Big Brother Is Watching. Meredith, New Hampshire
A Proper PoemToday I wrote
A proper letter On proper paper With a proper pen. I put it in A proper package With a proper book To go along. I drove to the Proper post office And obeyed every Proper posting Along the way. I pulled into the Proper post office With a Properly pleased smile On my proud face. I promptly got out of My proper car, Walked up to the Proper post office And it was Positively closed.
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Angel On High You promised her to me It took more than the two years since your death I’ve placed her somewhere high. She’s surrounded by gold now, The top shelf,
Never Ask You never ask me for my touch It’s almost violent in its intensity. You never ask me for myself because The gentle, firm grasp There’s just something so beautiful
Small Things
Gaze Sometimes her love for me is palpable Sometimes it is delicate, That’s how she loves me Fearlessly Sometimes, But when the intensity abates Angel on High and other poems are © Aoife Read |
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Related LinksRead more of Aoife Read here
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Rain and relatives, relatives and rain.
In Glendalough’s monastic town
a jackdaw baby thrusts his downy head
out of a round tower putlock and raises
an ungodly yellow beak to squawk
at gawking tourists snapping cellphones,
the spines of their umbrellas dripping
on the ancient bullaun stones
where monks once mixed their potions
and the holywell was rich in lithium
which turned out to be a great cure
for the occasional pilgrim who, like me,
suffered from the watery weather
or a sodden slough of Celtic despond.
Angela Patten © The Cumberland Review 2015
Gaeilge, Inse Geimhleach, meaning “Island of the Hostages”
The land is a sponge sodden
with salt water and rain,
the mossed path a tangle
of Herb Robert and buttercup.
Giant leaves of gunnera
and the green spears of rushes
stand guard around the pond.
Laburnum hangs its head
like a girl drying her yellow hair.
Water gushes under culverts
over rocks, tap-tapping on the roof
of the sunroom like a timid visitor.
Through rain-streaked windows
I can see our hosts raise their heads
to look upward as the tempo
intensifies to an irascible hammering;
almost hear the ebb and flow
of their soft voices
from where I stand hidden
under a canopy of dripping roses
and dangling fuschia blossoms.
A clattering sound as three
runaway sheep hoof it down the lane
like boys going over the wall
to mitch from school.
Tomorrow they will have to return,
tails between their legs.
But for now they are part
of a thrilling spectacle as they trundle
three abreast into the green gap
between the high ditches.
The other sheep graze the wet grass,
their plaintive bawling
from the nearby field
like the call-and-response
of a gospel choir
singing the praises of
another doomed rebellion.
Angela Patten © Saint Katherine Review 2018
In Norse mythology the twin ravens,
Thought and Memory, flew about
the world, collecting news for Odin
who had given them the gift of speech.
Did they work together as a team—
one forward-thinking, looking out
for bloody rumor, thin whisper,
foul-smelling allegation, while the other
mouthed words and phrases,
recited names, reiterated everything?
Did they return together, grigged
with gossip for the dinner table?
Or did Thought sometimes muddle
Memory with unanswerable questions—
Can Memory be trusted?
Does Thought delude itself?
Do we only live as long as Memory
wraps us in its wings?
Odin feared they might not return,
knowing their taste for decomposing flesh,
what that vertiginous perspective
might reveal—a new god with a dove
that whispers in his ear, some new
dark truth delivered from the air.
Angela Patten © Sequestrum Journal of Literature and the Arts 2017
“It is said that crows, like other corvids, recognize themselves in mirrors
and this is thought to show intelligence.” (Scientific American)
The last light of a winter’s day—
thousands of winged forms
flap past my windows—pins
pulled by a powerful magnet.
The sky is black with crows
crying in cracked voices of their plans
to steal what is left of the light,
to gather their feathered shapes
into a solid-color jigsaw puzzle
of land and lake and sky
that will click into place
only when the last bird
flies into its jagged aperture
and darkness falls.
Like the crows, my father
showed up night after night
to take his place in an ancient ritual.
To play his fiddle, not by standing out
but by fitting in with the other men,
those dark-suited bus-drivers and conductors
who brought to the session
all their quirks and oddities—
Mr. Ward with his head thrown back,
the accordion at rest on his round belly—
Mr. Keogh with his albino eyes,
long fingers sawing the fiddle—
and young Tony in short trousers
tootling away on the tin whistle.
Now my father too is part of that
collective darkness, the puzzle
that the crows remake each night.
That dawn, like a wayward child,
scatters joyfully each morning.
Angela Patten © Sequestrum Journal of Literature and the Arts 2017
She only cooked them once a year
on Shrove Tuesday so we didn’t dwell
on the looming Lenten fast
as we raced home after school
to see her lift down the big black frying-pan
and heat it over the blue gas burner
until the fat spat and sizzled.
She’d hoist the milk jug full of batter,
pour a creamy stream into the pan,
tilting and tipping it to a seamless circle.
We hovered famished at her elbow
as the humps and craters formed—
brown sienna over khaki, burnt
umber over buttermilk. It was all
in the timing. One flick of her gifted wrist
and she’d landed it like a fish
on your plate. You rolled it with sugar,
a squeeze of lemon, scarfed it down.
Then it was back to the end of the queue
until your turn returned again.
No rest for her aching shoulders
until we were all contented sinners,
licking our lips, as full as eggs.
Angela Patten © LiveEncounters 2017
After surgery the stitch-marks
look like bird-feet walking up my arm.
But what strange bird has left
its bone-white prints
embedded in my wrist like needle-tracks?
Perhaps it was the raven,
that faux-sorrowful funeral director,
walking beak-forward, gloved hands
folded behind his back, who walks the
twin trajectories of a railway line
that leads to a long-defunct station
where I might meet myself returning
from the beach with two scabbed knees,
embossed inoculations against disease,
the weals of ancient injuries like medals
from the battlefields of childhood,
and my mother’s crowsfeet
inching toward my eyes.
Angela Patten © Cultural Center of Cape Cod 2016 Poetry Prize
Glendalough Sonnet and other poems © Angela Patten
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Bathwater LoveI wear you wrong; At night you draw feathers but we are in bathwater.
Song of Grendal’s MotherThey gave me no name Repeal that oldest fairytale,
II am now.
Family, MineEvery family Father– Sister– Mother– But we are a can
UntitledAfter You Died Sometimes I followed
SomedaySome day With a shelf of poetry books with vibrant colours With a deep couch With an old phone With oriental spices With a kettle always brooding With an old dusted piano With space to move mountains There will be space for two heads When some day bathwater Love and other poems are © Niamh Twomey |
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In May You are everywhere. Arthur Bells’ yellow bloom fragrant and fleeting, whitethorn buds abound. Mint makes it’s way to our door, ready for picking. Swallows sing a sweet song as they soar. On my route I detour, lured by a lilac in bloom. This month, of the mothers. Our Village in the Fifties Vibrant. Most houses endowed with broods of children. We run around freely unhindered by snatchers and traffic. Play out in the fields rich with daisies and daffodils. Scale over walls to orchards their branches bowed low with ripe rosy apples, maimed by migration it succumbs to stillness and silence. Neighbours reach out. Sheepdogs wait. Footballs deflate. Live Bulbs After red and yellow weather alerts when floods and storms subside. Broken tree twigs around you garden soil stripped aside. Your emerald shoots remain sturdy and serene. With enough resilience, robustness to turn a blue moon green. Live Bulbs and other poems are © Katherine Noone |
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Shortlisted Vallum Poetry Award (Montreal) 2012. Poem for Patience 2015, 2016 and 2017l. |
Valentine Code Do, you thindk, do – bore eyes streabig, dose ruddig, rushig ad gurglig like a Badhattad ad idfectiod which affects pribarily Code – first published in Magma 66, Winter 2016, Eds. John Canfield and Ella Frears (www.magmapoetry.com)
Crabtree to Gascoigne, 1641 That November Sunday he, the better astronomer, Tonight though, at my window, the cosmos My lenses mist. Would he have planned to visit had he felt unwell, Which, in the end, was what? Something of the spheres, Thus I am plagued by fears: that to fathom the skies These fears I want his reason to reject. But since my telescope cannot bring him closer, Jeremiah Horrocks [1619-1641], of Toxteth, first recorded the transit of Venus and predicted future transits, including 8th June 2004. ‘The Keats of English astronomy’ died the day before he was to meet his mentee William Crabtree [1610-1644] of Salford. Their friend William Gascoigne [1612-1644], of Leeds, invented the micrometer. Crabtree to Gascoigne, 1641 – from Eleven Wonders (Graft Poetry 2011, Ed. Nicholas Bielby www.graftpoetry.co.uk) |
Unattributed sampler
Bankfield Regimental Museum, Halifax
In memory of ELIZABETH HITCHEN, Who died November 26, this battle was begun
in 1841. The house was quiet and you must learn to be, Grandmamma whispered,
measuring the lines. Your little sister’s gone Aged 13 months to be with God.
I was just five but could already read THEY WILL BE MISST A VACANT PLACE
AT TABLE AND AT TIME OF PRAYER. What shall we put up there I asked,in the big space?
Lord knows, my love – God will decide she said, then smiled. Me, probably.
AT HOME AT CHURCH MORN NOON AND NIGHT she printed carefully MISST ALL THE TIME
AND EVERY WHERE. With the next letter, G – she stopped. When you’re a big girl, you can do the rest.
Next day she showed me cross-stitch and I sewed IN MEMORY until my eyes hurt.
Eight years slipped by AND ALSO ASSENETH WHO DIED when I was thirteen FEB 8 1849.
That night I satin-stitched an urn, an altar, half a rose. AGED 19 MONTHS. The cloth was grey by then
with childish sweat, pinpricks of blood and also tears AND ALSO
HANNAH two years on THE GRANDMOTHER OF THE ABOVE. I found the last lines of the verse
she had left off and marked them up, but couldn’t frame – until I’d lived as long again – to add
‘on’ to the G ON BUT NOT LOST OH THIS WE KNOW
– my nephew feverish, I had to end this tale. Thread by thread I drew our family back
AND ALSO EMILY MY NIECE WHO DIED AGED 4 YEARS AND 4 MONTHS AND ALSO JOHN their Father
WHO DIED 1865 AGED 28 AND ALSO AZUBAH WHO DIED AGED 18 YEARS and all so young.
WE KNOW WE TRUST I persevered THE BOUNDLESS LOVE stitching my fingers numb
oF GOD HE DOETH ill John’s son was ill, fighting for breath aged 4. If I could break the spell
I told myself and stitch one living name – my own – with some date soon perhaps all would be WELL
HIS WILL BE DONE WE SAY AND KISS his eyes his hands his fingernails God will decide
my needle vain to stop his CHASTENING ROD claiming one more AND ALSO for this field of crosses
MICHAEL HITCHEN WHO DIED JUNE 5 1872 AGED 4 and AND 10 MONTHS.
'Valentine', 'Unattributed Sampler', 'When I was six', 'Waltz' - from Without a Dog
(Graft Poetry 2008, Ed. Nicholas Bielby www.graftpoetry.co.uk)
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Waltz
When I was six You will be beautiful my father said, as if You’re lucky, says Suyin, brazen now, When I was Six and other poems are © Julia Deakin |
 Julia Deakin is a UK-based poet with three full-length collections, each praised by nationally renowned poets. ‘Crafted, tender poems, written with passion and purpose,’ said Simon Armitage of Without a Dog (Graft, 2008). Anne Stevenson enjoyed its ‘mature wit and wisdom’. ‘Real linguistic inventiveness’ said Ian McMillan. ‘Bold, irreverent and wickedly funny,’ said Alison Brackenbury of her Poetry Business Competition winner The Half-Mile-High-Club. Eleven Wonders (Graft 2012) Michael Symmons Roberts judged ‘powerful, assured, elegant. Her formal skill and inventiveness make this a rich and eclectic collection. Those who, like me, have admired her individual poems in the past, will be struck by their cumulative strength and range.’ A compelling reader, she has featured twice on Poetry Please and won numerous prizes. Her fourth collection, Sleepless (Valley Press) will be published in October 2018.
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A candied calligraphy of colours, I said
that I would change the sheets later.
And I said also that I could handle it but I could not, and will I fry for that?
I may, but only if you return.
The stink of sheep hangs on me like wisdom.
You leave in a blur and your bag is heavy with spices,
I hope I do not let you back again.
It depends on my resolve, and on whether the seasons let me float.
I’ll take myself running for the friction of denial,
cross my legs under the tables of the library.
I’ll spin yarns and wear black and eat fruit in the evenings,
till I’m taller and more thoughtful than I have been before.
And I’ll try harder, too.
Kindness is like witchcraft, it must be brewed and stirred,
mulled over in secret with the herb scent of the night.
If it threatens to drown you, you must set yourself on fire.
Do you think of me? Or am I a stop-gap to you?
I marveled at you on the phone when you were talking like a man,
Not laughing or stroking like you laugh and stroke at me.
Talking figures like your car was a woman,
You said fuck it we will fix the white van instead
For by the time the summer comes you will be traveling.
I changed my sheets and they were smeared
sprinkled with both blood and mould.
But washed away now, and quietly, while you are asleep and going south.
God’s the opposite of sentient,
God’s gotta lot on their plate right now
You hate phone calls but you rang rang rang rang rang rang
Kinda like the knock knock don’t stop of the old stories about Jesus and the hearts.
I sit in a pub like the underground volts of mole town with glistening mirrors and brown
And think: and think: and think :
What if I AM us
What if we ARE me
Amen. That boy gets bloody sleepy-eyed and ties you down with internet rope to have the best time,
you can still be held by the every-man compass of inner direction and salt.
Lake licking
I’d be down for some
front door seconds
I love overhand
and crying boys
and absolute disgraces
and civil war tales make me puke
because we are you and I am us and they are
watching
Jesus Christ and the cherubim all interconnected with stones and pencils and lust
When winter falls out I cheer up
Semi-automatic pistol you grip and
It’s like
Put that down honey I’m
Just in league with the bears you know
Don’t be afraid
Just because I am socialist without understanding politics
Just because I say this is how I FEEL out loud loud
And you don’t do anything out loud loud
You say: I am bad at words
You won’t kiss me goodbye in the street
You’re a removable boy access unacceptable
When the moon looms
When your blood is flat
When you are sober
~ Biggest mood: you not letting go of my hand drunk
I unfurl a peach strip of self denial,
curling tendrils like the mannerisms that
wind me in a high spiral,
each time I sleep I see extensions of my worst trade-offs
and subtle lingering traces of worn out faces and fading tastes.
I see the way your limbs are positioned, they are unsure of
holding company with the air (and really baby I feel that)
yellow soft flesh without a skin and a concrete world he sings
that you stand in hallways thinking about the positioning
of your feet, and the happiness of our lives
was only coming.
I do indeed know the strangest of manifestations,
I do certainly keep company with the eeriest of loves.
Boys can surely contract themselves into small spaces,
the gaps in my brain are of the overly hospitable young.
I held onto him in our old bed and tightly traced
the profile graced with the ability that I gave him
his eyes were closed to look more firmly at the wall
he knew my heart was at his back
he may have held my hand but he did not.
I let love drop from my ears my eyes my tear ducts
(Love
Is forever I think)
I held him and said, I wish you well I wish you well I wish you
you hurt me so much
I wish you well I wish you well I wish you everything you can get nobly
I love you
Even as I fall for a better boy
I love you
He took my love in mime
Stayed curled-up, inaccessible and pure
In the dream my sister woke me with her heart at my back
She never touched me
I never touched him
I think that real love is forever
Mango is a night food.
I’m sweeping
cold callers collect thoughts and manic and deathly
are you grossed out by sad?
I’m the icky girl no chill just spooky abandon to the rhythmic pulse
gymnastics of feeling floods
like crying toilets drunk
maybe we’ll get cool again I’ll put weed on the balcony
I need a lamp to grow me a glo-up
baked
half streaming
live rot
Well I take photos of lights to hold them in my wet hand cracks
Before
After
Told her there were two of me that’s a lie there are a million and one
me things
Shakespeare was a matching addict holy hell that quill quick quick good god
give me some Adderall
but I’d only focus on the wrong thing
Drunk dial
Low capped smile
I’d get off at the next stop but he’s gonna miss it
while mentally I put myself down the stairs bang bang
The street slush don’t stop us
Every fucking night I get shot at in my dreams I’m not joking
Last night it was my grandfather
There’s fingers and there’s whingers but I barely kiss gingers
Someone threaded their headphones through their jumper strings
What a strange little hullabaloo
I could do better if I were you
Because I’m a neat-freak never-speak who clean eats
I’ll go far
Mad girls and sad girls might be onto something
I’m crying holla holla wake up at the stars looking down on this shit attack
Honestly get me out asap
I’ll sail space smooth and I won’t look back
But my bones are hollow they don’t ever crack
I see faces places and wastes but I am the one standing on a hill and
Pencey Prep is real as all hell
that is, not very, dubiously transient and flickering like the flame of
a secret place that never cleans itself so sleep me now
Mangoes are a night food and other poems are © Finnuala Simpson
Finnuala Simpson is a twenty-year-old english and history student based in West Cork. In her free time she likes to write, cook, and walk as close to the sea as she can get. |
The crisp dew of
words,
that sing
in spring
Jubilant is their ring.
The soft gentle breeze of
words
which appease,
please
Leave tickles of tease.
The blazing heat of
words
which incite,
ignite,
Defiant in their fight.
The strong gale of
words
that wail,
prevail,
Woeful is their tale.
The cold depth of
words
which pound,
astound,
Deadening in their sound.
Throat itches and scratches,
raspiness of an otherworldly quality.
Lips miming the words,
their echoes silent.
From deep within,
the surges pulsating,
desperately attempting to blast into the atmosphere.
A concerted effort,
both messenger and vessel
willing, wishing, wanting
the ripples to meet the surface.
Flows and ebbs of lapping dialogue,
sparkling glistening leaps of innocent,
complicit laughter,
lulls of serenity and quiet contemplation
all in a blink of the mind’s eye.
Each page turning as if courtesy of a fast-forward button.
Slipping, falling, fading,
thugs of resistance futile.
The stark realisation,
this is coldness,
this is acceptance.
The glistening Shannon,
a magnificent twinkling curtain
rolled out smoothly,
a veil is drawn over the valley below.
Rosary in unison
to the grating of the clay
back and forth the swings,
gathering rhythm
only momentarily disrupted
by the exchange of hands.
A new crew lies in wait
to take up the chorus.
The many gatherers scattered
witnesses to the careful descent
into your resting place
A quilt of roses adorns you,
Each petal precious and sweet
Keep warm my love.
Tumbling tresses of auburn,
slender, lithe and graceful frame
Bambi eyes – a depth of beauty
instantly recognisable.
Beaming, effortless smile
finely crafted hands which have
penned many a touching message,
prepared many a loving meal,
reached for many a tender embrace,
and now act as protectrice to
your very own High King of Ireland.
Youth marked by boundless energy,
instant engagement, rebellious spirit, insatiable curiosity.
Inquisitive student, keen linguist, intrepid traveller,
Cuisinière de résistance –
tasting and delighting in the delectable delicacies
of this glorious multicultural world.
Erudite, quizzical
mindful of the lessons of our elders,
firm and steadfast in convictions,
hopeful, driven to forge a better
Ireland for those to come.
Attuned to the voices of many,
considerate and considered in rhetoric
the consummate politician
a fusion of past, present and future.
Life ignites, infuses, thrills,
courageous in pursuits
standing strong, upright and resolute
climbing every mountain
with an indomitable spirit,
there is something about this maiden.
As your wedding day approaches,
your chieftain awaits
on the mountain top –
Cnoc na Teamhrach
This particular climb sees
you ascend assuredly,
with each step to the summit,
you are brought home.
Memories,
childhood jewels,
treasures in the recesses of my mind,
the pounding of tennis balls on the tarmac
during the hot Summer days.
Both as equally eager to smash it with a formidable forehand,
the dual recorders in sync (well most of the time),
we were after all the instrumental saving grace
of each year’s Nativity play!
The dreaded own goal
You poised for a glorious save,
I, oblivious to your cries
dealt the fatal blow
I tested your patience that day,
you the model of decorum never let it show.
Teenage years brought a keen interest in historical pursuits.
Con Air showings back to back,
fabulous Super Mac extravaganzas,
Infinite ripples of laughter and giggles
a reflection
bringing comfort and company
when I needed it most.
Never mind Tipperary
it’s a longer way to Letterkenny,
such was the legal route
but boy was it worth the journey
Success, Freedom, Fun
not forgetting Cupid
awaited,
you never once looked back.
Eyes blue and gentle,
the small contented smile
you’ve navigated the peaks and troughs,
I can see
you’re happy with your lot.
This is your moment,
bask in the joy,
feel the excitement.
I’m privileged to witness the triumph,
but most undoubtedly
proud to call you friend.
Do not mourn me my love
I am near you still,
notice me in the Autumn leaves
strewn magnificently
lining the roadside
in your honour.
Each leaf that falls
memories we shared
weightless, wistful
gliding to their peaceful slumber.
My time has arrived
so has theirs
gracefully, elegantly,
swirls of multicolour
our befitting final dance,
a waltz.
The day will come
when the leaves will fade.
growing dim
flickering sweetly
prepare yourself
arm yourself
Strength is in our past.
Snug, at ease
camaraderie complimenting
the fireside warmth
a fitting forum for festive cheer.
Random responses
friendly jibes
carefree banter
giggles galore
Verses of old time classics
and one hit wonders
giving way to ripples of merriment
savouring the delight.
A shadowing possibility
this occasion might be our last
Reminding ourselves to make it count
holding it tight as a precious jewel –
delicate, fragile, magnetic.
‘Sorry’
a murmur, a mutter,
falling indifferently, clumsily, irreverently from parted lips.
Sometimes a habit, a courtesy, an afterthought,
always a marker of our hard-won freedom.
Seemingly innocuous word, a nod to our ancestors,
ingrained in our bruised dialect,
woven through the beaten tapestry of our history,
stirring the ghosts, the troubled sod,
foremost in our legacy.
‘Sorry’ for suffering eight hundred years of oppression,
‘Sorry’ for having our native tongue ripped out,
‘Sorry’ for building another nation with our blood, wood, sweat and tears,
‘Sorry’ for being denied the right to toil on our own soil.
Let us not lament further sacrifice.
A soft gentle milken hand caressed our hair,
A sweet embrace pulled us close for comfort,
A listening ear let us know we mattered,
A wise word offered in times of distress,
Warmth so innate it had the touch of the divine.
A curious question to highlight your sense of devilment,
A wry smile which knew what we were up to,
A generosity which knew no bounds.
You offered your heart openly to share among us all,
We lapped it up as we did every delicious meal.
A style merchant as well as a speed merchant,
A domestic goddess as well as a hostess extraordinaire,
The aroma of fresh brown bread married with a brew of tea
Danced through the air and set the scene,
You balanced it all while raising a family of ten.
You were our sun, moon and stars,
You made sense of the world when we had lost our way,
You were our safe haven,
Our place of shelter and warmth when the journey got weary.
You took pride in us, you took delight in us.
You gave us everything,
And all you asked in return was our happiness.
We yearn to have you near to us again,
To remind you one last time how dearly we love you,
Express our gratitude and inadequacy at your selflessness.
Queen of our hearts,
No time to say goodbye.
A ray of heaven on earth, the apple of our eye,
A presence so soothing, babes fell asleep in your arms.
We knew this day would come – the eclipse loomed,
Our hearts would know this heaviness.
Our stomachs wrought with anguish.
We know you are among the chorus of angels,
We need you still to keep a watchful eye,
Let us know you can hear us.
May God cradle you in his arms just as you cradled us,
May you have peace and joy and comfort in your heavenly home,
We carry forward your presence in our hearts,
And know you will continue to guide us in this life,
Until we meet again Our Eternal Love.
Acceptance and other poems are © Deirdre Gallagher
The 22nd Minute Forbidden Fruit Green Coordinates. Anatomy of a sonnet The Fold Apocalypse |
 Alison Driscoll is a writer from Cork and is currently undertaking an MA Creative Writing in UCC. Her work has been previously published in Quarryman literary journal. She has been longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize and the Over The Edge New Writer of The Year Award. |
Parlour The Three Card Trick Man Prime Early Delivery |
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Author image: Southword / Arlen House |
Abigail Dufresne is a twenty-one year old poet, actress, and costume designer from Rhode Island with training in acting, design, movement, and devised theatre from Shakespeare and Company, The Stella Adler Studio of Acting, and The University of Rhode Island. At this point in her career Abigail finds herself drawn mostly to devised theatre and Shakespeare for the opportunities these provide to engage with both poetry and acting within the same medium. She looks forward to exploring how these disciplines can also live within other forms of art.
Aoife Read is a 34-year-old woman born and bred in Dublin. She is a breast cancer survivor, a lesbian and a quiet activist. Aoife has been writing from a young age, from journaling all through her teens to working as a journalist now, currently on a freelance basis, but in the past for local newspapers and as a deputy editor for various magazines. Her true love has always been for poetry though, and she has kept all of the poems she has written throughout her life from her early teens until now. A longtime resident of Swords Co. Dublin, Aoife lives in her family home with her cat, Xena. She has a partner of 6 years, Franky, who has been the focus of many of her poems. You might even say she is her muse, although she would murder Aoife for referring to her that way. Aoife has a huge passion for science, physics in particular, and is a comic book geek and gamer chick and a bit of an all-around nerd. These interests and fascinations are often found creeping into a lot of her work in various ways. Her recent battle with cancer is also something that has coloured a lot of her latest work. Her poetry and writing is laced with something deeper, perhaps thicker ever since.
Angela Patten is author of three poetry collections, In Praise of Usefulness (Wind Ridge Books), Reliquaries and Still Listening, both from Salmon Poetry, Ireland, and a prose memoir, High Tea at a Low Table (Wind Ridge Books). She was winner of the 2016 National Poetry Prize from the Cape Cod Cultural Center and her work has appeared in a variety of literary journals. Born and raised in Dublin, Ireland, she now lives in Burlington, Vermont, where she is a Senior Lecturer in the University of Vermont English Department.
Niamh Twomey is a student of English Literature and French in University College Cork. Winner of Hotpress Magazine’s ‘Write Here Write Now‘ competition in 2016, she has since published works in journals such as ‘Quarryman’, ‘Quill & Parchment’, amongst others.
Katherine Noone’s first poetry collection Keeping Watch was published by Lapwing Press (2017). Her poems have appeared in Orbis, Crannog, Boyne Berries, Linnets Wings, Her Heart Anthology, Skylight 47, Proost Poetry, Vallum digital edition, A New Ulster and Ropes Journal. 
Peggie Gallagher’s collection, Tilth was published by 
Chris Murray 