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The pen is always heavy, when it’s months since you lifted it. The weight of the space left behind undressed, unaddressed. Time without colour, days without commas, seconds stripped asunder, drunk on the spirit of everlasting full stops. ——— This pen has a cough, the sign of an infected life lived as if there was no editor round the corner waiting.…
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Sluggish Dawn Waking is such sweet joy, my friend, Crumpled sheets and well-worn pillows The body warm and snug. A gentle lift-off with a push A right-hand palm, the door to a well-known pit, into the landscape of a fragile core. Nostalgia for the sweet touch of night Gone the face of slumbered satisfaction. Welcome back marauded morn Enough, enoug…
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I will remember the year. Ukraine survived Rasputin's curse. Moscow central: tanks, troops, terror into houses, homes, hospitals into schools, shops, ships amputating the land obeying the command of Grendel's cabal. I will never forget my ignorance - how my faith led me to trust Mother Russia, Gorbachov's legacy, seduction by MacDonalds, and the ga…
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Derek Mahon (23 November 1941 – 1 October 2020) an Irish poet, was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Paul O'Mahony reads A Garage in Co. Cork BY DEREK MAHON Surely you paused at this roadside oasis In your nomadic youth, and saw the mound Of never-used cement, the curious faces, The soft-drink ads and the uneven ground Rainbowed with oily puddles,…
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