Submissions Call for Issue 4 of Drawn to the Light Press

The Harvester (oil on canvas), Vincent van Gogh (1853-90)

Lughnasa blessings to all readers, a candle is lit here to welcome the season in. I learned that autumn began in August. 

August Lúnasa

September Meán Fómhair (Middle of autumn)

October Deireadh Fómhair (End of autumn)

June, July, August. Every day, we hear their laughter. I

think of the painting by van Gogh, the man in the chair.

Everything wrong, and nowhere to go. His hands over

his eyes.

from August by Mary Oliver 

The submission period for issue 4 of Drawn to the Light Press opens on Sunday, 1st August and closes on Tuesday, 31st August at midnight. Please send up to 3 poems of 40 lines or less using Times New Roman 12 font. Poems should be single spaced.

Submissions of art and photography are very welcome.

There is no set theme for submissions.

All work should be sent to orla.a.fay@gmail.com

Contributors should be 18 or older. If you have been published in the previous issue please do not submit to this issue.

#4 will be published in October 2021.

The Stairway to Heaven

Stairway to Heaven

Hello bloggers, it's been a while since I last had a heart to heart, but it's been a tough couple of months. Last week's heatwave was amazing and yesterday I climbed Cuilcagh Boardwalk Trail in Fermanagh with a good friend. It would have been easy to give up a couple of times but with endeavour and encouragement we made it to the top. It was a sweltering 26 degrees for us Irish ladies as the sun beamed down.

Today I thought of Fermanagh poets and came across an Enniskillen poem by Tadhg Dall Ó hUiginn on research. He was reacaire to the Maguire chieftains of Enniskillen. 

"The role of the poet was a unique position in Gaelic medieval society. Highly regarded, well paid, and extremely learned, they were employed by chieftains and the aristocracy. 

Court poets (ollamhs) composed poems praising their patron’s beauty, strength, hospitality and success in love and war. The poems were usually written for special occasions such as Christmas, Easter, a wedding or funeral. 

Poems were written in Classical Gaelic according to traditional rules and set imagery. They were composed in a darkened room. The poet shut himself off to draft a complete poem in his head. Only once the whole poem had been memorised, could it then be written down."

 from Enniskillen Poem...

Long ere ever I came to the white-walled rampart amongst

the blue hillocks it seemed to me if I could reach that house

 I should lack nothing. 

I heard, alas for me that heard it, such repute of the fairy

 castle of surpassing treasure, and how my beguilement was

in store, that it was impossible to turn me back from it.

 I proceed on my way, I reach Enniskillen of the overhanging

 oaks; through the fair plain of bending, fruit-laden stems I

 was in no wise loth to approach it.

 Tadhg Dall Ó hUiginn (1550 - 1591)

On a completely separate note, I thought I'd give a shout out to the Spice Girls whose single Wannabe went to number 1 in July 1996, 25 years ago! My next task is to distinguish between the 'file' and 'reacaire', 'poet' and 'reciter'...apparently there's a lady who knows...

Southword 41

 

I was recently delighted to have a poem accepted for Southword 41, to be published in October. I've wanted to have a poem in Southword for many years. Thanks to Patrick Cotter and the Munster Literature Centre. 

New Poetry Chapbook Project

 

Sincere thanks to Meath County Council Arts Office and Creative Ireland for recently awarding me a professional artists development fund for the production of a new poetry chapbook. It has a working title of What Became of the Horses? I hope to release it towards the end of the year.

Two Haiku for May

 

What does the sea know?

Journeys do not end,

Life is the present river.

The apple blossoms of May

Make such tender poems,

Preludes to autumn.

The Forgotten Farm

Another ekphrastic poem based on a Greg Hasting's drawing, and memory. More of  Greg's work featuring poetry from Michael Farry, Marian Kilcoyne, Maureen Gallagher and Luke Power can be seen on his Instagram page @greghastings1066, here.

The Forgotten Farm

 

Birds chatter, a thrush jumps

up to peck raspberries,

later alighting on the flowerbed,

quickly poops yellow shit,

eyes me slyly like an alligator,

then flits away.

 

Some children play in grey distance,

calling, shouting, as we did.

A tractor pauses in throttle,

chugs on into the evening.

Roses are eruptions, impressive

by the white-washed shed.

 

The milking parlour’s gable window

is black as the universe.

I see my father through it, thirty years ago.

The Friesians are lined up

with pumps on their udders.

I pat their black and white hide.

 

They swish tails, swat flies away, chew the cud.

Milk churns in the tank, cooling.

A bee settles on a barren rose.

The children are outside again.

As the sun sets, dreadful loneliness,

like a strangling weed, grips my throat

 

before a million silver stars appear.

 

Orla Fay

The Wormwood Doll

Once again I was delighted to collaborate with Greg Hasting, this time on a piece of magical realism. Greg can be found on Instagram @greghastings1066.  

Sketch of Wood Greg Hastings

The Wormwood Doll

 

There is a glitch in time, a slicing of space,

from which she pulls the dancer – ballerina pirouettes

on the music box to Brahms, then retires

to the forest-floor-lullaby, sleeping beauty.

 

Only the full moon can rouse her from this realm,

opaline cuts through fern canopy, splices ground,

quickens a dawn, blush veins and the earth’s vines

relax, release, return the nymph to the glowing path.

 

She flickers between worlds. Dreamt. Real.

An act of manifestation. Deeper the journey

to come out the other side, where on waking

she will dress, brush her teeth, comb her hair.

 

Orla Fay