Cork International Poetry Festival 2020

Delighted to be taking part in the Cork International Poetry Festival which runs between March 24-28 2020. I'll be reading at the Cork City Libraries on Wednesday 25th at 11am, as part of the closed mic reading with ten other poets. This wonderful festival runs each year, and you can find more information on the... Continue Reading →

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Hate

Hate.
Torch light flickers over university grass,where imposing bronzes are as hollow as their deliberate message,rewriting history and celebrating ignorance,demonising orange pickers and glorifying slavers.

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The Time of the Tans.

There has been huge amounts of commentary about the recent ill fated decision to formally commemorate the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) and the Dublin Metropolitan Police. It descended very quickly into a massive argument, with the vast majority of the public quickly coming to a consensus that can be summed up as 'who in the... Continue Reading →

Toll

Toll. Bright tolls that hideous bell, varnished edges biting at the collarbone, unprotected by the cheap white shirt, damp from the last wearing of the cassock, burning incense from the dark interior, lacquer from the brass handles, cloying and heavy in the heat, last night’s fighting as raw, as the nervous marks on my left... Continue Reading →

7th Winter Warmer Weekend

The 7th Annual Winter Warmer weekend has already begun and I am really looking forward to reading in the closed mike session at Kino, Washington St., Cork tomorrow from 2pm. Thanks to the wonderful Ó Bhéal: Cork Poetry Events and its tireless Director and outstanding poet Paul Casey for the invitation to be part of... Continue Reading →

SHORT STORIES OF FEAR; THE STILLNESS IN THE BARN

Really enjoy the poetry and writing of Damien B. Donnelly, an Irish exile in Paris, however I believe he will be home to these shores again soon.

Deuxiemepeau Poetry by Damien B. Donnelly

A short tale of fancy and fear.

And so he waved back, and, as if brushing back the years, he remembered when they cycled through the lanes together, well, not exactly together, but in their group; he was there and she was there, though, in truth, it was not this particular woman, the woman who had waved to him as the train passed but the tracks and the wave lead him back there somehow, that time when he watched a girl’s hair in front of him as it caught the breeze and the sunlight above them as wisps of leaves leaned from trees overhead as if to touch her and he remembered how much it hurt. How much he resented nature in that moment, on that perfectly ordinary day in the countryside when everything, it seemed, reached out to touch her but him while he peddled to keep up with…

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Walk for the Dogs

At the age of 19, Dermot Cosgrove had a taste for adventure, and the call of la Légion Étrangère brought him to France, over the next six years he served with great pride and distinction across the globe; including service in the First Gulf War. He even served twice in Somalia with UNTAF & UNOSOM, while there he met his fellow countrymen deployed with the Irish Defence Forces. Although he has long hung up his kepi blanc, this native of Ennis has continued to work as a security consultant for over twenty years mainly in Africa, the Middle East and South Asia; he also has combined his two lifelong loves of hiking and birdwatching into a guided tour business, where clients can avail of his expert ornithology knowledge and his vast walking wisdom by joining him on tours in Ireland and across Europe.

Cork City Missing Persons Search and Recovery Unit.

The loss of loved one is one of the most tragic experiences which can befall a family. If that loved one is not recovered, then the grieving process can be made all the more difficult on those left behind. There is in Cork, a dedicated team of volunteers who have since their foundation provided hundreds of families with the solace of having their loved one returned to them.

Ever Present Danger

Ever Present Danger. The smoke is acrid, thick and hot. It forms an oppressive layer above the lurid yellow helmets of the firefighting team. Heat radiates from the burning fire in the corner of the cabin in front of them. The noise of the water as it bounces of the deckhead and deck is deafening, the steel structure reverberates and the team leaders shouts out his commands through the life persevering facemask of his breathing apparatus. All commands have a purpose, each given with an intensity befitting the seriousness of the situation; while each response is repeated quickly and verbatim, once the command has been executed the team leader is informed immediately. There is no place for an individual here; only by working as a team will these five sailors fight their way through hatches and down ladders, deeper into the burning vessel they press on, negotiating the total darkness to find the seat of the fire. Their shipmates’ lives depend upon it.

Something in the Water.

Something in the Water.
There must be something in the water that nourishes writers on this Great Island of ours, as it has such an abundance of them. Perhaps, as the Lee flows along, it gathers stories from its many tributaries and courses, tumbling them in its stream as it flows ever onward on its journey to the Atlantic. Or maybe it’s the nature of living on the harbour, where for centuries ships have sailed and sheltered as the flow of commerce from across the nation has funnelled goods and people to its quaysides; then onward to new horizons waiting out past Roches point.
Something draws them to come to rest, like so many grains of sand, onto the shores of Cobh. This never-resting, ever-changing harbour has borne witness to the heartache of the emigrant and the excitement of unknown adventures for those drawn to a life on the ocean. Cobh’s every corner is etched with history and the endless search for fresh possibilities seems to stimulate the creativity of the local writers. They wait like Heaney at his desk, ‘Between my finger and my thumb, The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.’, and what a range of stories our local writers unearth in their digging.

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