Peter O'Neill Irish Rail Dublin, that old whore, with her piss -stained pavements Abruptly transforms into a woman of a certain station. Such are the, at once, brutal and subtle shifts where In an instant, Hell aligns in an altogether strict Congruence… Like when you climb aboard The final commuter train of the week on a Friday … Read more
The prize painting in the National Gallery of Ireland is, without a doubt, Caravaggio’s depiction of The Taking of Christ. The painter presents us with an iconic image of Judas in the act of betraying Christ with the sign of a kiss, as previously arranged with Roman legionaries, who are depicted in costumes from Caravaggio’s … Read more
Poems in the Manner of the Devil After Alexandar Ristović (1933-1994) If you can’t chew on oxtail, eat knuckles instead. The bounty of bedlam, Let these crumbs be your Thanksgiving, Or Last Suppers. Imitation is always the greatest form of flattery. See the world now through the light of wine. Do you have confidence in … Read more
He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster… when you look into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you. Friedrich Nietzsche Day 1. On the question of the one against the many, as opposed to the many against the one, White was decidedly with the … Read more
Spring For Lois P. Jones I The gentle discord of rainfall, its alternating static dance are Reeds of air in suspension before the corona of sensation. A droplet splashes and trickles along your neck, its joyous grief is welcomed by you with a shudder. The courage of the leaf passes beneath the banks of … Read more
Three Poems by Charles Baudelaire IV – L’ALBATROS Souvent, pour s’amuser, les hommes d’equipage Prennent des albatross, vates oiseaux des mers, Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage, Le navire glissent sur les gouffres amers. A peien les ont-ils deposes sur les planches, Que ces rois de l’azur, maladroit et honteux, Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes … Read more
Whenever I think about Literature I think about Love. Both are written with big Ls. The Elles. Like an enjambment of run on legs, going on ad infinitum. And when I think of Love I think also, inevitably, of betrayal. One cannot be without the other; the two legs upon which humanity stands. Only in … Read more
Before a recent online poetry reading I was invited to meet with other international participants. I assumed the purpose was to gain a little insight into the other writers’ work. In fact, one of the main reasons – I was informed by our overtly gracious American host – was to establish which pronouns we would … Read more
Awarded one of the Tidiest Towns in the nation, the place was profoundly inept and utterly corrupt. Indeed disturbing, because winning the competition was proof positive that the town represented how things operated in the entire country. In terms of organisation, it was the stuff of nightmare. Everything had to go through countless committees, and … Read more
If stylistically Francesca Banciu’s latest novel translated into English Fleeing Father (Vatherflucht) is a much simpler construct than her previous incarnation, Mother’s Day – Song of a Sad Mother, it is written in the same inimitable prose, rendered beautifully by Banciu’s publisher, Catharine Nicely with Elena Mancini as translator. I was immediately reminded, on reading … Read more