu7dcTt1vqvyNARtratB_LiR3xXibirQ=s497" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="339" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKLZ4S0OqUsZsciqkvFD2OW0n3OOY24YjKaTRrtTN9dA4YznkZ4sdhFxV_-eWSvHGUKrF7Kbkv-F3HY7ZVBRAXbAm-4gGex0JlpX-2JDbchxF4gUETvdSGJLAYjkZvyvTAFWAtD5uyZw-hB3JsPUkc_bL1PaBu7dcTt1vqvyNARtratB_LiR3xXibirQ=s320" width="218" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i><a href="https://www.flyonthewallpress.co.uk/product-page/odd-as-f-ck-by-anne-walsh-donnelly" target="_blank">Odd as F*ck </a></i>is the debut poetry collection from<a href="https://annewdonnelly.com/" target="_blank"> Anne Walsh Donnelly</a>, published by <a href="https://www.flyonthewallpress.co.uk/blog" target="_blank">Fly on the Wall Press</a>. Anne Walsh Donnelly writes poetry, prose and plays. She is a single mother of two teenagers. Originally from Carlow in the south-east of Ireland, she now lives in Mayo in the west of Ireland. She is the Poet Laureate for the town of Belmullet in the west of Ireland. Her poetry was shortlisted for the 2019 Hennessy/Irish Times New Irish Writing Literary Award. She won 2nd place in the International Poetry Book Awards, 2020 for her chapbook, <i><a href="https://www.flyonthewallpress.co.uk/product-page/the-woman-with-an-owl-tattoo-by-anne-walsh-donnelly" target="_blank">The Woman With An Owl Tattoo</a></i>, and was selected for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series 2019, and Words Ireland Mentorship Programme in 2020. Her work has been shortlisted for the Fish International Prize and the RTE Radio One Francis Mac Manus competitions. Her play <i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/ClaremorrisDramaAndFringeFestival/" target="_blank">My Dead Husband's Hereford Bull</a></i> will be performed at this year's Claremorris Drama and Fringe Festival. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The title poem is a conversation between two women on the breakdown of a marriage between Victoria, who has 'dyed her hair,/same colour as a hawthorn berry', and Jim, who has 'applied for an annulment.' It demonstrates the potential for judgement and small mindedness in a provincial town, through subjective chatter, 'Paid no heed to my warnings./I know sons never do', and humour, 'Ma, the only virgins in this town are the nuns.' A wry and droll cynicism that disguises suffering and the healing process is at the heart of many of Walsh Donnelly's poems. In <i>My Therapist's Dog</i> the golden retriever asks, 'When are you going to stop coming here?/She has to have two coffee pods/before your session.' In <i>Talk To Me Like Lovers Do</i> she says, 'I write a poem about having sex at sixty./You should be knitting scarfs for grandchildren.'</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Divided into seven section, the first is a long poem, <i>Days Like These</i>, a meandering mind on the river of life in quest for the sea, in this case some sort of faith, or peace with God, which the writer, in philosophical battle, finds in <i>herself</i>, 'But maybe, just maybe, God is,/My Greatness/My Ordinariness/In Days like these.' Part two and four explore childhood, grief, and sadness. <i>Soon </i>describes a child's panic on being left in an isolation ward, awaiting her mother who does not return quickly enough, 'you vacuum-packed your heart/promised never to unwrap it,/expose yourself to germs again.' <i>Mother's Day 2020</i> expresses the anguish of not being able to see one's mother, 'I don't know when I can be with you again. Weeks? Months?' <i>Death is Nothing At All</i> finds the poet stricken at the loss of her mother,</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Death is not - </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>nothing.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>It is everything. </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">There are personal works where the poet's journey through her sexuality is navigated with no-holds-barred honesty. I found <i>I'm a Jack Hammer </i>('I come to life when he grabs my neck/plugs me into the power socket'), and <i>The Knife Thrower's Wife</i>, fearless, and sad; </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Knowing that she'll survive</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>his onslaught, she tells him,</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>to do what he has to do,</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>no matter how bloody that might be.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">While joy is literal in <i>Joy</i>, a gusty celebration of the female body, 'Joy is a naked woman/sitting astride/a speckled-grey mare/raising her arms', and in <i>The Wonder of You </i>two women in St Stephen's Green 'dare to lick/each other's cone'. Walsh Donnelly does not flinch in the discussion of the ageing process and sex, in <i>My Menopausal Womb</i>, <i>My Menopausal Vagina</i> and <i>Vagina</i>. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Part seven of the book, <i>Voices</i>, is dedicated to <a href="https://www.martinaevans.com/about/" target="_blank">Martina Evans</a>. In this fragment objects such as a Ford Fiesta, an eel, the moon, a dreamcatcher, an umbrella and a surf board speak to the author. This is an extensive collection. It documents the struggle, personal growth, healing, liberation and hope of a woman. The butterfly who alights on the poet's shoulder in <i>Red Admiral</i> tells her, 'it's much too soon for me to die,/we still have a lot of living to do.' And in the final, <i>Cygnet</i>, after Emily Dickinson, we are urged to 'listen', 'hope', 'rise', skitter' and 'soar'. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Odd as F*ck </i>is recommended reading for the LGBTQ community, and wider. <i>Mr Sun</i> and <i>Wrench</i> are loving poems to the poet's son. <i>Preparing for Death</i>, <i>Desecration of Time</i> and <i>To Be a Stranger in Your Own Home</i> caught my eye for their philosophizing and imagery. This is an extremely well written and versatile edition. It raises questions about sexuality, mental health, women's bodies and the ageing process in particular. It does so with courageous, unwavering and stout conviction. It is available to purchase <a href="https://annewdonnelly.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-62125724406457350872022-02-18T22:29:00.002+00:002022-02-18T22:36:24.886+00:00Bone House by Moyra Donaldson <p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaQ1HG24rXNkzp5ykYg8hTiBruHVL6-DihcVHZ6N27qpcIUCGFW_djFZCno4a0tb0F9aRreBVGojbykaLDCB49J_g8MvuOGrA5dfeD-IgotCk_CSdxIlN2kiS79sZeys5YAGxLOduGwBa_uNtyBsgP3Cu8ZXeq6fCWG6tlZxe7_EgPMHrBV2ZClUnYqA=s912" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="602" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaQ1HG24rXNkzp5ykYg8hTiBruHVL6-DihcVHZ6N27qpcIUCGFW_djFZCno4a0tb0F9aRreBVGojbykaLDCB49J_g8MvuOGrA5dfeD-IgotCk_CSdxIlN2kiS79sZeys5YAGxLOduGwBa_uNtyBsgP3Cu8ZXeq6fCWG6tlZxe7_EgPMHrBV2ZClUnYqA=s320" width="211" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><a href="https://www.doirepress.com/books/poetry/feminist-poetry/bone-house" target="_blank">Bone House</a> </i>(<a href="https://www.doirepress.com/" target="_blank">Doire Press</a> 2021) is the latest collection from <a href="https://moyradonaldson.com/" target="_blank">Moyra Donaldson</a>. She has published eight collections of poetry, including a <a href="https://libertiespress.com/product/selected-poems-moyra-donaldson/" target="_blank"><i>Selected Poems</i></a> and most recently, <i><a href="https://www.doirepress.com/books/poetry/feminist-poetry/carnivorous" target="_blank">Carnivorous </a></i>from Doire Press. Her awards include the Women’s National Poetry Competition, The Allingham Award, Cúirt New Writing Award, North West Words Poetry Award and the Belfast Year of the Writer Award. She has received five awards from the ACNI, including the Major Artist Award in 2019. Her poems have featured on BBC Radio and television, as well as on American national radio and television. She has read at festivals in Europe, Canada and America. Moyra has been involved in an array of other projects, including a collaboration with photographic artist Victoria J Dean, resulting in an exhibition and the publication Abridged 0 -36 Dis-Ease.<i> <a href="http://www.paddylennon.net/new-page" target="_blank">Blood Horses</a></i>, a collaboration with Wexford artist Paddy Lennon, culminated in a limited-edition publication of artworks and poems. She has also worked with Big Telly Theatre Company on a number of projects.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This is a brave, courageous book that does not compromise, as the opening poem says of the 'good glasses' <i>So What if We Break Them</i>. A beautiful, carefully wrought, cohesive collection, it is certainly a work of art, one you can dip in and out of, read from cover to cover in a single sitting, and one you can come back to time and again. There is so much to admire in <i>Bone House</i>,<i> </i>economical, classical, adventurous, and with a finger on the pulse. It has a daring spirit that sprints forward like the horses in <i>Samhain</i>, while falling back, masking an intellect and compassion that is never gaudy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Mother as a figure, and motherhood feature strongly in the compilation. <i>She</i> is a mercurial character, literally in <i>Mother was the Weather</i> when 'hearts became barometers'. <i>In the Movie of Her Life</i>, which is the title of two poems, the mother's past is explored, the freedom she could have tasted before children and marriage, before succumbing to her father's expectation. In the duplicate title Donaldson again inspects 'My mother before she was my mother'. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Unusual is the fact that the collection has four title poems (which could be read as one I suppose). In its first iteration mother gets no rest 'parading through the night/eternal like the moon.' The second places the poet as mother, and eternity here is in the 'milky breath' of her own daughter. In the third, poet comes face to face with the moon, '<i>I see the moon/and the moon sees me</i>'. In the final phase Donaldson confronts mortality, 'is the girl already dead I loved'. This girl could be Alice in Wonderland of <i>Untitled</i> 'walking the roads/fearing what I might find; which one of us is missing?'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I particularly loved <i>Beltane in the Time of Virus</i> when Donaldson compares the topsy-turviness of COVID days to 'like being a teenager again, sitting out in the garden...thinking what the fuck'. Here there is gorgeous sensuality in 'the breeze finding its way beneath my robe and over/my body like a lover'. <i>My First 10 Months as a Monk</i> addresses the times too, in such a stylish way, juxtaposing the acedia of a monk's life with the monotony of the isolation we all felt 'In this year of blur/hours'. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Hecuba in the Bowtown Estate</i> is a teriffic poem about rage, 'I am the bitch-mother that howls outside your window'. Donaldson as matriarch fears for her own daughter's life in <i>Daughter Competing on Her Horse</i>. While in <i>Daughters Who Dance with Death</i> she relates to Amy Winehouse's mother who said 'Each time I saw her I thought it would be the last.' This angst is beautifully reflected in the succeeding poem, <i>The Adoration of the Shepherds with a Lamp</i>, where Rembrandt portrays Mary cloaking her son, and in another painting by the artist the foreseen woe manifests, which the poet calls 'the dark night over Golgotha.'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The cover art of the collection depicts a foetus in utero and <i>Anatomy of the Gravid Womb - William Hunter </i>addresses the legacy of the physician who dissected the bodies of women who died not having reached full term pregnancy. It leaves one queasy to think of this 'Foetus whole and intact: mother butchered.' In an <a href="https://www.thinking3d.ac.uk/Hunter1774/" target="_blank">article</a> I found online Camilla Rostvik writes 'It is a reminder of the long patriarchal past of obstetrics.' God of the patriarchy is of the Old Testament in <i>None Righteous </i>and <i>Rock of Ages</i>. <i>Tiresias</i>, the ancient Greek prophet who spent seven years as a woman, leaves the reader dumbfounded by the sole interest of the old gods in 'whether the sex was better or worse.'</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I adore this publication for <i>Prayer to Black</i>, <i>Give Yourself Peace</i> and <i>Crone Song</i>. This is an outstanding production and it is probably not fair for me to say anymore, except advise you get a copy to read. It is a master class on how a collection could be written, the composition of a maestro. <i>Bone House</i> is dedicated to Donaldson's granddaughter, Daisy. It contains an introduction by <a href="http://irelandchairofpoetry.org/previous-professors/paula-meehan/">Paula Meehan</a>. Like the sound of the 'singing bowl' struck like a gong in the final poem, <i>Hearing</i>, the artistry of these verse will continue to ring through my consciousness. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Available <a href="https://www.doirepress.com/books/poetry/feminist-poetry/bone-house" target="_blank">here</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-88597758757162241702022-02-15T21:21:00.002+00:002022-02-15T21:22:06.020+00:00Drawn to the Light Press Issue 5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbsHj0oWnivmN5eazlCJzvGnuMZajqyi7XyEa8ZCXUiu8xaxsRgb--9ZQpmIOb9SkiBpTbI_FM7Z23rUCmVb15-8OZ1edODTAk499k3pqhgSRPfhRqFLDIog-yrI_SFtYS8z3vHJFFDvV3v5UtI0d1kt_-YnCNRiCs_NQdvU4hLAKIkVFZo91Al-uK4g=s2016" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbsHj0oWnivmN5eazlCJzvGnuMZajqyi7XyEa8ZCXUiu8xaxsRgb--9ZQpmIOb9SkiBpTbI_FM7Z23rUCmVb15-8OZ1edODTAk499k3pqhgSRPfhRqFLDIog-yrI_SFtYS8z3vHJFFDvV3v5UtI0d1kt_-YnCNRiCs_NQdvU4hLAKIkVFZo91Al-uK4g=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Issue 5 of </span><a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">Drawn to the Light Press </a><span style="text-align: left;">is now available to read online, and can also be ordered in print </span><a href="https://drawntothelightpress.com/issues/" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="text-align: left;">.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjugLozN0t-vlrc1PKdg8J-x9Ek1XWCM2Z8ki6MS8VIoac-TKz_Jy133cv3agdqiT50UYuKrSYVFg9UTP7LxOeBIX1hHEcRzqmCdaxtjzBfDWDqcNMZXxl2CxVdkk8zK05WRXVIq1dIMstD1aE09cwYknzR_jAftb5AzgtqcWSVKzSSR4Yye6eydkcPJQ=s1180" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1180" data-original-width="1125" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjugLozN0t-vlrc1PKdg8J-x9Ek1XWCM2Z8ki6MS8VIoac-TKz_Jy133cv3agdqiT50UYuKrSYVFg9UTP7LxOeBIX1hHEcRzqmCdaxtjzBfDWDqcNMZXxl2CxVdkk8zK05WRXVIq1dIMstD1aE09cwYknzR_jAftb5AzgtqcWSVKzSSR4Yye6eydkcPJQ=w381-h400" width="381" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-37185819583738353102022-02-15T00:15:00.006+00:002022-02-15T01:30:05.443+00:00Catching Air by Vinny Glynn-Steed (joy is the parrot that shouldn't be contained)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh33NyAtcaApeYShDLoHFcjf8OzDjQZC3J-yV5nejlnqiGEc9UL0ylcY4q2q9-zNTwbw9ZosRpvjHmGldk2hCVlgLZYcKeegkR6Jf3eU8mkusPDtS_dtpRZELD5-h6T9bUgGxPo46LihXjL7RxwyKQRJRRXzniNQ5lpEtSiMLpEprOFP4cm6yo_1A1Ccw=s1247" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1247" data-original-width="861" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh33NyAtcaApeYShDLoHFcjf8OzDjQZC3J-yV5nejlnqiGEc9UL0ylcY4q2q9-zNTwbw9ZosRpvjHmGldk2hCVlgLZYcKeegkR6Jf3eU8mkusPDtS_dtpRZELD5-h6T9bUgGxPo46LihXjL7RxwyKQRJRRXzniNQ5lpEtSiMLpEprOFP4cm6yo_1A1Ccw=w221-h320" width="221" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Published by <a href="https://maytreepress.co.uk/" target="_blank">Maytree Press</a>, <i><a href="https://charliebyrne.ie/product/catching-air/" target="_blank">Catching Air</a></i> is the debut poetry chapbook from Vinny Glynn-Steed. From Galway, his poetry has been widely published at home and abroad, appearing in journals and online in Mexico, the United States, Wales and Northern Ireland. He has featured in publications such as <i>Windows 25th edition</i>, <i>Parhelion</i> and<i> Cinnamon Press anthology</i>. Other credits include: <i>Galway Review</i>, <i>Headstuff</i>, <i>Skylight 47</i>, <i>Crannóg</i>, <i>Into the Void</i>, <i>Bangor Journal</i>, <i>Tales from the Forest</i>, <i>The Ogham Stone</i>, <i>Ofi Press</i>, <i>ROPES</i>, <i>All the Sins</i>, <i>Mediterranean Poetry</i>, <i>Flight</i>,<i> Boyne Berries</i>, <i>Dodging the Rain</i>, <i>Poems in Profile </i>and <i>Drawn to the Light Press. </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">This short collection exudes a joy and passion for family, the past, the natural world, and the written word. It glistens with jewels of imagery such as "Your blonde hair offset by the deep blue of the mosque" in the opening poem <i>Delight</i>, and "in the spectrum splash of light on a gable wall" from <i>Pages from a Garden</i>. <i>Word-Gravity</i> serves as prelude to the book when Steed throws his <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/3511-throw-your-dreams-into-space-like-a-kite-and-you" target="_blank">"dreams into space like a kite"</a>, to quote Anais Nin, in the hope of reaping "A spiral tapestry/of the most beautiful human stories/not yet told." The chapbook is dedicated to his son, Bobby, whom he names his <i>spiral tapestry</i>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In a way <i>Catching Air</i> is a dance with the light. <i>Last Light at Lough Tay</i> comments on sunset on the mountains - "V for victory - the arms/of their embrace." In <i>Pristine </i>we listen </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>To a corncrake's call comfortable under a carpet of stars</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>amongst the parcels of peat</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>under the mechanical arms of a giant glistening.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The arms here belong to a wind turbine in a high bog. I do like how man and nature co-exist in harmony in Steed's poetry. In <i>The Iceman</i>,<i> </i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%96tzi" target="_blank">Otzi</a><i> </i>of the Alps carried his "copper axe made of leather, yew and birch tar", and in <i>Canal Bank Hole </i>"long bottomed boats meandered by/en route to Dublin..."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">"joy is the parrot that shouldn't be contained" the poet writes in <i>The God of Broken-Down Things</i>, despite "how sadness resides with darkness under the stairs/in a toolbox rusting..." Again, in this poem the light is at play in "silhouettes stretched out before us like all summer/mornings..." and there is a wistfulness for the past in this very likeable poem that reminds one of <i>Fern Hill</i>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>One Small King</i> opens with the beautiful image of mist hanging over the bog like "a starched altar-cloth". We are asked to imagine its course, flapping down the mountain to the lake, where dotted islands are "the broken/rosary beads of your intent..." Steed shows reverence for, while finding solace in, his kingdom of bog and mountain. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">This introduction closes with a piece dedicated to Kevin Higgins and Susan Millar DuMars of <a href="http://overtheedgeliteraryevents.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Over The Edge Literary Events</a>. <i>The Phrase Factory</i> is a writing class they instruct, where poets "breathe life/into new words" and "acknowledge their ephemeral fame." It is clear that Steed finds true delight in his pursuit of language, he is the "child catching air with a butterfly net" of the title poem, a buddha in praise of the earth. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Highly recommended for its sense of wonder and adventure, <i>Catching Air</i> can be purchased <a href="https://maytreepress.bigcartel.com/product/catching-air-by-vinny-glynn-steed" target="_blank">here</a>. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-82639402308912907002022-02-09T22:29:00.002+00:002022-02-09T22:32:21.711+00:00Chrome Injury by Memphis Star<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0dyoZbYGXLyA21l1pKJvROFLVDf9JmkDweByCd1ORG-QdSIdxVSfGrADPAFyeuuLqZ4862q6yq6I4L-B4LjyGESFsiPYdMDKN5_cne762Jv4TmK2A6_qykA7S-CvCeJd6VD7_FmLMpnaXovxqjTkzaCdxWFSc2C2gDbdanGrhL2NpGNhE77hQu3fp_g=s1125" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1070" data-original-width="1125" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0dyoZbYGXLyA21l1pKJvROFLVDf9JmkDweByCd1ORG-QdSIdxVSfGrADPAFyeuuLqZ4862q6yq6I4L-B4LjyGESFsiPYdMDKN5_cne762Jv4TmK2A6_qykA7S-CvCeJd6VD7_FmLMpnaXovxqjTkzaCdxWFSc2C2gDbdanGrhL2NpGNhE77hQu3fp_g=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i><a href="https://www.memphisstarmusic.com/music" target="_blank">Memphis Star</a> </i>is an Indie Pop band from the Midwest. Green Bay, Wisconsin to be exact. Members include Sam Hart, Jenna Kopitske, Michael Stirk and Chris Anderson. "Their sound draws from styles of modern Indie music, as well as 1970s Blue-Eyed Soul and Alternative Rock. This blend creates a new bop with hints of nostalgia."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Their new album <i>Chrome Injury</i> is set for release this year. This is a wistful, 90s-sounding compilation that brings slightly to mind <i>Electronic</i>, <i>The Sundays </i>and <i>Crowded House.</i> Its first song <i>Sign of the Times</i> can be found on <a href="https://youtu.be/9SgH6df-CL8" target="_blank">YouTube</a>. They sing here about disillusionment with politics and social media. An apathy has crept in.</p><p><b>Sign of the Times</b></p><p><i>Verse 1</i></p><p><i>I’m up late watching the news again</i></p><p><i>Unwanted drama when will it ever end</i></p><p><i>Build a wall screams the president</i></p><p><i>If I don’t get what I want</i></p><p><i>I’ll bring down the government</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i>Chorus</i></p><p><i>It’s a sign of the times</i></p><p><i>When I can’t sleep at night</i></p><p><i>It’s a sign of the times</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I'm not exactly sure what a chrome injury is, but <i><a href="https://youtu.be/5jiWdRpWgZY" target="_blank">The Chrome Injury</a></i> was a single by the Australian band, <i>The Church</i>. The title track by <i>Memphis Star </i>also features a man who seems numbed and distant. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>75 Reasons</i> is a gorgeous, catchy, upbeat piece with surprising arrangement and a rolling guitar solo. The lead sings "I want to tell you something, I talk but out comes nothing that ain't right, and it goes like...dum diddy dum diddy da...and it sounds right, at least in my mind."</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Hearts for Hers </i>is a funky tune about unrequited love, "I want you to fake it, on my time please take it...you act so conceited, makes me feel defeated" it rhymes. While "When I grow up I want to be something in...the movies" opens the mildly rocklike <i>Rosie Velvet, </i>a nostalgic, uplifting composition, like <i>Lying in the Grass </i>which finishes the record.<i> Blue World </i>is a fine blending of voice with sweet poignancy:</p><p><i>I don't know why I feel lonely, </i></p><p><i>I don't know why I feel blue, </i></p><p><i>I don't think I'm the only one, </i></p><p><i>the only one that feels this way, </i></p><p><i>feels this way, sometimes, sometimes. </i></p><p><i>I don't know why you console me, </i></p><p><i>I don't know why you were there, </i></p><p><i>I just know you're the only one, </i></p><p><i>the only one that seems to care, seems to care, </i></p><p><i>all the time, yeah! All the time, yeah!</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Overall <i>Chrome Injury</i> is a very pleasant listen with tender notes, and a care for vintage. I could imagine having one of these songs stay with me from the car radio, or being somewhere and stopping to Shazam its sound. More info <a href="https://memphisstar.bandcamp.com/?fbclid=IwAR0QonXRgebpPHaFGKzSeEbwevkhr5gK8a2uzlQSkYgEIgKOlKclBLBNplc" target="_blank">here</a>, or follow the band on<a href="https://www.facebook.com/musicbyMemphisStar/" target="_blank"> Facebook</a>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0Z5vCpzQLjE" width="320" youtube-src-id="0Z5vCpzQLjE"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-24229550446489667782022-02-06T21:34:00.002+00:002022-02-06T21:37:06.390+00:00What Became of the Horses Poetry Chapbook Cover Design<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzXHDY5iPAkOzRjvIbrs08NcX3WSnuNMQ9JUOaJx9QncUj9fv695jV4AwolQgXzsS_qZBkGpT8T1_xJE4heJY7211yvftkOenE0odiEFGSjKRDPib71liszm_ZTVME9UrlSlaRqcpIE8r36PpjyhqI6Y_W5CTYa38diWPpYoyyZLxqY2RBh-gQVZnALw=s1065" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="749" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzXHDY5iPAkOzRjvIbrs08NcX3WSnuNMQ9JUOaJx9QncUj9fv695jV4AwolQgXzsS_qZBkGpT8T1_xJE4heJY7211yvftkOenE0odiEFGSjKRDPib71liszm_ZTVME9UrlSlaRqcpIE8r36PpjyhqI6Y_W5CTYa38diWPpYoyyZLxqY2RBh-gQVZnALw=w281-h400" width="281" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cover Design by Rory O'Sullivan</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm pleased to showcase the cover of my forthcoming, second poetry chapbook <i>What Became of the Horses</i>. It will contain around twenty poems, including the title poem which was published in The Ireland Chair of Poetry Commemorative Anthology <i><a href="http://irelandchairofpoetry.org/hold-open-the-door-a-commemorative-anthology-from-the-ireland-chair-of-poetry-available-to-order/#:~:text=Offering%20an%20intimate%20look%20at,leaving%20that%20tradition%20enriched%20and" target="_blank">Hold Open the Door</a></i>, and the <a href="https://www.poetryireland.ie/poetry-town/" target="_blank">Poetry Town</a> commissioned <i>Dunshaughlin, Now and Again</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Huge thanks to poet and illustrator Rory O'Sullivan for the artwork. This project is possible due to the generous support of Meath County Council Arts Office and Creative Ireland. I hope to have the book ready for late March/early April.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxistuO69L5RH04awKnxQpEIN0e5IvvtK8o7OAqur4Qv8lFgz-Z8bR9-ug_8Vz05wXoxKn0092Cb-4Vv8RpXfELpAka3yClvvfsbLZvkc6YzpOksjVlc-GYTY-xLeLS4QPFX4AocXAWy0DcQ0VzRmSLoeizLx2tUj-A2F0l48J6-qz_gaNrmoPRlB45A=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="640" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxistuO69L5RH04awKnxQpEIN0e5IvvtK8o7OAqur4Qv8lFgz-Z8bR9-ug_8Vz05wXoxKn0092Cb-4Vv8RpXfELpAka3yClvvfsbLZvkc6YzpOksjVlc-GYTY-xLeLS4QPFX4AocXAWy0DcQ0VzRmSLoeizLx2tUj-A2F0l48J6-qz_gaNrmoPRlB45A=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1YTqz2tEPU49BGZl8dAIi-MjgZZPrpxtLmnahO34oDBEJ32pgnHe3nS0hR78t4YjU0fNYyiZgfmDUYbCZYBapXKH-CJuXa5KUaCDaxTZJethrrzhFgjZQ2xSwo-OQDksKqCSG7e32DURexrI553ZJ3KLPojGoStEKFgYHym3RKMNircunzs6Pg1lBRQ=s1734" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="1734" height="78" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1YTqz2tEPU49BGZl8dAIi-MjgZZPrpxtLmnahO34oDBEJ32pgnHe3nS0hR78t4YjU0fNYyiZgfmDUYbCZYBapXKH-CJuXa5KUaCDaxTZJethrrzhFgjZQ2xSwo-OQDksKqCSG7e32DURexrI553ZJ3KLPojGoStEKFgYHym3RKMNircunzs6Pg1lBRQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><br /></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-83413314823510451302022-02-05T22:08:00.001+00:002022-02-05T22:42:21.026+00:00Metropolis <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JPYrepCGL-I" width="320" youtube-src-id="JPYrepCGL-I"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Transformation scene, Metropolis 1927</i></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Since it's just us again dear blog, and since I'm back on a new journey having strayed, (tales for another day) I am here tonight in my PJs feeling grateful. Peace is not something you can buy, nor find easily when lost, nor is it something that should be traded. Peace is the equivalent of the heart. It is a reckoning in the hall of mirrors and the shadow that haunts a day. It is the monster you sleep with at night, the darkest thought in the deepest hour. All our demons are angels. There is no healthy mind without this quiet bedfellow. No true work to be done. No fateful and faithful integrity. As the epigraph states in the movie Metropolis, written by Fritz Lang and Thea von Harbou:</p><p><i>Mittler zwischen hern und handen muss das herz sein!</i></p><p><i>The mediator between head and hands must be the heart!</i></p><p><i>(There can be no understanding between the hand and the brain unless the heart acts as mediator.</i></p><p><i>Without the heart there can be no understanding between the hand and the mind).</i></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-73049828988930628892022-02-03T08:27:00.004+00:002022-02-03T08:41:46.031+00:00A Dedication to Drowning by Maeve McKenna <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgir-mkb-99Gyb2LtcM1QhkkpQ6PkV9QQysEoOqk3cBUkopVq_YoJi0gvkiU4is7oGLyZbeivEYDwvq9tW5HqZIv3rdtfoXK6CyeBq0HntaBxP5682R3gNeCv5yT_xtWzDzyR4g7j0elac0mVDo2c_mh-MW9e88aJMQi0cwb9xojvim04vq4Z1c2bEE4A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgir-mkb-99Gyb2LtcM1QhkkpQ6PkV9QQysEoOqk3cBUkopVq_YoJi0gvkiU4is7oGLyZbeivEYDwvq9tW5HqZIv3rdtfoXK6CyeBq0HntaBxP5682R3gNeCv5yT_xtWzDzyR4g7j0elac0mVDo2c_mh-MW9e88aJMQi0cwb9xojvim04vq4Z1c2bEE4A=w267-h400" width="267" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">From <a href="https://www.flyonthewallpress.co.uk/" target="_blank">Fly on the Wall Press</a>, <i><a href="https://www.flyonthewallpress.co.uk/product-page/a-dedication-to-drowning-by-maeve-mckenna" target="_blank">A Dedication to Drowning </a></i>is the debut poetry chapbook from <a href="https://www.instagram.com/maevemckenna37/?hl=en" target="_blank">Maeve O'Reilly McKenna</a>. Maeve McKenna lives in rural Sligo, Ireland. In 2018, her work was shortlisted for the Red Line, and highly commended in the iYeats International Poetry competitions. In 2019, she was highly commended in the Frances Ledwidge International Poetry Award, and longlisted in the Over The Edge Poetry competition. She was joint runner-up in the Trim Poetry Competition and the Hanna Greally Poetry Competition, 2020. She was placed third in the Canterbury Poet of the Year Competition 2021 for <i>Lemon Drops in the Pocket of My Fathers Overcoat</i>, dedicated to her late dad who had dementia</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The title poem, <i>A Dedication to Drowning</i> is effective, with some lovely lines such as 'your wide shoulders an Orca's/tail slicing the surface', and it finishes cleverly with a double take, launching the piece into the stratosphere. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The prose-like <i>Gerard's </i>is a very human portrayal of the man behind a drug addict. Maeve perceives with an unflinching eye. There is a visceral quality to her work, where she does not shy away from the body. In the powerful<i> Undelivered</i> she writes 'If I could hold you, coax your chest open, blood-fill/each pulse-less chamber, lay it plump as a pillow/under mine, I would.' <i>Cool Boiled Water</i> is startling in imagery, 'I am trying to bend a mind' it opens, succeeded by 'Can I imagine the moon as a suffocating balloon' and, 'Or stars, the eyes of a wolf-pack,/in the dark world forest.'</p><p style="text-align: justify;">There is no doubt McKenna is in touch with the primitive, the force of creation is summoned in her words. The sea is elemental to her being. I could not help hearing echoes of Virginia Woolf in <i>Propagation</i> -</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>on propagation. Oh! Hero.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Oh! Lover. Oh, desire</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>from consequence -</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>unwill me.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">It is in this ecstatic vision that her verse, breaking free, soars. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">She is assured and certain in <i>Never Tell Your Business</i>, 'In winter, frost separated the cream,/I can't forget this.' The masculine is present as a destructive, ('Your son is trying to kill you' in <i>The Sound of Distance</i>) and constructive, ('And the baby, now a man,/still clapping inside the audience of a woman' in <i>Performance</i>) force. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">With a talent for the unexpected, and an ability to step outside herself as a writer, Maeve McKenna sees the bigger picture, bringing light to the hidden. She tackles death in <i>A Burial in the Home</i>, the injustice of mother and baby homes in <i>Shadow Waiting</i>, and gender roles in <i>Family Web</i>. Without doubt, her poetry carries strength and grace, along with oodles of latent passion. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I collaborated with Maeve on work which gained publication in <a href="https://beirbuajournal.files.wordpress.com/2021/02/issue-2-15.pdf" target="_blank">Beir Bua</a> and <a href="https://www.crowofminerva.com/poetry/2021/11/4/q197j06w4bc5qoodsy4a8xijq97tb8" target="_blank">Crow of Minerva</a>. <i>A Dedication to Drowning</i> will be launched on Friday, 18th February at 7.30 pm with an introduction by poet and creative writing coach Anne Tannam. Tickets for the online launch can be found <a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/launch-for-a-dedication-to-drowning-by-maeve-mckenna-tickets-249315518427" target="_blank">here</a> on eventbrite. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-55209190569176573162022-01-26T16:09:00.000+00:002022-01-26T16:09:42.782+00:00Australia Day 2022 Picturing the Old People<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nHRqWJQx2RM/YfFBe52OMjI/AAAAAAAAJTE/Sb5RbGnG__A_q_EIzf4RexCUU6m9aHBHgCNcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="239" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nHRqWJQx2RM/YfFBe52OMjI/AAAAAAAAJTE/Sb5RbGnG__A_q_EIzf4RexCUU6m9aHBHgCNcBGAsYHQ/w239-h320/image.png" width="239" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>from <a href="https://www.artgallery.nsw.gov.au/collection/works/245.2009.a-f/" target="_blank">Picturing the Old People</a>, <a href="https://knowmyname.nga.gov.au/events/genevieve-grieves/" target="_blank">Genevieve Grieves</a></i></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">I
wrote this poem after visiting GOMA on a trip to Brisbane. The original blog
post is </span><a href="http://orlafay.blogspot.com/2012/07/picturing-old-people.html" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">here</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">.
Reviewing it I made a couple of adjustments. I found these words by the artist
and reflected on my own interpretation of the installation.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">You
can never control how people will interpret your work. I’ve had comments about
my work that are so far from what I was intending, it continues to surprise me.
Each viewer’s life experiences affect the way they see your work. For example,
when I did Picturing the old people, a video installation based on
archival photographs of Aboriginal people, someone said to me “isn’t it sad
that Aboriginal people were forced to wear European clothes”. I was shocked,
because what I was intending, and worked hard to show, was how well Aboriginal
people had adapted to and existed inside this new culture which was forced upon
them – I was trying to show their resilience and acceptance. I had not intended
to reinforce the idea of Aboriginal people as victims – in fact, the
documentation shows that Aboriginal people were required to look ‘more
Aboriginal’ for these studio photos than they really were.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">So
my job as facilitator and my intention as storyteller is to shift the
framework, and using the artefacts of colonialism allows me, and a bunch of
other Indigenous artists, to inscribe new meanings on the work. It brings
voice.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">You
know, art is a weapon and its strength lies in its ability to disturb, to
disrupt and to combat racist sentiment. – Genevieve Grieves, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from <a href="https://mgnsw.org.au/articles/home-genevieve-grieves/">https://mgnsw.org.au/articles/home-genevieve-grieves/</a></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Picturing
the Old People<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">After
Genevieve Grieves, GOMA Brisbane, August 2012</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">From Victorian England of rural innocence</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I travel to Paris with Pissarro, and on<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">to past masterpieces of the Prado.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then, everything European is left<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">in its sphere, set<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">floating adrift…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Humidity and sunlight deaden <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">marshmallow flowers turned to cream,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">toasted upon wilting at the bottom<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">of the display by the pool<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">separating one building<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">from another.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">On the second floor they dance, Aboriginal:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">angry, proud, utterly captivating,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">made to pose and shot.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Polarized and stilled,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">in time’s eye<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I seem bereft.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Orla Fay<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p></div>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4982324182901026642.post-40109779736120451892022-01-15T21:45:00.001+00:002022-01-15T21:48:31.184+00:00Let freedom ring... After Marin Luther King Jr.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oc8vhhai76w/YeNBAr3j39I/AAAAAAAAJR8/TiGPhoMgqgoRn_GjvJQnmtq3NerK3gKmgCNcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oc8vhhai76w/YeNBAr3j39I/AAAAAAAAJR8/TiGPhoMgqgoRn_GjvJQnmtq3NerK3gKmgCNcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="160" /></a></div>Martin Luther King Jr.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vP4iY1TtS3s" width="320" youtube-src-id="vP4iY1TtS3s"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I Have a Dream </i>Martin Luther King, August 28 1963</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>“Let freedom ring…”</b></div><div><i>After Martin Luther King Jr.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>His words in 1963 painted across wireless,</div><div>from Belfast to Johannesburg, Berlin to Palestine,</div><div>China to the U.S.S.R, as urgently, widely dreamed</div><div>as in those places in the United States</div><div>he sung to: Mississippi, Alabama, South Carolina,</div><div>Georgia, New York, Tennessee, and California.</div><div>Wherever bondage, or oppression clung</div><div>his vision realised a glimmer of hope</div><div>to the despairing, promised the rainbow, </div><div>sun on the shaded side of the mountain. </div><div>Echoes of gunshot shook walls that fell,</div><div>waking from sleep the conscience </div><div>of those who knew they could do better.</div><div>Could the dreamer, the idealist, the peace maker</div><div>overcome still engulfing troubles?</div><div>There is violence in quests for power</div><div>that offer the ego its addictive, quick fix, </div><div>but no lasting salve to the pierced heart, </div><div>the wingless flight of the caged bird.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Orla Fay</i></b></div><div><br /></div><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Orla Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793698838699811789noreply@blogger.com0