FREE Poetry Film Competition


Here’s O’Bhéal’s lovely little poetry film competition that I URGE you to support. The competition is FREE! You have about eight weeks before the deadline. Why not have a go at portraying your poem – or someone else’s – visually?

Here’s the blurb on their website:
2018 is Ó Bhéal’s ninth year screening International poetry-films, and sixth year featuring this competition. Up to thirty films will be shortlisted and screened during the festival in October. One winner will receive the Indie Cork / Ó Bhéal prize for best Poetry-Film.

The festival takes place between the dates of the 7th and the 14th October, 2018.
Entry is free to anyone, and should be made via email to poetryfilm [at] – including the following info in an attached word document:
• Name and duration of Film
• Name of director
• Country of origin
• Contact details
• Name of Poet
• Name of Poem
• Synopsis
• Filmmaker biography
• and a Link to download a high-resolution version of the film.

You may submit as many entries as you like. Films must interpret, or convey a poem which must be present in its entirety, having been completed no earlier than August 2016. They may not exceed 10 minutes in duration. Non-English language films will require English subtitles. The final shortlist will be announced here during September.

Shortlisted films also appear in Ó Bhéal’s poetry-film touring programme, at a number of film and literary festivals, to date including the Clare Island Film Festival, Belfast Film Festival, Stanzas in Limerick, the Cyclops festival in Kiev, Poemaria in Vigo and at the Madeira Literary Festival (2018). Shortlisted entries are also screened throughout the year from Ó Bhéal’s competition shortlist archive (in random), at the start of each Ó Bhéal poetry evening.
This year’s entries are judged by filmaker Oonagh Kearney and poet Anamaria Crowe Serrano.
The submission deadline is August 15th, 2018.

Tied to the Wind

So, my next book has gone to the printers! It’s a hybrid in terms of genre, and my biggest book yet, at 327 pages. Here’s a lovely endorsement from Mia Gallagher:

Afric McGlinchey’s long-form debut steals beguilingly across the spiderweb between poetry, memoir and novel, offering an exquisitely rendered narrative of a young, hurting, growing life. Lush, sensitive, harrowing, gloriously written. 
   — Mia Gallagher, Beautiful Pictures of the Lost Homeland

And here’s a blurb, for more of an inkling:

Tied to the Wind doesn’t pretend to present a cohesive picture of a life. It’s an auto-fictional rendering of a childhood, where the Irish-born protagonist (named Itosha) finds her family moving  to, and then from, Zambian sunshine, to a situation of financial deprivation back in Ireland, followed by a change in fortunes, then another move to war-torn pre-independent Zimbabwe. Context is slowly drip-fed through fragments. But the implicit impressions concerning power and privilege reveal the complexities faced by this infuriatingly passive half-innocent trying to understand something of the world she inhabits.

If anyone would like to review it, please get hold of me. Meanwhile, it’s available for pre-order here:

Hum, Hum by Mary Oliver

One summer afternoon I heard
a looming, mysterious hum
high in the air; then came something

like a small planet flying past –

not at all interested in me but on its own
way somewhere, all anointed with excitement:
bees, swarming,

not to be held back.

Nothing could hold them back.

Gannets diving.
Black snake wrapped in a tree, our eyes

The grass singing
as it sipped up the summer rain.
The owl in the darkness, that good darkness
under the stars.

The child that was myself, that kept running away
to the also running creek, 
to colt’s foot and trilliams,
to the effortless prattle of the birds.

You are going to grow up
and in order for that to happen
I am going to have to grow old
and then I will die, and the blame 
will be yours.

He wanted a body
so he took mine.
Some wounds never vanish.

Yet little by little 
I learned to love my life.

Though sometimes I had to run hard –
especially from melancholy –

not to be held back.

I think there ought to be 
a little music here:
hum, hum.

The resurrection of the morning.
The mystery of the night.
The hummingbird’s wings.
The excitement of thunder.
The rainbow in the waterfall.
Wild mustard, that rough blaze of the fields.

The mockingbird, replaying the songs of his 
The bluebird with its unambitious warble
simple yet sufficient.

The shining fish. The beak of the crow.
The new colt who came to me and leaned
against the fence
that I might put my hands upon his warm body
and know no fear.

Also the words of poets
a hundred or hundreds of years dead — 
their words that would not be held back.

Oh the house of denial has thick walls
and very small windows
and whoever lives there, little by little,
will turn to stone.

In those years I did everything I could do 
and I did it in the dark –
I mean, without understanding.

I ran away.
I ran away again.
Then, again, I ran away.

They were awfully little, those bees,
and maybe frightened,
yet unstoppably they flew on, somewhere,
to live their life.

Hum, hum, hum

Aristotle by Billy Collins

This is the beginning. 
Almost anything can happen. 
This is where you find 
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land, 
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page. 
Think of an egg, the letter A, 
a woman ironing on a bare stage 
as the heavy curtain rises. 
This is the very beginning. 
The first-person narrator introduces himself, 
tells us about his lineage. 
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings. 
Here the climbers are studying a map 
or pulling on their long woolen socks. 
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn. 
The profile of an animal is being smeared 
on the wall of a cave, 
and you have not yet learned to crawl. 
This is the opening, the gambit, 
a pawn moving forward an inch. 
This is your first night with her, 
your first night without her. 
This is the first part 
where the wheels begin to turn, 
where the elevator begins its ascent, 
before the doors lurch apart.

This is the middle. 
Things have had time to get complicated, 
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore. 
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers 
teeming with people at cross-purposes— 
a million schemes, a million wild looks. 
Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack 
here and pitches his ragged tent. 
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals, 
where the action suddenly reverses 
or swerves off in an outrageous direction. 
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph 
to why Miriam does not want Edward’s child. 
Someone hides a letter under a pillow. 
Here the aria rises to a pitch, 
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge. 
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge 
halfway up the mountain. 
This is the bridge, the painful modulation. 
This is the thick of things. 
So much is crowded into the middle— 
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados, 
Russian uniforms, noisy parties, 
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall— 
too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end, 
the car running out of road, 
the river losing its name in an ocean, 
the long nose of the photographed horse 
touching the white electronic line. 
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade, 
the empty wheelchair, 
and pigeons floating down in the evening. 
Here the stage is littered with bodies, 
the narrator leads the characters to their cells, 
and the climbers are in their graves. 
It is me hitting the period 
and you closing the book. 
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen 
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck. 
This is the final bit 
thinning away to nothing. 
This is the end, according to Aristotle, 
what we have all been waiting for, 
what everything comes down to, 
the destination we cannot help imagining, 
a streak of light in the sky, 
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.

The Island, a Prospect by Paula Meehan

We learned that Ireland was a temperate island
from our first geography books, the climate mild,
the gulf stream a blessing that saved us from freezing
though we live at the same latitude as Moscow.
And the child I was found that word disappointing,
no earthquakes, hurricanes, typhoons, volcanoes, floods.
Temperate! A dreary wet city Sunday sound.
I took to astral travel out the school window,
lift-off on the storied wings of myth and legend,
and bitter tales of landlords and emigration,
of plantation, rebellion, famine and ruin.
They offered us a trope of the traumatised nation.
They made us feel the land had failed us. They bludgeoned
us with shame, left us lost, fearing our own shadows.
I grew up. I roved out in blue britches of denim.
I walked the roads. I slept in ditches. I fell in love
with a mountain tarn. Its black eye mirrored the stars.
The island took hold of me: ice-sculpted valleys,
glacial erratics, moraine, esker, bog, karst,
her meadows, her rivers; and beamed down from above
Planet Earth – our grave mother as seen from the moon.
The mitochondrial tug of eternity,
that slow pulse of evolutionary regard
from deep within the ancient reptilian brain,
seat of instinct; from such a critical distance,
my neo-aboriginal imagination
must dream new endings, must fashion prophetic words
fearing they’ll not be heard by our posterity.
Can we trust the visions teeming in the hours of trance,
knowing art is toxic (little arrows of guilt!) –
cadmium, chromium, cobalt, magnesium, lead?
To make paper is to make poison, no hand’s clean.
All our craft work, all our magic, this we trade:
for bee music, music of otter, hare, kite, stoat,
the gold-nebbed blackbird’s blissful song of happenstance.
Last week I walked to Feltrim in the pouring rain,
considered the redundant nature of its name –
Faoldroim, from the Irish, means Ridge of the Wolves.
The wolves are long extinct and half gone is the ridge,
(its requiem the thud and blast of explosive)
limestone lorried away to serve that beast, the boom,
the turbo cycle over and over again.
High on Feltrim Hill Nathaniel Hone loved to sketch
Lambay and Ireland’s Eye, the wild coastal fractals;
and Samuel Beckett’s favourite view was downwards
to Saint Ita’s psychiatric hospital
You’re on Earth. There’s no cure for that … our human span
an eyeblink. To save the world is not so simple
as to mine an ocean for each salt tear we’ve wept.

Paula Meehan

Why You Should Never Marry a Poet by Heather Bell

Think about it – the way that credit cards, bougainvillea,
vacations, dictionaries, the road on the way to work will

all never be enough. The poet wishes
with her deepest bones
and writes that she wishes
she had killed you

in the supermarket. She wonders why
she ever loved you in song. 

She publishes book after book. Each line detailing
how your hair is ugly and monstrous in the morning. And how,
like moss, you cling to her
so piteously. 

But you marry her anyway.
and she looks like a roar of snow
in white. You figure she will read a poem about you
that day in front of everyone: her throat

is, after all, a stamen
or matchstick. 

But she is silent, says only the I DO’s
and a few Bible verses. 

The poet loves with a most violent
heart. What you have not known-
she has wanted to tell you the truth
all of these years,

but grew silent as an old lover does
at eighty. There is no way to say

how one loves the ache of your cracked lips,
the heavy belly of your tongue, the years she spent
feeling not loved,
but still loving. Think about it-

the poet is fearful of others knowing and finding your mouth.

She is frightened of you –
realizing you could have been
loved better or harder
or with real words.

Previously published in @Tender

Eliot weather today….

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
               And should I then presume?
               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
               “That is not it at all,
               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

One of my all-time favourite poems.

Insights from the Don Share masterclass at the Molly Keane Writers’ Retreat

In honour of this being the last day of Don Share’s editorship of Poetry Magazine, I thought I’d repost these valuable insights he gave at a workshop at the Molly Keane Writer’s Retreat in Ireland.

Poem as Totem

Don Share 2

I was lucky enough to be one of fourteen poets to get a place on the three-day Masterclass with Don Share at the magical Molly Keane Writers’ Retreat in Ardmore. I have dozens of pages of notes, but this is a glimpse into some of the insights he offered. Yes, we know many of these things already, but it’s good to be reminded. And this is Don Share – if we pay attention, we might just get into Poetry Magazine one day.

The first thing Don looks at is the shape of the poem on a page. If it has sections, do the sections help? He likes names rather than pronouns. Names are striking things, he says. They can do a lot in a poem. Look at the etymology of words. What does Inchigeela mean? A place name becomes imbued with the qualities of its history. Be curious. Don’t just…

View original post 1,515 more words

This Is What I Know by Mukoma Wa Ngugi

*For LGBT Africans

I know that Black people were sold as slaves because they were seen as
talking beasts of burden and Africans colonized for their own good;
and it was unnatural for women to operate heavy machinery let alone
operate on a brain.

I know that in the United States, Jim Crow used the rope to keep
black from white, and apartheid in South Africa killed for as little
as looking across the color line; and that intermarrying between the
races was a crime against God, Queen, and Country.

I know that a God of many names, the laws of many lands, science
and nature were used to justify slavery and colonialism, holocausts
and genocides, rapes and lynching.

I know that African dictators called those who fought for democracy
“puppets under the pay of foreign masters” and the foreign masters
called those same people communists and insurgents.

And this I know very well: that had the Sojourner Truths, Dedan
Kimathis, Martin Luther Kings, Malcom Xs, and Ruth Firsts failed,
my wife and I would not have crossed the color line and my daughter
would not have been possible.

I know that she, just like her mother and me, just like her
grandparents, will have her struggles, but it will BE a struggle waged
at the crossroad of many cultures and worlds.

So I must know that those before me did not die so that I could use
my freedom to put others in jail; or use the same laws that betrayed
them to enslave and torture.

I must know that if Steve Biko died so I could write what I like, then
my pen cannot become the weapon that justifies the torture and
murder of others.

How then can I not know that no one appointed me protector of
African cultural purity? How can I not know that I am not the
standard of all that is moral and natural?

What fortress is this I build that subjugates those within and keeps
those outside under siege? Whose moral law is this I use to judge?

Whose legal system to jail? Whose weapon to murder? And whose
tongue do I use to silence?

How can I, Black and African and blessed as I am by the struggles of
my fathers and mothers deny my gay brothers and sisters their rights?

To The Woman Crying in the Airport Lounge by Kim Dhillon

Browsing on a different topic entirely threw up this poem. Hope it stops you the way it stopped me.

 after Kim Addonizio

It will get easier that baby kicking you on the inside will come out through your own strength on the backs of grandmothers and shoulders of giants into hands of midwives and it will fight sleep wean off your breast or off a bottle (it doesn’t matter) and give you sleepless nights to the point you forget days and weeks in blackness of memory and it will fight with that brother who is currently running between gates to Portland and gates to Los Angeles past the line to the coffee barista because he is too tired to sleep too hungry to eat going dizzy from the fluorescent lights and he is screaming and wailing and you sit on the floor of the airport lounge and hold your head in your hands and cry like him who is lying there and refusing to get up and banging his fists into the floor.

The gate steward calls Miss, final call, and you say you have no more calls within you because you are too tired to speak so a circle of women waiting for their respective planes who do not know each other or know you will form a circle around you.

One will offer an orange from her purse one will hum a nursery rhyme one will offer you a bottle of unopened water that she had saved for her own flight one will find a toy and another will just kneel quietly and in that circle the toddler will calm and you will board your flight. So will they too disband like the end of a farewell concert of a reunion tour. But there will be no encore your child will take flight as will you as will the one in your belly and you’ll go home saying, ‘listen I love you, joy is coming.’

Kim Dhillon

Stroke by Matthew Dickman

This poem really struck me, because I have a close friend who’s just had a stroke, in his fifties. I believe Matthew Dickman was only in his early forties when this happened to him. I wanted to know what it felt like and Matthew is forensic about how his body and brain felt, so now I have a sense of what my friend is experiencing. This poem first appeared in Rattle.

The hotel sign blinking
in the brain

of my body
stops blinking but not

the whole sign,
you know, just a couple

of the letters,
the H and T.

Then the E and L
so all that is left

when the whole left
side of my body

comes to an end
is the O.

I am sitting across
from a beautiful

woman, drinking coffee,
and she is asking

me what I did.
What were you doing

when you were
in your twenties,

she asks.
And I am

saying something like
I was doing

a lot of drugs
but the words

come out all slurred,
they come out

like pushing your tongue
through a clay door,

the word drug
becoming droog.

And then free-will
floats up and out,

really it flies, it leaps
off the ledge of me,

and I remember
while falling

from my chair
to the ground, trying

to apologize.
The half of my brain

that was still
alive, as alive as

a deer
standing in a meadow

in the morning
licking dew off

the blades of grass,
telling what was left

of me that I was just

You’re just tired
the left side

of my brain said,
you’re just tired,

this is normal.
The normal not normal

blood clot
in the right side

of my brain
wiping everything

away like a teacher
wiping chalk away

with an eraser,
the blackboard

full of signs and cosines
and then just long

strokes of white,
a white field in winter,

a white sky
before rain. A white

sheet of paper.
Through the tunnel

of my body
I could hear someone

ask me
are you ok?

My whole life someone
asking me,

and so often it was me,
are you ok,

are you feeling well?
I’m just tired,

I thought.And then this
thought: I’m not.

A hand on the hand
I could still feel.

They are coming,
the voice said,

it’s ok,
you will be ok.

The sound then
of the ambulance

from far off.
The sirens getting

closer, lights
and sirens approaching

my body
from a street far off.

That’s something
I never thought of

That sirens are always

a body, that’s the whole

reason for them,
to let everyone know

there is a body.
I thought of my son

at home,
seventeen months old,

pointing to the window
in the living room,

siren, siren,

siren,and up, up, up.
I was lifted up

onto the gurney,
my shirt cut off

in the ambulance,
and arriving

at the hospital,
the triage nurse

are you Matthew Dickman.

Yes. Up, up, up,I thought.

is not a design,
not an idea.

Death is the body,
I know

this now, it’s your arms
and legs,

your whole cardio
vascular system.

It is the whole of us,
only we walk around

enough to think
it isn’t.

The blood clot is doing
its job,

it’s doing exactly what
it was made to do

and the only thing you
need to do

when you are dying
is to die.

Nothing else.
You don’t need to

fold the laundry
or clean

the kitchen floor,
you don’t have to

pick your children up
from school.

the rest of your life,

there is only this one

You don’t even
have to be good at it,

you just have to
do it. A list of chores

with just one
chore. In the operating

room I’m awake,made
to stay awake,

while the surgeon
threads a “line”

through the artery
in my groin

and up through all
the rooms, through

the room of my legs,
and the room

of my chest,
through the room

of my neck
and into the room

of my brain.
When I put my son

to bed I give him
a bottle of milk,

and rock him and sing,
it’s time to rest your body,

it’s time to rest
your mind,it’s time,

oh it’s time
to rest your brains.

The surgeon is able
to grab the clot

and slip it through
and out

of all the rooms,
into the one

he’s working in.
I can hear everyone

in the operating
room clapping

because they
are happy,

because it took
that one try

to get it all,
to remove

the clot, and then
the left side of me

begins to move again,
and there it is,

I have to pee,
my body is done

with this death.
And now there is nothing

to do but wait
for the next death.

I have never been more
inside than that

moment. I have never
wanted anything

as much as I wanted
to stand up

in that room
and walk out through

the automatic
doors to you,

to walk right into
your arms

like walking
into the sea.

Matthew Dickman: ‘When I suffered a stroke in April 2018, I wasn’t sure that I would write poems again. Of course I could physically write a poem. I was lucky that I was in a public place when the stroke occurred and got help right away. It’s just that mentally I felt lost and alone and angry. But with any of the trauma I have experienced in my life it was always poetry that called me back to myself, back to the world—even if that world had changed dramatically. This poem was a calling back.’