March Wind The wind comes downwith a rush and a roarlike a locomotive going all out,chugging to a 6/8 beat,trailing cyclonic clouds of smoke,coupling rods flailing,whistle a deranged shriek.Why does spring ha…

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Red Writing Hood by Lesh Karan The sky is moon, pushes and pulls the sea within. Eclipsed by something like desire, she slips into her red identity, a basket tucked beneath. She weave-walks, parts the brambled path towards the f…

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Sixth Bell by Frances Horne He washes up upon the shore, that blue man, waxen in the printer’s trowel of harbour light. A wedding pumps on the waterfront, a limo driver smokes and blows his rings at bats, and he who looks so …

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The Armenian Language Is the Home of the Armenian by Moushegh Ishkhan The Armenian language is the home and haven where the wanderer can own roof and wall and nourishment. He can enter to find love and pride, locking the hyena and the storm outside. For centuries its…

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Blouse by Nithy Kasa Mother had a blouse. It was mauve with puff-sleeves. Roped shoulders with pads under. The collar Peter Pan. The style of the forties. They stitched Devil’s Ivies on the breasts like purple hearts. …

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A Toast by Eric Weil I learned a man who’d persecuted me Is dead. The crime, once old and stowed away, Returned so fresh, it’s all that I can see: His grinning face and bullet eyes, all day. He was my boss, of course; …

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The Freeze by Christian Ward The Big Freeze of 1963 turned London into an open-air museum. Foxes, caught in a taxidermist’s pose, frozen in suspended animation. Geese locked in cloud vaults. Blackbirds glued to lawns. Trees ha…

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Songs of the Sea by Eleanor Hooker At Kilmore town ancient carols are sung, legend says the sea will drown their town. Casting stones into the sea is wrong, storm-crested waves drag silent sail down. Legend says the sea will drown t…

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Aqua Vitae by Aoife Griffin Lyall I know when you’ve had enough. Sprawled across my lap, I heave you to your feet and lay you on my chest to sleep it off. One unfocused eye stretches open, stares in my direction, before your …

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Alchemy by Peter Cluskey Mixing colours is a form of alchemy This evening the green corridor of trees lies back incurious as a single magpie brings me sorrows unspecified. The future is hedging its bets in the twilight. fo…

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Star Map by Harvey Aughton You can call me Or-eon My belt I left in the Greek sky For you to follow Osiris The star line from Samoa I am your way point home Under the southern cross In an oceanic boat filled with souls Built…

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Apocalypse by James Sutherland-Smith A trinity of stalks of wheatgrass, An unblown dandelion head Lean from a bottle of darkly seen through glass. A butterfly — a sort of Admiral, White, Poplar or even Red Quivers in a box reserved fo…

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I Carry the Grief for My Homeland in My Wallet Behind a Photo of My Dead Lover by Nicole Yurcaba half folded & crumpled like the ten-pound note I forgot to spend at the pub last night most days I remember it when I pull the dead lover’s photo from behind an unused credit card & the gri…

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Snow by Brian Kirk Winter played tricks on us. In the lean time after Christmas the days were short yet somehow passed very slowly. We prayed for snow or a fire at the school or the death of the President. Anything a…

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Statement to Offspring by Eithne O’Connell Strong Look, I’ll never leave you, issue of my bone: inside the marrow’s marrow tissue I am true not matter what. But I must not be your slave and do not suck my later life. I, of sweat and pa…

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Poetry weaves magic from the mundane, transforming the simple into the extraordinary.

It teaches us the art of saying much in little, distilling complex emotions into pure, poetic essence.

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The River We don’t often thinkbeside a small stream,a brook we can straddle,of the great riverin might become,the oceaninto which it might empty,flowing away clearover its pebbled bed,white fleckeddown a per…

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The Heart of Ireland by Peter Fallon Late evening in late Spring, I saddle myself to spray docks and nettles, day’s work already done. I could be playing a set of pipes, pumping bellows beneath my elbow. Late birds add grace-not…

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Embed by Sadhbh “Otto” Goodwin 350 million years old, you lie, still as a graveyard, since you are a graveyard, in some sense, the final resting place of all the creatures that laid down their tired heads on the seabed and under…

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The Leaving by Brigit Pegeen Kelly My father said I could not do it, but all night I picked the peaches. The orchard was still, the canals ran steadily. I was a girl then, my chest its own walled garden. How many ladders to gather a…

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Shifting the Sun by Diana Der Hovanessian When your father dies, say the Irish, you lose your umbrella against bad weather. May his sun be your light, say the Armenians. When your father dies, say the Welsh, you sink a foot deeper into the…

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Whoever Hates the Exile by Hovhannes Erznkatsi Whoever hates the exile is doomed to wander into strange lands until he understands the pain. Even when gold rains down in a strange place it will be a shower of ash. From: Der Hovanessian, Diana a…

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From My Ultra Top-Secret and Personal Gratitude Diary by David McGimpsey I like the way the birds fly — esp. the ones that remind me of celebrities. “Fly away oriole Donny Wahlberg — there’s no joy here!” I praise God for each sunrise and for giving me the strength to l…

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Intransigence by Eric Bliman “Time will tell whether I’ve got this wrong.” —J.K. Rowling, USA Today, 2023 But, now, she says we’re all just passing through some fad that time will teach us to outgrow, as if our lives were shap…

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Finchity by Peter Dale Scott My thoughts are like these finches that flock to the six openings of my squirrel-proof steel birdfeeder that stands in our courtyard “with a lifetime guarantee” their gold now lusterless in this la…

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