MORE THAN THIS
MORE THAN THIS
Poetry journals appear and disappear. So I thought I’d compile a list of all the ones currently active on the island of Ireland. If you see that any are missing, please leave me a comment, and I’ll amend. I’m not including those published once a year, with winning competition poems. I’d love opinions on which you think have charisma, are outrageous or cutting edge, or excellent, or who are not keeping up with the times. The ones with the best covers and visual art, like this one, from Spontaneity’s latest issue:
What are your favourites? Would love you to add your comments below.
So, here’s the list:
Abridged http://abridgedonline.com/ Beautiful product. Online and print journal, based in the North (but we’re being inclusive here!) Besides, they’ve taken poems of mine, so they’re right up there in my estimation!
A New Ulster https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/ The editor, Amos Grieg, hopes that this journal ‘will act as a reflection of the changing times in which we live in and grant you the reader a doorway into other worlds of the imagination.’ The journal appears monthly and has been in publication since September 2012.
Banshee Literary Journal http://bansheelit.tumblr.com/ A gorgeous new journal, with three editors who are happening writers themselves: Laura Jane Cassidy, Eimear Ryan and Claire Hennessy. They have taken poems of mine. And they pay! Going places.
Bare Hands anthology http://barehandspoetry.tumblr.com/post/139858526498 This one went into hibernation for a bit, but it’s back! Isn’t it, Kerrie O’Brien? Another sparkling journal. Bit like herself.
Blowing Raspberries http://www.blowingraspberries.org/submissions/ New journal from N.I. that is accepting both published and unpublished poetry – with a nom de plume! Obviously, with such a title, they’re looking for stuff that is upbeat, irreverent, dark but not bleak. Have fun with this one.
Boyne Berries http://boyneberries.blogspot.ie/ This journal came out of a writers’ group and has grown legs since.
Burning Bush 2 https://issuu.com/burningbush2 A good reputation, but went underground for a bit. Had work in this. But not sure if it’s still happening.
Cork Literary Review http://www.bradshawbooks.com/cork-literary-review/A quality journal, published annually. I never see submission calls for this, and have never been in it. Maybe the editor invites submissions only.
Crannóg http://www.crannogmagazine.com/ A dynamic journal, one of the first to publish a poem of mine, so I have a soft spot! And they pay.
Cyphers http://www.cyphers.ie/ An esteemed print journal, edited by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, Macdara Woods – and Leland Bardwell. A veteran, but a feisty one! One to aim for. And yes! I have a poem in the next issue. They pay.
Dublin Poetry Review http://dublinpoetryreview.com/section2-issue22/88-editors/162-issue-22-c Flattered that they published a poem of mine alongside Jane Hirshfield! Has numerous ‘executive’ guest editors from around the world. Not keen on the layout or masthead, but interested to see where this one goes. Started by Emmanuel Jakpah, who is based in Ireland. One of the Irish editors is Elaine Feeney.
FourXFour http://www.poetryni.com/fourxfour.html A quarterly online journal of new poetry from Northern Ireland, committed to highlighting the up-and-comings. Edited by Colin Dardis.
Gorse http://gorse.ie/ Haven’t sent work to this one yet, but looks interesting. Essays, interviews, fiction, poetry. Curated by Christodoulos Makris.
Icarus http://www.icarusmagazine.com/home Another one I don’t know, but will look into – can’t resist the name! Connected to Trinity University. The editorial team is currently headed by Dean McHugh.
Idler http://www.idler.ie A brand new journal, just started this year. Promises ‘regularly updated fresh, engaging, thought provoking and entertaining writing, including stories, poems and essays.’ The editor is Barbara Clinton. Although there’s no pay, Idler provides a link back to the writer’s own blog or website.
Irish Pages http://www.irishpages.org/submissions.php
Based in Belfast. Editor is Chris Agee. I haven’t sent work to this journal yet, but it’s well-regarded.
Outburst http://www.outburstmagazine.com/ A journal that’s beginning to get on its feet after some hit-and-miss issues with unfortunate formatting. Editor is Arthur Broomfield.
Panning for Poems http://www.poetryni.com/panning-for-poems.html A new micro-poetry print and online journal, edited by Geraldine O’Kane, based in the North. Nice to have an outlet for those tiny poems.
Poethead https://poethead.wordpress.com/ An excellent poetry blog by Christine Murray, who is compiling a valuable and extensive index of women poets. Great resource, and influential.
Poetry Ireland Review http://www.poetryireland.ie/writers/submission-to-pir/ The ‘journal of record’ in Irish poetry. You’re on the official literary radar once you’ve managed to get work between these pages. Current editor is Vona Groarke, who is shaking things up a little. Looking forward to her issue on the Rising poets – thrilled that I am included! They pay contributors.
Sixteen http://sixteen.ie/ ‘Stab me with your dreadful words.’ A new online journal, started specially for the commemoration year. Rising prompts. Archive photographs give a wonderful atmosphere. And they’ve taken my work! Edited by Simon Lewis.
Skylight 47 https://skylight47poetry.wordpress.com/ ‘Possibly Ireland’s most interesting publication’. Based in Galway. Current editors: Bernie Crawford, Nicki Griffin, Marie Cadden and Ruth Quinlan. Interesting, newspaper-style journal. They published a glowing review of my first collection, and also some poems, so I have a crush!
Southword https://southword.submittable.com/submit The best online journal to be in! Easy to navigate, a history of all your submissions, reviews etc on your page. Updated bios and pics. It’s a great archive and resource for all poets/scouts. Cork-based, connected to the Gregory O’Donoghue international poetry competition. Rotating editors. Current editor is Matthew Sweeney. They pay contributors.
Spontaneity http://spontaneity.org/issue-9/haunts/ A delicious new journal, curated by Ruth McKee. Ekphrastic responses to visual art. This one’s going to get better and better.
Stanzas http://stanzas.ie/Upcoming/ Connected to the Stanzas festival in Limerick, curated by Shane Vaughan, this is a monthly ‘chapbook’, looking for poems, graphics and stories. They welcome work by newcomers.
Stony Thursday http://www.writing.ie/guest-blogs/submissions-for-stony-thursday/ An annual anthology from Limerick. It doesn’t seem to have an online website. I have had work published in this, but found out about it via writing.ie, a very useful website.
The Bohemyth http://thebohemyth.com/ Based in Dublin, editor is Michael Naghten Shanks. I don’t know much about this one yet, but it’s a quarterly online journal, publishing poetry, fiction, photography, essays. It also has links to interesting Irish and international journals and publishers. Here you go: http://thebohemyth.com/links/
The Brain of Forgetting http://www.brainofforgetting.com/ A gorgeous, Cork-based journal, curated by Bernadette McCarthy, who has a PhD in archaeology. Wonderfully-named, The Brain of Forgetting ‘provides a forum for writing and artwork that relates to heritage and memory.’ Thrilled to have work in this journal.
The Dublin Review https://thedublinreview.com/ The Irish Times called this ‘a world-class forum for the literary essay.’ A quarterly magazine of essays, memoir, travel writing, criticism, fiction and reportage. Founded and edited by Brendan Barrington, it is highly regarded. Published in book format and is assisted by The Arts Council of Ireland. (I bet they pay.)
The Galway Review http://thegalwayreview.com/ ‘Committed to excellence in the extraordinary art of the written word.’ Not familiar with this journal, but as it’s based in my the city of my birth, must check it out! A number of editors.
The Honest Ulsterman http://humag.co/ Connected to the Verbal Arts Centre in Derry. Don’t know much about this long-standing journal at all, but big names are mentioned in the February issue. Wish the website was a little more aesthetic. But they have poetry, prose, an ‘observatory’ and promise a podcast.
The Incubator https://theincubatorjournal.com/submissions/ ‘We do not know until the shell breaks what kind of egg we have been sitting on.’ — T.S. Eliot. Well. Got to try that! Issues alternate fiction and poetry, flash fiction and memoir.
The Irish Examiner http://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle/artsfilmtv/the-tuesday-poem-in-the-pub-many-voices-322604.html Patrick Cotter of the Munster Literature Centre selects poems to publish in the Tuesday Poems. Not sure if you can submit. But they pay.
The Irish Literary Review http://irishliteraryreview.com/index.html Haven’t submitted yet, but I will. Clean. Classy.
The Irish Times http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/poetry The new home for Hennessy New Irish Writing, with a chance to be shortlisted for the coveted Hennessy awards. And they pay contributors.
The Moth Magazine http://www.themothmagazine.com/ Associated with the Ballymaloe poetry competition, and includes artwork. Considered one of the most tasteful journals around. Another one to aspire to. Glad I’ve had work published here.
The Penny Dreadful http://thepennydreadful.org/ ‘It does not have stars in its weeping eyes nor a particularly idealistic soul. There is only the void.’ Editors are John Keating and Marc O’Connell. I’m working on getting the stars out of my eyes so I can get IN to this damn journal! Although they did accept my review of Kimberly Campanello’s collection…
The Pickled Body http://thepickledbody.com/ Editors are Dimitra Xidous and Patrick Chapman. An online poetry and art magazine ‘that plays with the senses.’ Each themed issue presents work from the surreal to the sensual and points in between – ‘poems that not only sound as good as they look, but taste as good as they feel.’ I concur.
The Poetry Bus http://thepoetrybusmag.wix.com/change#!submissions/cgyc Published by Peadar and Collette O’Donoghue, this print journal gets bigger and more ambitious with each issue. Had a poem published both in print and on the CD that accompanied the journal. And they nominated it for the Forward Prize! Cool.
The Stinging Fly http://www.stingingfly.org/ I’d say this is one of the most rated journals in Ireland today. Hard to get into – took me four attempts! A lot of acclaimed names seen between these pages. Often themed. The English poetry editor is Eabhan Ní Shuilleabháin, but there are also guest editors. The current one is Mia Gallagher. English and Irish language stories, reviews, essays and poetry. And they pay contributors.
The Sunday Independent: http://www.independent.ie/entertainment/books/the-sunday-poem-anthony-cronins-personal-anthology-34512641.html Like the Irish Examiner’s Tuesday Poem, The Sunday Poem might well be selected by the editor. Not sure if you can submit for it. If anyone can confirm this, that would be helpful. They probably pay.
It’s been such an honour to be part of the experience that is the Uillinn West Cork Arts Centre. And that’s what it is. An experience. Every time you walk in the door, you enter a mesmerising world of the imagination, with new residencies, exhibitions and installations occurring all the time.
My residency wrapped up with an exhibition of poems, some of which I wrote in response to the work of the other artists in residence: Toma McCullim, whose current work engages with people coping with dementia, the magnificent dancer, Tara Brandel, and Emma Jervis, the photographer.
With so many events taking place during the Skibbereen Arts Festival, there wasn’t time or space for a reading, but Justine Foster suggested (over lunch) that putting together a booklet of the poems would complement the exhibition. I did read some of the poems at the Poetry Marathon which took place at Paul and Marie O’Colmain’s Working Artists Studios (and also interviewed Liz Nugent, author of the psychological thriller, Unravelling Oliver at Holger and Nichola Smyth’s Time Travellers’ Gallery.) The booklet is available for purchase at the Centre. Here’s one of the poems, which I wrote in response to Toma’s exhibition, These Tangled Threads:
after Toma McCullim
losing the word for ‘glass’, you say carrier of wine, find new vessels
too close, not close enough: sweet, useless balls of sugar icing,
amuse-bouches that turn to tears at a crossing
junk, cat-cradled by wool cross-stitching over
a cracked egg still holding yolk
more raw, less – or more – elaborately attached
to the green-grape of rust spilling
its metallic waves, collapsing, one riff at a time
My connection with Uillinn West Cork Arts Centre isn’t over though. In the autumn, I’ll be offering further poetry courses, so that’s another legacy. My heartfelt thanks to all the staff and other artists at Uillinn. It’s been an amazing experience, and I’m glad to have found new friends.
(PS Love how the WordPress formatting has disjointed the poem across the page! It wasn’t written like that, but as it’s evocative of the gaps in synapses that can occur with dementia, I’ll leave it like this…)
First week of my residency over already! It’s been such fun, decorating my studio, with the help of Stephen, who had to use a ladder to hang my African wall-hanging. One of my paintings is by a friend, the self-taught artist and musician, Les Clague. The other is my own. I’ve put up poems from my own collection for visitors to read. They can choose one to take away with them as a memento.
So far, I’ve had interesting visitors, among them Sheena Jolley, the wildlife photographer, who’s invited me to visit her in her Mill House Gallery in Schull. (Here’s her website: http://www.sheenajolleyphotography.com/). She took away two poems: ‘Bodhrán makers suspected, after goats go missing’ and ‘Do not lie to a lover.’ She is thinking of responding to the poems with photographs. Also, Bantry-based Warren Hartley, a South African videographer, from Cape Town, where I did my post-graduate degree, so we had plenty to talk about. He took my poem ‘Yes’ (after James Joyce’s Molly Bloom). Among others, there was a jewellery designer, Nuala Jamison (www.nualajamison.com) and also a student, Ian Curly, who’s currently taking the art degree on Sherkin island.
It’s been great to see former participants from workshops I’ve offered in Bandon, Skibbereen and Cork. I’ve had several editing surgeries, and also facilitated my first Tuesday Poem to Go workshop, with everyone producing an experimental poem. Ann Davoren, the director of the art centre, swung by to say hi, and I’ve been seeing a bit of Justine Foster, the Programme Manager Education & Community Co-ordinator, and Rita O’Driscoll, the Development Manager, to exchange ideas about the residency. Photographer Emma Jervis, also currently doing a residency, has called in to take a couple of photographs, which she’s kindly given me permission to use here:
I visited St Patrick’s National School and met Alan Foley, the principal, and the fifth class teacher, who let me spend a bit of time with the fifth and sixth class. They sat on the floor of the carpeted hall and, in groups, enthusiastically responded to a writing activity, an indication of what they can expect if they participate in ‘Scribblings’, the Young Writers’ Programme I’m offering as part of the residency. The boys were fantastic, producing great poems in a very short space of time. One group rapped their poem! All looks promising…
I was sorry I didn’t get the opportunity to visit the other schools before they broke up for Easter, but I’m hoping parents will see the fliers around town, at the Centre and in the library, and bring their children to the taster workshops on the 10th and 11th April, which will be followed by weekly workshops. The plan is to produce a magazine of the poems written during the six-week course.
Looking forward to the Eye to Eye talk this evening with Tess Leak, another artist in residence, whose studio is next to mine. She’s working on some large scale ‘emergency’ drawings towards an exhibition to be held at the end of her residency. Great way to celebrate my birthday!
Upon the black hole Cygnus X-1 that wobbles
as if boffed by an invisible companion,
upon a silk stocking the color of bees
rolling itself up down a leg, upon the soft dip
over the clavicles, which accept only tongued kisses,
upon the tongue that slowly drifts
into the other’s mouth and chats
there with her opposite number,
gravity exerts the precise force needed.
In the wings of the Eskimo curlew
flapping through the thin air of the Andes,
in the sacral vertebrae of the widow
who stoops at the window to peer
behind the drawn blind, in the saggy skin
under the eyes of the woman
who is in love with a man incapable
of love, who lives on in the heaviness
of emotional isolation, in the lavish
cascade of urine the rhino releases,
in the mouthwater of the child who waits
in shriek position for the dentist,
in the scradged skin dangling in shreds
from the children who lurched toward
the Nakashima River screaming, as if this were
the single aria they had ever rehearsed, gravity
shudders at its mathematical immensity.
As long as two kvetches remain alive,
because inside each is self-hatred so hardened
not even nonexistence can abide them,
as long as the hummingbird strikes
the air seventy-four times per second,
as long as the mound of earth remains heaped
beside the rectangular hole waiting to be filled,
gravity cannot be said to impose its will.
If the pilot ejects one second too late,
if the condemned man shrinks at seeing
the trapdoor give way, if the man who stands
with fire at his back and a baby in his arms
hears the near neighbors cry,
“Drop her! Don’t worry! We’ll catch her,”
if the juggler gets behind in her count
and the bright object flies past the spot
where the other hand was to snatch it,
gravity cannot pause to rectify matters.
When a deer kenning us stands immobile,
and for one moment we know we exist
entirely within her thoughts, when cichlid fry,
sensing danger, empty their air bladders
and drop to the river bottom like pebbles,
when the snow goes and millions of leaves
reveal themselves pressed down over the contours
of earth to create her hibernation mask,
when a person in a military cemetery
among grave markers that spread to all the horizons
understands that all of existence has been destroyed
again and again, when depression after mania
causes clock hands to stick and days to crawl,
when the full moon’s light creeps across a sleeper
calling to her atavistic soul, when a soldier,
who has always known life is imperfect,
is wheeled to another hopeless attempt
at surgery—but, this time, resolves
to sleep and not wake again until such time
as time begins again—then gravity
grips us to the earth, and crosses its fingers.
In the case of the last ancient trees at Ypres
still turning out their terrified wood,
in the case of the concertina wire
hurled out in exuberant spirals and set down
between rich and poor, in the case of the howls
that fly off the earth through madhouse windows,
in the case of the word “heavenly”
when we remind ourselves that earth,
too, was a heavenly body once,
in the case of the numeral keys
totting up the number of humans
humans have killed, in the case of the man
who strays into a gravitational field where
the differential between the force on the scalp
and the force on the foot sole will stretch him
into an alimentary canal thin as a thread,
in the case of the child who has upset
his ink bottle while doing homework
and quickly snaps both arms down
to halt the lateral gush of the black juices,
gravity, if it could, would recuse itself.
Táimse in aimsir ag an mBás, eadrainn tá coinníollacha tarraichthe. Réitíomair le chéile are feadh tréimhse is spás aimsire, achar roinnt bliana is lae mar a cheapas-sa. Bhuaileas leis ag margadh na saoire. D’iarr sé orm an rabhas hire-áilte. ‘Is maith mar a tharla; máistir ag lorg cailín is cailín ag lorg máistir.’ Ní rabhas ach in aois a naoi déag nuair a chuas leis are dtúis faoi chonradh. Do shíneas mo láimh leis an bpár is bhí sé láithreach ina mhargadh. Do chuir sé chrúcaí im’ lár cé nar thug sé brútáil ná drochíde orm. Ba chosúla le greas suirí nó grá an caidreamh a bhí eadrainn. Is tugaim a tháinte dubha chun abhann, buaibh úd na n-adharca fada. Luíonn siad síos i móinéir. Bím á n-aoireacht ar chnoic san imigéin atá glas agus féarach. Seolaim are imeall an uisce iad is gaibheann siad scíth agus suaimhneas. Treoraím lem’ shlat is lem’ bhachall iad trí ghleannta an uaignis. Is siúlaim leo suas ar an ard mar a mbíonn sciollam na móna le blaiseadh acu is tagann míobhán orm i mbarr an mháma nuair a chím faid mo radhairc uaim ag leathadh a thailte is méid a ríochta, an domhan mór ba dhóigh leat faoina ghlaic aige is cloisim sa mhodardhoircheacht bhróin na hanamnacha ag éamh is ag sioscadh ann. Is tá sé féin saibhir thar meon. Tá trucailí óir agus seoda aige. Ní bheadh I gcarn airgid Déamair ach cac capaill suas leo. Ó táimse in aimsir ag an mbás, is baolach ná beidh mé saor riamh uaidh. Ní heol dom mo thuarastal ná mo phá nó an bhfaighidh mé pá plaic’ nó cead aighnis uaidh. My Dark Master Translated by Paul Muldoon I’ve gone and hired myself out, I’ve hired myself out to Death. We drew up a contract and set the seal on it by spitting in our palms. I would go with him to Lateeve for a year and a day—at least, that was the deal as I remember it. When I met him at the hiring-fair he inquired if I’d yet been taken: ‘What a stroke of luck,’ he declared, ‘when a master who’s set on a maid finds a maid who’s set on a master.’ I was only nineteen years old at the time the bargain was struck. I made my mark on a bit of paper and was indentured on the spot. What a stroke of luck, I declare, what a stroke of luck that I fell into his clutches. Not, I should emphasize again, that he meddled with or molested me for, to tell you the truth, our relationship was always much more akin to walking out, or going steady. I lead his blue-black cows with their fabulously long horns to water. They lie down in pastures of clover and fescue and Lucerne. I follow them over hills faraway and green. I lead them down beside Lough Duff where they find rest and where they are restored. I drive them with my rod and my staff through the valleys of loneliness. Then I might herd them to a mountain-pass, to a summit where they browse on bog-asphodel and where I, when I look down, get somewhat dizzy. His realm extends as far as the eye can see and beyond, so much so a body might be forgiven for thinking the whole world’s under his sway. Particularly after the sough-sighs of suffering souls from the darkness. He himself has riches that are untold, coming down as he is with jewels and gems. Even John Damer of Shronel, even his piles of gold would be horse-shit compared to them. I’ve hired myself out to death. And I’m afraid that I’ll not ever be let go. What I’ll have at the end of the day I’ve absolutely no idea, either in terms of three hots and a cot íor if I’ll be allowed to say my say.
Quick moving goddess of the rainbow
You whose being is only an afterglow of a passing-through
Put your hands
Put your heaven-taken shape down
On the ground. Now. Anywhere
Like a bent- down bough of nothing
A bridge built out of the linked cells of thin air
And let there be instantly in its underlight –
At street corners, on swings, out of car windows –
A three-moment blessing for all bridges
May impossible rifts be often delicately crossed
By bridges of two thrown ropes or one dropped plank
May the unfixed forms of water be warily leaned over
On flexible high bridges, huge iron sketches of the mathematics of strain
And bridges of see-through stone, the living-space of drips and echoes
May two fields be bridged by a stile
And two hearts by the tilting footbridge of a glance
And may I often wake on the broken bridge of a word,
Like in the wind the trace of a web. Tethered to nothing