North West Words Spring Summer Issue 7

NORTH WEST WORDS SPRING/SUMMER ISSUE 7 

Photograph by Sinead Byrne 

POETRY 

FICTION PHOTOGRAPHY INTERVIEW FEATURES


Contents 

4 Editorial 

Competition Poetry (English language shortlist) 

8 Primary School Sixth Class June 1961 Michael Farry 

11 Father David Butler 

12 Bite Glen Wilson 

13 My Father’s Dictionary Frank Farrelly 

15 Somewhere in Between Brian Kirk 

17 This is Not a Dialogue Paul Bradley 

18 What I Do Not Know Is Aoife Reilly 

Competition Poetry (Irish language shortlist) 

23 An Fidileoir Máire Dinny Wren 

25 Gadaí na Geanmnaíochta Mícheál Ó Ruairc 

28 An abairt ghearr Seán Ó Muireagáin 

29 Deasghnáth Seosamh Ó Murchú 

31 Admháil na hOíche Shathairn, Cúpla Lá Iardheireadh 

Caidrimh 

Dubhán Ó Longáin 

32 Bruach Gearóid De Briotún 

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Fiction 

36 Chasing Rainbows Neil Brosnan 

44 First Things Last Joseph Kasler 

Poetry 

50 Coming out of Winter Moyra Donaldson 

51 Chough Watcher Edward Denniston 

53 A Word Kate Ennals 

55 The Begonia Room Ian Smith 

56 Bad News 1982 Mike Gallagher 

57 The Flood Holly Day 

59 A Faulty Pedometer Reading Lorraine Carey 

60 Galway Departures Tim Dwyer 

Interview 

62 Interview: Margaret O’Brien and Nollaig Brennan of The Story 

House Ireland 

Features 

70 Writing group profile: Pen2Paper - Donegal Town 

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Submissions welcome 

North West Words is published in May and November. The next 

submission deadline is October 01st 2017 and submissions will be 

accepted from 01st August 2017. 

Please submit no more than 3 poems or 1 short story (max 2,000 

words), non-fiction piece (max 800 words) or flash fiction (max 500 

words) or jpegs of photography/art. Send as an email attachment with 

‘NWW magazine submission’ and the category you are submitting to 

stated as the subject line of the email. Include a short biography (50- 

100 words) in the third person and a photo along with any links to your 

website/blog or social media site. 

All work must be the original work of the writer/artist and previously 

unpublished. Copyright remains with the writer/artist. 

At the moment, we cannot pay for work we publish. 

Email Submissions to: editornww@yahoo.com 

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Editorial 

Welcome to issue 7 of North West Words magazine. This is one of two 

editions planned for 2017, and it’s the first for the editing team of Nick 

Griffiths and Deirdre McClay. We’re very pleased to present you with 

a packed edition of writing from regular and new contributors: 21 

poems from both our two international poetry competitions (in 

English and in Irish) and our open submission; 2 short stories; an 

interview with Margaret O’Brien and Nollaig Brennan of The Story 

House Ireland; and, a feature article profiling the Donegal Town 

writing group Pen2Paper. 

We’ve had an eventful few months at North West Words with many 

wonderful readings in our new venue at Florence Food Co. 

Letterkenny. Thank you to our featured readers, musicians, open mic 

readers, and our audience. 

In November, we started a Twitter account and you can now follow us 

@_northwestwords. With both our Twitter and Facebook accounts, 

we seek to highlight local and regional writers, disseminate writing 

community news and to advertise our own events. 

Our two international poetry competitions were launched at the end 

of last year, and they culminated in two very enjoyable award events 

for English poetry in February, and Irish poetry in March. A special 

thanks to our two judges, Kate Newmann and Proinsias Mac a‘Bhaird, 

for the attention and care they took in their judging roles. Thank you 

also to our sponsors, Aurivo Co-operative Society Ltd/Donegal 

Creameries and Ealaín na Gaeltachta, and to everyone who entered 

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the competitions. We are delighted to publish the thirteen shortlisted 

poems from both competitions in this edition. 

North West Words was seven years old in March past. Many thanks to 

our ongoing sponsors: Donegal County Council, Earagail Arts Festival, 

and our wonderful venue Florence Food Co. Letterkenny. We run 

readings in Florence Food Co. Letterkenny on the last Thursday of each 

month with open mic at each session. You are welcome to drop in. 

A big thank you to all our contributors in this issue. We hope you, our 

readers, enjoy issue 7 as much as we enjoyed editing it. 

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Nick and Deirdre


Photographers in this issue: 

Sinead Byrne has had a keen interest in photography from a young age. She 

was always taking snapshots on disposable cameras and finding interesting 

ways to take photos of boring objects. Four years ago, she got her first ever 

Nikon DSLR camera, which she still uses today. Over the past two years she 

has been collecting lenses and different parts of equipment. She has been 

studying photography now at Letterkenny IT for the past two years and has 

ventured into various kinds of photography. She is hoping to continue her 

studies for the next few years. 

Nick Griffiths, when not involved in North West 

Words, writing, gardening or cooking, is a keen 

photographer with a special interest in nature 

photography. 

Photograph by Nick Griffiths 

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North West Words and Aurivo/Donegal Creameries 

Poetry Competition 2016 

(English Language) 

Winner Michael Farry receiving the Donegal Creameries 

Perpetual Cup 

L to R: Deirdre McClay (North West Words), Breíd Lindsay (Aurivo), Ann Marie 

Gallagher (North West Words), Michael Farry (1st prize winning poet), Guy 

Stephenson and Kate Bonar (North West Words), Kate Newmann (Summer Palace 

Press and competition judge) 

Read the seven winning and shortlisted poems below 

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1st Prize Michael Farry 

Primary School Sixth Class June 1961 

The exercise was easy, six nib dips in the ink 

and my page was filled. 

I wandered, counted hours to holidays. 

She coaxed catechism from fifth class, 

encouraged the slow, curbed the enthusiastic, 

chanted answers for memory. 

A car halted at Lipsett’s. 

Had they bought the Independent or Press? 

What was the answer to the driver’s question? 

McCormack’s dog barked and I guessed 

the cheery conversation meant a foreign letter, 

New Jersey or New South Wales. 

On our wall map of Europe 

Germany was undivided, the Antarctic uncrossed 

and the Congo still Belgian. 

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I wondered if my uncle was in Leopoldville or Elizabethville 

hoped for more letters stamped with exotic flowers 

overprinted in black. 

Who was turning the hay in the fort field? 

Who was cooking eggs and rashers? 

Who was scuffling weeds in the church grounds? 

When I found myself answering her question 

What is servile work? I stopped listening, 

examined my page for the last time, 

checked spellings, especially names: 

Patterson, Gagarin, Blanchflower, Lumumba, 

added three lines to the open question at the end: 

In summer we’ll play 

in the fields and woods all day 

except when we have to help at hay. 

Michael Farry 

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Michael Farry was selected for Poetry Ireland Introductions 2011. His 

poetry has been published in journals and anthologies in Ireland, the 

UK, America, Israel, India, Australia and Canada. His first poetry 

collection, Asking for Directions, was published by Doghouse Books, 

Tralee, in 2012. His second collection, The Age of Glass, will be 

published by Revival Press, Limerick, this year. His history book, Sligo, 

The Irish Revolution 1912-1923, was published in 2012 by Four Courts 

Press, Dublin. 


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Father 

What unsigned city is it that you wake in, 

Featureless, or with such altered feature 

the streets are not familiar, or if with 

shifting familiarity, like the dreamscapes 

you wake from? What day is it, the moving ridge 

hammered flat that separates past from future 

so all is present tense, a watery time 

in which the hours gradually dissolve? 

How is it that memory, once so sharp, 

has lost its stylus, and slides across the surface 

leaving no impression but vague anxiety 

that something isn’t right? And who are we 

who have come to ask you? Forgive us 

this daily trespass through your threadless maze. 

David Butler 

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Bite 

It is pink but not a real shade, 

I’ve never saw anything in nature adopt that colour 

but there they are - my dentures. 

The teeth are too white, an American smile 

that is easy to clean, rigid in a stoic clench, 

unaging, unliving, dead pegs that could outlive me. 

It looks distorted in the glass of water, bigger, taller, 

an anti-climax when I lift them out, shake off the residue, 

fit the two halves snugly in my mouth. 

It’ll save us money in the long run He said 

before he left for work in the shipyard that morning 

No more crowns and fillings to pay for. 

He is gone five years now. I never told him 

how I panicked that day when they pulled them all out, 

taking the bus home, head light from the pain relief. 

How I stood in the hall, looking in the mirror at the gap 

where my teeth used to be, unable to form words 

through a bouquet of blood and tissue paper. 

I learned to speak through these foreign teeth, 

the wounds in my gums are long healed over 

but the local anesthetic only lasted a short time. 

Glen Wilson 

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My Father’s Dictionary 

An old Oxford hardback, my father’s dictionary 

has been with us for as long as I remember. 

It travelled with us every time he transferred 

to another Garda station. Other books fell 

by the wayside, were lost, forgotten, or abandoned. 

His dictionary endures, the last man standing. 

It feels infallible--the final say, the nonpareil. 

He used it to check spelling, meaning, context, 

confirm a lazy morning hunch about some fourteen down. 

I often lift it up, flick its flimsy leaves 

till one he sellotaped from niello to nightingale 

arrests my scrolling thumb like a missed heartbeat. 

I love its pulpy smell, its homely mustiness, 

its frayed, arthritic spine, the way the page 

will turn without a sound, resettle like a drowsy wing, 

the Latinisms at the back, the dated acronyms; 

Beata Virgo Maria, locus sigilli. 

B.F for Bloody Fool, P.S.A. a Pleasant Sunday Afternoon. 

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When I visited him--- finally moved to hospital, 

he’d toss the crossword in my lap, See can you finish that! 

At times I thought to bring his dictionary, 

place it near his warfarin and sedatives 

----but I wanted so badly to believe he’d be coming home 

Frank Farrelly 


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Somewhere In Between 

My brothers were out in the fields, 

my sisters in the kitchen with our aunt 

while I was somewhere in between, 

hunting for eggs buried in warm hay 

in and around the outlying sheds. 

I wasn’t strong enough to lift bales, 

couldn’t be trusted with a pitchfork; 

even my soft hands were lethal, 

dropping near-hatched eggs on flags. 

I carried awkward buckets 

from the pump across the yard, 

socks squelching in wellies 

when I reached the kitchen door. 

I envied the older boys who rode 

the old Dexta up and down drills 

with steady hands. 

One day they let me have a go; 

I crushed plants in their prime, 

red-faced, couldn’t steer, couldn’t hear 

my uncle’s roars of knock her off! – 

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mind-wandered to a distant bird 

that could have been a cuckoo. 

From then on I was useless, 

fit company only for poor blind Pete, 

who sat at the back door stirring 

only when rain began to fall, growling 

when stray hens encroached. 

At dinner-time in the noisy heat, 

amid the sweat of hunger-driven men, 

the food grew in my mouth as I chewed, 

and when I took a drink to force it down 

I gagged, the creamy yellow warmth 

too much like nature, too unlike me. 

I wanted only to be older then, 

but by the time I got there 

everything had changed. 

Brian Kirk 

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This Is Not a Dialogue 

This is the dream of flying over water. 

This is love. These are the ones we love. 

This is why we live. This does not matter. 

This is the word that comforts or accuses. 

This is the hard choice. This is the noble path. 

This is justice. Justice will refuse us. 

This is the collared sky, its button moon. 

This is our home. This is the hope we build. 

This will last. This will be over soon. 

This is the sparrow spearing through the dark. 

This is the cradle over the abyss. 

This is forever. This is a fleeting spark. 

This is the path from nowhere to the tomb. 

These are our lives. These are the prayers we offer. 

This should mean something. To whom? 

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Paul Bradley


What I Do Not Know Is (after Dennis O’ Driscoll) 

That the phone will ring and ring. 

That it will not be her voice on the other end. 

That I will pound on someone’s kitchen floor and wail. 

That the police will be ashamed to take a statement. 

That my ‘to do’ lists will be empty. 

That the light of trees won’t touch me again for many years. 

That I will wear the green beads I gifted her from Africa. 

That I will keep searching her bedside drawers to understand. 

That I will wish I learned Fur Elise on the piano. 

That my children won’t have a grandmother. 

Because she will be scattered to the breeze in Liscannor 

Where the wind carries all the unsaid sorries 

and last days are repeated without end 

by hearts that must pulse on, picking up the love pieces. 

Aoife Reilly 

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David Butler is a novelist, poet and playwright. The most recent of his three 

published novels, 'City of Dis' (New Island) was shortlisted 

for the Kerry Group Irish Novel of the Year, 2015. His 

second poetry collection, All the Barbaric Glass, (Doire 

Press) has just been published. He is currently working on 

a Per Cent Literary Commission for Blackrock Library. 

Literary prizes include the Fish International Award for the 

short story, the SCDA, Cork Arts Theatre and British 

Theatre Challenge for drama, and the Féile Filíochta, Ted McNulty and 

Brendan Kennelly awards for poetry. 

Glen Wilson lives in Portadown, Co Armagh with his wife 

and children. He has been widely published having work in 

The Honest Ulsterman, Iota, Southword and The Incubator 

Journal amongst others. In 2014 he won the Poetry Space 

competition and was shortlisted for the Wasafiri New 

Writing Prize. He was joint third in the 2016 Donegal 

Creameries/Aurivo Poetry Competition. He won the Seamus 

Heaney Award for New Writing 2017 for his Poem The Lotus Gait. He is 

working towards his first collection. Twitter @glenhswilson 

glenhswilson@facebook.com 

Frank Farrelly is from Waterford. His poems have appeared 

in The SHOp, The Stinging Fly, The Moth, The Honest 

Ulsterman, Crannog, The Stony Thursday Book, Boyne 

Berries, Revival, Poets Meet Politics and Poets Meet 

Painters. He was shortlisted for the Writing Spirit Award 

2010, was twice runner-up in the Fish Poetry Prize, won 

Second Place in the Doolin Poetry Prize 2015, and Joint 

Second in North West Words 2017. His poetry chapbook, 

'Close to Home' was published in 2017. 

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Brian Kirk is an award winning poet and short story writer 

from Dublin. He was nominated twice for Hennessy Awards 

for fiction and was selected for the Poetry Ireland 

Introductions Series in 2013. His novel for 9 -12 year olds, 

The Rising Son, was published in December 2015. He was 

shortlisted for The Patrick Kavanagh Award in 2014 and 

2015. His first poetry collection After The Fall is forthcoming 

from Salmon Poetry in 2017. He blogs at www.briankirkwriter.com 

Paul Bradley lives and works in Letterkenny, and, having 

given up on writing for a number of years, finally picked up 

the pen - or at least the keyboard - with fresh interest a few 

years ago. Ideally he'd find a profession combining his love 

of travel, photography, and writing, but while he waits for 

that very particular offer, he writes a weekly column in the 

Donegal news, and is currently in the early stages of 

preparing a second poetry collection (his first, Utter, was published in 2013). 

Aoife Reilly lives in Ireland. Her poems have appeared in 

Crannóg, Skylight 47, The Ogham Stone, Ropes, Galway 

Review, in on-line magazines and on the Poethead 

website. Aoife was short-listed for the Doolin Poetry Prize 

and read at the Cúirt International Festival as part of Over 

The Edge New Irish Writing. 

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North West Words and Ealaín na Gaeltachta and 

Aurivo/Donegal Creameries Poetry Competition 2016 

(Irish Language) 

Winner Máire Dinny Wren 

L to R: Breíd Lindsay (Aurivo), Máire Dinny Wren (1st prize winning poet), Rachel 

Holstaed (Ealaín na Gaeltachta) and Proinsias Mac a’Bhaird (competition judge) 

Read the six winning and shortlisted poems below. 

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1st prize Máire Dinny Wren 

An Fidileoir 

Do John Doherty 

D’fhidil i dtólamh faoi d’ascail leat 

is tú ag fánaíocht ar na bóithre. 

Ba leor duit sráideog theolaí 

is dídean na hoíche ag deireadh aistir. 

Nuair a lúb tú bogha na fidle 

dhúisigh tú draíocht dhiamhair 

is chur speabhraidí ar éanacha na spéire 

a thuirling le ceiliúir a choinneáil leat. 

Maireann lorg do cheoil ar chosáin siúil, 

Ó thránna bána go dtí na Cruacha; 

macalla as gach cnoc is gleann 

is caoinche cheoil i gceo na maidine. 

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Samhlaím tú ag triall mar is dual duit, 

le meanmnacht is le mórtas cine, 

sruth an cheoil ina rabharta as do bhogha 

is éanacha na spéire do chomóradh. 

Máire Dinny Wren 

As Gaoth Dobhair don fhile agus gearrscéalaí, Máire Dinny Wren. Tá cnuasach 

filíochta agus cnuasach gearrscéalta léi foilsithe agus cuid mhaith dá saothar 

foilsithe sna hirisí Gaeilge. I 2011, d’fhoilsigh Coiscéim a cnuasacht filíochta, 

Ó Bhile go Bile agus d’fhoilsigh Éabhlóid Go mbeinnse choíche saor, cnuasacht 

gearrscéalta, i 2016. Tá roinnt duaiseanna buaite aici, ina measc, duais Fhoras 

na Gaeilge ag Féile Scríbhneoirí Lios Tuathail i 2010 don gearrscéal Ag 

Téarnamh chun Baile agus duais chomórtas filíochta Uí Néill leis an dán Lúb 

ar Lár i 2011. Bhí léiriú RTÉ Drama on One den gearrscéal Thar an Tairseach 

ar an ghearrliosta don dráma raidió is fearr ag an Prix Europa i mBeirlín i 2013. 

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Gadaí na Geanmnaíochta 

is san oíche a thagannn sé i gconaí 

gadaí na geanmnaíochta 

ag uair mhairbh na hoích’ 

is an uile ní ina shuan 

cloistear coiscéimeanna éadroma 

amuigh sa dorchla 

nó gíoscán na gclár urláir 

ar an léibheann cheann staighre 

agus tú idir codladh agus dúiseacht 

idir taibhreamh agus aisling bhréige 

i do luí i d’aonar 

i gceartlár na hoích’ 

i do leaba the theolaí 

meáchan an chodlata 

mar ualach trom ar do thoirt 

bhog leochaileach neamhfhorbartha 

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doras an tseomra leathoscailte 

á shá isteach go discréideach 

lámha fadharchánacha 

dod gharbhfháisceadh 

d’éadaí oíche á dtarraingt aníos 

bolaithe aithnidiúla uisce bheatha 

agus tobac stálaithe 

dod phlúchadh 

slat ramhar chrua ró-the 

á brú idir do cheathrúna 

teanga thochailteach fhliuch 

á sleamhnú isteach i do bhéal 

guth íseal éagnach impíoch 

ag géarú i do cluasa 

cnead beag sástachta an chlabhsúir 

agus ansan an dorchadas agus an tost 

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ag athghabháil seilbhe ort 

teas na leapa dod mhealladh 

chun codlata athuair 

gan fágtha ach blúiríní beaga fánacha 

an t-uachtar doirtithe 

a ghreamaíonn do cheathrúna le chéile 

an boladh aisteach a fhágtar sa leaba 

an bhábog dhishealbhaithe 

caite go hamscaí 

ar an urlár le hais na leapa 

lena dúrún daingean do-inste 

greanta go domhain 

ina ceannaithe geanmnaí 

an mhaidin dar gcionn 

nuair a dhúisíonn tú 

as do thromluí 

Micheál O’Ruairc 

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An abairt ghearr 

I saol na habairte giorra 

Is annamh iad gonta 

In áit chaint aicearrach 

Tá againn an friotal éadrom 

Breaceolas i mbeagán focal 

Tá gach bladh ina shithbhladh 

Tá cáil agus míchiall ar aon rian 

alladh gan bhunús ar ndóigh 

Níl aon saoithiúlacht a dhíth 

Is ionann duáilce agus suáilce 

Is clúití lútálaí ná cúis a mhearghrá 

Tá ré dhochreidte na cumarsáide 

Ag maolú réidh na cumarsáide 

D’fhéadfá a rá i mbeagán focal 

Tá muid ag dul i ndallintleachtachta 

Seán Ó Muireagáin 

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Deasghnáth 

Bhain scil ar leith 

Le ceansú na péiste 

Lena haimsiú i lár a béil 

Agus í ag lúbarnaíl 

Amhail is gur thuig 

Gur á sá a bhíomar 

Ar rinn duáin go méith 

Chun go meallfadh sí 

Breac rua i ndubh na hoíche 

Nach bhféadfadh cur suas 

Do cholainn shúmhar theann 

Bíodh gur thuig seisean gur válsa 

Mall an éaga a bhí roimhe 

Feitheamh fada ar eití laga 

I ngreim ag an dorú a caitheadh 

Le dóchas na neafaise. 

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Ar maidin a thógfaí 

Ar láimh é, á bhogadh 

Go mall réidh thar 

Friofac is rinn 

Go sáfaí ordóg 

Siar ina scornach 

Is bhainfí freanga righin 

An bháis as caol a dhroma 

É á ídiú féin go dólásach 

I gcroí tais do dhearnan 

Ceacht maraithe i gcrích 

Roimh aghaidh a thabhairt ar scoil. 

Seosamh Ó Murchú 

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Admháil na hOíche Shathairn, Cúpla Lá Iardheireadh Caidrimh 

Bean anaithnid fúm 

Í brúite leis an bhalla – 

Caithim coiscín líonta chun talaimh 

Gan m’fhuath a chur faoi cheilt. 

Meangadh ar a béal, 

Dúil ar m’aghaidh, 

Ocras agus santacht 

In anáil dhomain. 

Amcarchaim uirthi, 

Síleann sí gur ise a fheicim. 

Cuireann sí cuma tharraingteach uirthi – 

Buaileann talann náire mé. 

An t-uaigneas do mo chiapadh 

Agus blaisim thú go fóill – 

Mé ag útamáil le coiscín eile. 

Dubhán Ó Longáin 

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Bruach 

Ó bhialann ghrianmhar Ghréagach 

cim leanaí órga san fharraige cháite. 

Slaparnach is súrac 

seal isteach. seal amach. 

Gáire cosnocht pocléimnach 

I gcúr -bhrothall lae. 

Buicéid bheaga bhuí 

á líonadh gan chúis 

á bhfolamhú gan cás. 

Tochailt gan allas 

do phuróga cruinne 

nó do bhlaosc portán. 

Gach béic mar chling chloigín. 

Ar thrá Bodrum na Túirce 

cím leanbh eile i T-leine fíondearg 

sínte san fharraige cháite. 

Slaparnach is súrac 

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mar chogar cluaise. 

Tonnta spíonta ag cuimilt 

a leicne marmair. 

Codladh gan dúiseacht 

ceaptha go síoraí 

ar chiumhais mara 

ar imeall trá. 

Gearóid De Briotún 


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Micheál O’Ruairc Is as Bréanainn sa Leitriúch i gContae 

Chiarraí do Mhícheál ó dhúchas ach tá cónaí air i mBaile 

Átha Cliath ó 1980. Tá dhá cheann déag d’úrscéalta agus dhá 

chnuasach gearrscéalta i gcló aige sa Ghaeilge. Tá iliomad 

duaiseanna buaite aige dá chuid gearrscéalta agus úrscéalta 

Gaeilge. Tá ceithre chnuasach filíochta Gaeilge foilsithe agus 

ceann amháin as Béarla. Tá duaiseanna buaite aige as a chuid 

filíochta agus foilsíodh dánta dá chuid i ndíolaimí éagsúla. Tá filí clúiteacha 

aistrithe go Gaeilge aige, ina measc W.H. Auden, W.B. Yeats, Vasko Popa agus 

Thomas Hardy. Bhuaigh an bailiúchán filíochta is déanaí uaidh, ceann 

dhátheangach, Dambatheanga:Damlanguage (Arlen House, 2014) an chéad 

duais i gComórtais Liteartha an Oireachtais 2014. 

Seán Ó Muireagáin: Is as Béal Feirste mé, Iarthar na cathrach 

sin, in áit a bheirtear Lóistín na Móna uirthi. Níor thoisigh mé 

a fhoghlaim na teanga seo go raibh mé 18 d'aois, tá mé píosa 

maith níos sine ná sin anois. chuir mé spéis in achan ghné den 

teanga; amhránaíocht, scéalaíocht, áisteoireacht agus achan 

rud eile nach iad. Bhí mé mall ag teacht isteach ar an 

scríbhneoireacht, 7 mbliana ó shin is dócha; ach is díograiseoir 

mé go fóill. Scríobhaim amhráin, scéaltaí, filíocht agus go leor leor eile. Níl 

ach aon bhealach amháin leis an Ghaeilge a choinneáil beo creidim féin, í a 

labhairt,í a cheol agus í a scríobh. 

As Bealach Féich i gContae Dhún na nGall do Dhubhán Ó 

Longáin. Bhain sé fochéim sa Ghaeilge agus iarchéim taighde 

amach in Ollscoil Uladh. Bronnadh cuid mhór duaiseanna air 

agus é san ollscoil. Ar an duais is mó, bronnadh an Richard K. 

Degenhardt Belleek Collectors' Scholarship 2016 air mar gheall 

ar a thaighde nuair a chuir sé eagrán béil de laoi Fiannaíochta in eagar. Tá 

dánta leis foilsithe in An tUltach, North West Words, Peann ar Pháipéar agus 

Feasta. Bhain sé an chéad áit amach sa chatagóir Gaeilge den France Browne 

Bicentennial Poetry Competition. 

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Seosamh Ó Murchú As Loch Garman do Sheosamh Ó Murchú 

ó dhúchas. Bhain sé céim mháistreachta amach sa Nua- 

Ghaeilge i gColáiste Phádraig, Maigh Nuad. Chaith sé trí 

bliana ina eagarthóir ar an iris Comhar i lár na n‐ochtóidí 

agus bhí sé ina chomhbhunaitheoir agus ina 

chomheagarthóir ar an irisleabhar liteartha, Oghma, 1989- 

1998. Bhí sé ar an mbaicle daoine a bhunaigh an stáisiún 

raidió pobail, Raidió na Life, i mBaile Átha Cliath i dtosach na nóchaidí. 

Ceapadh ar an bhfoireann eagarthóireachta sa Ghúm é in 1986 mar a bhfuil 

sé ina Eagarthóir Sinsearach anois. Foilsíodh dánta leis ar Comhar, Feasta agus 

Poetry Ireland Review. Iardhuaiseoir é ag Féile Filíochta Bhéal na mBuillí agus 

d’fhoilsigh Coiscéim a chéad chnuasach, Taisí Tosta, in 2015. 

Gearóid De Briotún Rugadh agus tógadh mé in Inse Cór nó in 

Inse na gCaor lámh le Príosún Chill Mhaighneann ar an taobh 

ó dheas de Chathair Bhaile Átha Cliath.Is áit thar a bheith 

stairiúíl é Inse Cór agus tógadh mé le scéalta faoi na Fíníní 

agus faoi Laochra na Cásca 1916. Níl Gaeilge agam ón 

gcliabhán mé ach bhi an-spéis agus an-mheas ag mo mháthair ar an nGaeilge 

agus ar gach rud a bhain le cultúr na hÉireann. Bhain mé bunchéim amach sa 

Ghaeilge i gColáiste na hOllscoile , BÁC agus iar-chéim san ábhar céanna 

amach i gColáiste Mhá -Nuad ina dhiaidh sin. Thosaigh mé ag scríobh filíochta 

sa Ghaeilge sa bhliain 2012 agus tá roinnt dántá liom foilsithe sna hIrisí "An t- 

Ultach" agus "Comhar" ó shin i leith.Baineann an dán bruach leis an tragóid 

a bhain don bhuachaill óg sin Alan Kurdi a bádh sa Tuirc agus é féin agus a 

mhuintir ag iarraidh na cosa a thabhairt leo ón gcogadh sa tSiria. Tá lánchead 

agat mo dhán a fhoilsiú san iris "North West Words" 

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Chasing Rainbows 

A headland materialises through thinning fog. Below, dark jagged 

rocks slither and scramble upwards from the yellowed crests of a 

roiling sea. A sun-dappled patchwork of emeralds, jades and limes – 

seamed with ditches, streams and stone walls – makes me wonder if 

this is what Dad had meant by a land held together by its divisions. 

For nearly twenty years I’d been urging him to make this trip. Following 

his third stroke I had decided to do it for him – to be his eyes and ears. 

In the months since his death I’ve accepted that I will have to be more 

than just eyes and ears: I must now be his heart and soul. Why didn’t 

you ever come back, Dad? I ponder, feeling closer to him than at any 

time since childhood. 

Yet again, I hope my disappointment hadn’t shown at my twenty-twoyear-old 

son’s outright refusal to join my pilgrimage. As then, I console 

myself with the thought that Jack is already too old to view the 

experience through his grandfather’s eyes, while still too young to do 

so through mine. 

Though Seán and I have never met, we have long been aware of each 

other – even more so since the loss of his father, just six weeks after 

mine. Not only do we share a name, we share our grandfather’s name 

– as does our fathers’ youngest sibling, Fr John, who has spent most of 

his adult life in a futile quest to reconcile his estranged brothers. 

Recognition is instant. Sallow-skinned, greying and bearded, we are of 

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similar height, build and carriage, and, though Seán is a few years 

older, we could almost pass as twins. My attempted embrace is 

stymied by the ferocity of Seán’s grip; the rigidity of his arm. As though 

by telepathic agreement, he quickly redeploys the restraining hand to 

a brief bout of self-conscious back-slapping. 

Our reserves of small-talk are exhausted before we reach the cool of 

the exit doors. Eager to forge a rapport, and impressed by the 

effortless way Seán swings my heavy trolley case onto his shoulder, I 

ask if he works-out. He shoots me a sidelong glance and, without 

breaking stride, replies that, unlike Manhattan shrinks, Irish farmers 

work both inside and out. 

Having given up on conversation by the time we leave the motorway, 

I content myself with fleeting glances through the gaps and gateways 

in the elastic stretches of hedgerows and drystone walls that flash by 

the Land Rover’s windows. With the silence growing almost 

companionable, I find myself comparing and contrasting the landscape 

with the blueprint in my mind. I’m taken aback by the frequency and 

size of the houses. Many of the newer additions are great hulking 

mansions, book-ended by carports and conservatories, while others 

are unfinished skeletons – abandoned, aborted. 

The village is smaller than I’ve expected – and deathly quiet. The only 

premises I recognise is Dolan’s Bar & Grocery, but its dilapidated state 

suggests that it’s been some time since any human has crossed its 

cobwebbed threshold. Turning left after the bridge, I shudder: this is 

more like it. Almost every farmyard, avenue and lane brings a flood of 

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names and sayings, of imagined accents and faces. There is no 

mistaking the almost mammary curves of the twin hillocks away to our 

right; Dad’s description had been spot-on. These are the Ten Acres, 

across the road from the main holding, where the ewes and lambs 

would be turned out in spring, along with a couple of replacement 

heifers and the few choice bullocks being retained for the October fair. 

“We’re here,” Seán says, swinging left into a tarred avenue. The 

anticipated weanlings are absent from the white-railed Lawn Paddock; 

instead, two young horses prance towards us – skittish spindly 

creatures, a world away from the pragmatic power of Toby, the stoic 

bay shire of Dad’s youth. A black-and-white collie is worrying the 4X4’s 

tyres, just as I’d visualised the legendary Shep snapping at the ironshod 

wheels of Toby’s hay-cart. Heartened by both the dog’s yapping 

and its master’s scolding, I begin to wonder if a single week will be long 

enough. 

Even before the vehicle halts at the rear of the two-storey farmhouse, 

my thoughts are soaring beyond the fuel tank, beyond the pumphouse, 

beyond the byre, to trees laden with ripening apples, which 

shouldn’t be eaten until September, and to the plump currants, 

strawberries, raspberries and gooseberries that aren’t supposed to be 

eaten at all. 

Seán shows me upstairs to the back bedroom our fathers had shared 

in boyhood. While I’m mildly disappointment that the iron bedsteads 

and horsehair mattresses have been replaced by twin divans, it’s 

nothing to the sense of betrayal I feel when Seán answers that the 

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orchard has long since been cleared for grazing. 

Despite my suggesting a restaurant, Seán insists on frying striploin 

steaks from a home-produced Limousin heifer. Dad had never 

mentioned beef being part of the family’s diet, but would frequently 

boast that – other than tea, sugar, flour and salt – the farm had been 

self-sufficient. Bacon, mutton, poultry, fish, game, milk, eggs, butter, 

fruit, vegetables, jams and preserves had all sprung from the acres our 

ancestors had killed and died for. Whether or not a fatted calf has been 

sacrificed in honour of the prodigal’s son, the potato chips and 

accompanying vegetables could well have come from a Walmart 

freezer, and the cream topping on our Irish coffees has been squirted 

from an aerosol can. 

With Seán busy cooking, I browse the ranks of photos on the parlour 

sideboard. There is a black-and-white study of Seán’s father and Dad, 

suited and booted, on their confirmation day; another snap includes 

their proud parents, resplendent in their Sunday-best, along with two 

bashful, beribboned sisters attired in pale dresses, ankle socks and 

sandals. A toddling Fr John completes the line-up, in a shirt and bow 

tie, his eyes downcast towards a pair of knee-length trousers. Framed 

nearby is a grinning, wild-eyed youth who could almost have been my 

teenaged father, but his hair is too long. 

My eyes drift to Seán’s family, colourfully captured on the day of the 

handsome son’s conferring. Young Jonathan is travelling in Europe 

now, enjoying a break before returning to complete his Masters. 

Seán’s wife and daughter are also away, caring for his mother-in-law – 

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who is recuperating following a hip replacement. I almost ask Seán 

how he feels about his spouse’s extended absence but, remembering 

which of us is divorced, I reconsider. My gaze lingers on Seán’s lovely 

daughter – a new face, but with eerily familiar features. Swallowing 

dryly, I wonder if news of my visit might have precipitated the mass 

exodus of Seán’s household. 

Several hours later, I steal a final glance across the darkened valley and 

wonder behind which of the blinking windows Lillie Breen had slept 

before becoming my uncle’s wife. Switching off the bedside lamp, I 

have a clear picture of the home Dad had woken up to on that final 

morning. Except for the additions of a new kitchen, bathroom and 

sunroom, things are very much as he had remembered. Yet, I can’t but 

wonder what he would have made of the pristine outbuildings, the 

high-tech machinery, the black huddles of plastic-wrapped silage 

bales, the lush pastures, and the huge alien beasts that have displaced 

the docile Shorthorns of yore. My final waking thoughts are of the 

smiling girl in the sepia photo I’d found in the secret drawer of Dad’s 

bureau. There had also been six dog-eared letters, each separated by 

a week, each begging a reply, all refuting the same allegation. 

Deciding not to close the bedroom curtains on my second night in the 

old homestead, I discover that, by resting my head on the pillows of 

the other bed, I have a clear view of the lights of the Breen farmhouse. 

I know her actual window now – Fr John had pointed it out during our 

morning drive around the neighbourhood. Fr John remembers Lillie 

well; not only had he served as altar boy at her nuptials, but he had 

celebrated her funeral mass, and led the final prayers before her burial 

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– with her own people – in the cemetery across the river. Fr John had 

gone to some lengths to point out that he was only ten when Dad had 

set off to drive three store bullocks to the October fair… 

On the following Monday, Gran had received a telegram from her 

sister in Brooklyn. Seán’s father was the first born; Dad had arrived a 

mere eleven months later, followed by Kit, and then May. Both girls 

had become teachers and had married and settled in Dublin. Fr John 

had completed the brood; perhaps his being so much younger than 

Dad might account for their contradictory recollections of childhood. 

After a lifetime as a London curate, Fr John has retired to the old 

gatekeeper’s cottage at the level crossing beyond the village. 

Lillie’s window no longer blinks; night – as black as the ravens that 

roost in the Scots pines above the Ten Acres – has enveloped the 

house, the hillside, the valley where adventuring brothers had 

rounded up maverick geese on barefoot mustangs, the river where 

growing boys had bathed and fished, and where – a few days before 

his sixteenth birthday – Seán had found his mother’s body. 

Finally attaining the sanctuary of sleep, I dream that under Fr John’s 

benevolent gaze, Seán and I coax steaming jets of rich milk from the 

udders of the feral suckler cows that had stalked us through the River 

Field that evening. Occasionally, the bawling of a disoriented calf or 

the clucking of a mother hen can be heard above our carefree clamour. 

In the bog, choirs of lofty skylarks keep a weather eye out for spies 

from Brussels while we sleán, pike and spread sods of EU-prohibited 

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turf, and, after an afternoon of thinning turnips in the haggard, our 

uncle leads us, through a tunnel of buzzing bees and fluttering 

butterflies, to the lost orchard where the sweetest of forbidden fruits 

await. 

I’m awakened by Dad’s voice, but no words are distinguishable in his 

incoherent drone; his face swims momentarily into focus, its Florida 

tan forever frozen on the memorial cards I’ve given to his brother and 

nephew. Seán seems nonplussed by my decision to cut my visit short. 

Absently, I follow his gaze to where the Breen farmhouse, crowned by 

the brow of an anaemic rainbow, sits perfectly framed in the kitchen 

window. 

The dog rants unchallenged to the end of the avenue. Tossing cascades 

of droplets from chestnut manes and tails, the thoroughbred yearlings 

canter apace, as though instinctively preparing for greater challenges 

ahead. 

In contrast with the reverse airport journey, it is Seán who now 

initiates little spatters of dialogue; I respond with polite frequency, but 

my thoughts are wandering beyond the vehicle’s rain-streaked 

windows, beyond the miasmas of traffic and tarmac that congeal to a 

leaden horizon. 

Reaching the car park, Seán asks about my younger brother who died 

at his desk in the North Tower on 9/11, just two years after escaping 

unscathed from the bombing of the US Embassy in Nairobi. Unloading 

my luggage, I’m taken aback by Seán’s insistence on accompanying me 

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inside the terminal building. 

Over coffee, Seán tells me how his elder brother – of whom I’d never 

heard – had blown himself up while driving a vanload of semtex over 

the Armagh border. A long silence follows; perhaps, like me, Seán is 

grappling with the thought that our sons are now at the age at which 

our brothers had died. 

Our parting hug is spontaneous and fierce; the icy void of the fathers’ 

lives somehow thawed by the afterglow of the sons’ deaths. Passing 

the ranks of touristy postcards on my way to the departure gate, I 

realise how few photos I’ve taken during my stay. I had envisioned 

filling several memory cards, and making a DVD for Jack – but Jack is 

somewhere in Mexico, chasing rainbows of his own. 

Neil Brosnan 

Neil Brosnan’s stories have appeared in magazines, anthologies and in 

electronic format throughout Ireland, the UK, and the USA. A 

former winner of the Bryan MacMahon, and the Ireland’s 

Own short story awards, he is the author of two short story 

collections, ‘Fresh Water and other stories’ (Original Writing) 

2010, and ‘Neap Tide & other stories’ (New Binary Press) 

2013. 

https://sites.google.com/site/neilbrosnanwrites/ 

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First Things Last 

The dark red puddle surrounding me on the floor began to recede, as 

I lay there like a sponge. I could feel the blood returning through the 

half-dollar sized exit wound in the back of my head. My body rose to 

a standing position by way of reverse collapse. Once I was fully 

upright, I felt the bullet return through the exit wound and pass 

through the various tissues in my head. As the bullet regressed 

quickly, I felt the skin and flesh return to its proper position as the hole 

began to close. The instant the bullet reversed through the entrance 

wound, I felt excruciating pain. Then immediately it was gone. I heard 

the loud clap of the pistol as the sour smell of spent gunpowder 

danced in my nose. My vision returned instantly with a brilliant flash. 

I was staring into the barrel of his gun. 

The surly eyes of the gunman showed no remorse in that brief moment 

that our stares were married. His decision to end my life was made 

without any hesitation or second thought. Anger and adrenaline made 

his face flush, but still, calmness emanated off him like a low heat from 

warm coals. I heard nothing but the washy swells of indistinguishable 

sounds, similar to being under water in a swimming pool. The chaos 

happened so fast, yet tortured me in slow motion. My heart pounded 

in my chest and I failed to breath. I was engulfed and frozen by fear, 

unable to comprehend, or accept my current circumstance as I stood 

facing death. My life did not flash before my eyes in that vulnerable 

fraction of a second. I simply stood there feeling more alone and 

useless than I ever had before. The gun that was pointed at me, now 

made its way in the direction of a man in an expensive white collared 

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shirt with a coral colored tie. The gunman’s head turned away from 

me, then his body followed. Immediately the overwhelming tension 

disappeared from me, and I felt weightless and sick. 

I watched the man, who had just been shot, lunge to his feet from the 

booth where his body had fallen dead from the fatal blow to his back. 

The blood on his white shirt disappeared through the closing bullet 

hole as he flailed wildly in reverse, heading back towards the gunman. 

His face resumed the look of fear and determination to escape, as he 

returned to life. Screams suffocated all other sounds as the ring from 

the shot vanished. Others near him, who had ducked for cover in 

horror of the shot, now returned to face the action as paralyzed 

onlookers. Their faces were painted with an identical expression of 

fear and disbelief. The man now faced the gunman with his own look 

of confusion and terror as he instinctively begged for his life. He had 

returned to this position from his attempt to run away from certain 

death. Smoke, from the first shot, crawled back into the barrel of the 

pistol that was now pointed directly at him. Screams from the terrified 

witnesses filled the room. I stood like a statue stunned from fear, 

unable to formulate any movement or reaction to what had just 

happened. Then the barrel made its journey in reverse from the man 

in the white shirt to the direction of the first victim, the cashier. 

Her corpse, laying face up on the floor, reanimated and unbuckled 

back to a standing position. Her light brown apron that had partially 

fallen off, straightened on her body. Her short, dyed red hair, rested 

back into place above her pale white face. The clap sound echoed 

loudly then faded quickly as the bullet left her forehead and re- 

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entered the gun. Suddenly, her eyes were open as wide as they could 

go. Her face was that pale flesh color that accompanies a sick person 

as they wait to vomit. Her jaw hung suspended in mid-gasp. The 

instant fear brought on by the muzzle, penetrated her like the stare 

from a cold black eye of a shark. A few of the customers who had 

become aware of the situation stood frozen in disbelief, while others 

began to duck under tables or run for the door. The confusion that 

had originated from the cashier had contagiously spread to those close 

enough to witness her peril. The gun broke the line of sight between 

her and the gunman as he pointed it angrily at her. The gunman’s arm 

lowered and his weapon returned to his pocket after being just inches 

from the cashier’s annoyed face. She continued to deny the barrage 

of accusations charging from him, implying that she had been 

unfaithful in their relationship. The man grew impatient and uneasy. 

Their conversation had escalated into a public confrontation, as he 

loudly demanded answers from her. 

The man at the counter and the cashier conversed awkwardly through 

whispers. It appeared that she and this man were in a relationship. 

He was short with disheveled brown hair. His blue and brown tattered 

flannel shirt had a rip in the elbow. He had on jeans with a ripped back 

pocket and a hole in the knee. His red face hid beneath a nine o’clock 

shadow. The second man in line, directly in front of me, peered at his 

watch numerous times to display his growing impatience with the 

exchange occurring ahead of him. He had short, neatly styled black 

hair that crowned his clean-shaven face. He wore an expensive white 

collared shirt with a coral colored tie. His belt looked brand new, 

holding up a pair of jet-black Canali dress pants. His shoes were 

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recently shined black leather. I assumed that he worked in one of the 

offices nearby and that he was in danger of running late for an 

important meeting. My wait in line had already extended past what 

would be considered average. I stood anxiously, trying 

inconspicuously to find out what was taking so long ahead of me. As I 

waited, I scrolled through my Facebook feed, stopping to read random 

posts that caught my attention. I was finally ready to order after the 

long struggle to choose exactly what I wanted. I always get very 

confused at coffee shops, trying to sift through the multitude of drink 

menu items and then figuring out the correct way to vocalize my 

selection. I stared at the drink menu on the wall like a student, without 

an answer, stares at a problem on a chalkboard. Walking backwards 

towards the door, I retreated from the line of just two others ahead of 

me. There were three occupied booths to the left of the door next to 

a row of windows and two more booths to the left of the counter that 

were empty. The counter was directly in front of the door on the 

opposite wall. To the right side, there were a couple small round 

tables covered with cheap plastic red and black-checkered tablecloths. 

The customers at these tables sipped their drinks while staring at their 

phones or laptops, as others talked quietly among themselves. The 

shop was on a very busy downtown street, wedged between two large 

office towers. There were offices located on the floors above the shop 

as well. It had been converted a few years back from an old diner to a 

coffee shop. In fact, it looked more like an old diner on the inside than 

a newer trendy coffee shop. There were no couches, fireplace, or any 

of the décor that most coffee shops flaunted. The look was not overly 

appealing and it was hard to tell if it was an attempt to go in the 

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direction of retro diner, or if the owners simply ran out of money for 

renovations. The walls showcased photographs from a local artist 

whose theme was that drab “city scape” in black and white with a 

heavy gray scale. The kind of artwork that begs for vibrant color to 

bring it to life and make it pop, but instead hangs lifeless on the wall. 

There was an indie rock station playing faintly through a couple Bose 

speakers hanging in two corners. I heard a loud thud, then the door 

opened behind me. As I continued in reverse, out the door and onto 

the street, the sweet smell of coffee wafted out of my nose. I released 

the doorknob to the coffee shop as I backed away from the door. I 

thought to myself, “I have some time, a quick cup of coffee won’t kill 

me.” 

Joseph Kasler 

Joseph Kasler is a writer/musician who lives in Pittsburgh, PA. He has been 

working in the Residential Appraisal industry for the last 10 years. He 

currently plays numerous instruments in a project called “They were Aliens.” 

He just recently completed his first manuscript of 26 short stories that offers 

a comedic view on the personal interactions that occur within our 

interconnected world. He is married and has a four year-old daughter. 

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Coming out of Winter 

When I told the young GP I’d always been prone to melancholy, 

she looked at me strangely, it’s not a word for which 

she has a prescription; but here, now, today, the sun is shining 

and I have showered and washed my hair and I’m carrying on 

moment to moment as she advised and I have plans 

to plant some flowers and preciously waste some time 

by looking out the window at the buzzard on her high tree 

and at the bright blaze of gorse and the beginning of greening. 

Though the May’s not out, so I won’t take off my coat just yet. 

Moyra Donaldson 

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Chough Watcher 

He drives to the coast 

to watch choughs, 

for years, the same cliffs: 

up the broad back 

of friable sedimentary rock, 

glacial till, rough grazing, 

to look out and down 

on a skelliged bay. 

This time he understands 

it’s time: leave well-enough alone, 

drive to the coast, bear witness 

to the caprice of choughs – 

cut and swathe, dip and arc; 

the roll and glide 

wing-shut aplomb, 

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the orangey red massy black 

alighting, gliding in to land 

on grassy slopes 

binocular-close: peck, peck, 

quarr, quarr, tail flick… 

enthrallment, a saving grace 

to outmanoeuvre his becalming 

in a house of sorted boxed-up 

labelled belongings 

from which 

he’s driven south 

to these cliffs - 

to be a watcher of choughs, 

not some 

grief-stricken archivist. 

Edward Denniston 

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The Begonia Room 

When she marries him he discovers garage sales. 

Saturdays, up yawning instead of making love, 

dawn light blessing their empty double bed. 

He punctuates time off with pre-loved indoor plants, 

re-potting, bathing dusty leaves, perianths trembling, 

hands careful like a surgeon’s excising damaged flesh. 

A crumbling rear room, concrete floor, renovations. 

She photographs him staining window frames, 

shovelling mortar for bluestone window seats, 

broad ledges for beauties crying out for attention, 

Painted-leaf, Mountain, Wax, Christmas, Angel Wing. 

After work he hurries to them, first drink in hand. 

Steamed up with the gusto of obsession 

he didn’t consider the room’s chill when winter came, 

bottle balanced on bluestone, his love’s thirst waned. 

Visiting him now with a pot for his cottage display, 

she remembers how at first he failed to notice 

the mildew set in, ravaging them. 

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Ian Smith


Moyra Donaldson is a poet and creative writing facilitator from Co Down. A 

previous winner of the North West Words Competition, she is the author of 

six poetry collections, the most recent being 'The Goose Tree' from Liberties 

Press. She has also been involved in a number of collaborations with visual 

artists. 

Originally from Longford and a lover of all things midlands, 

Edward Denniston lives in Waterford, where he recently 

retired as a teacher of English and Drama. His publications 

are: The Point Of Singing (Abbey Press, 1999); Eskimo 

Advice, an ebook (Rectory Press & Hayrake Press , 2007) 

; Interacting – 60 Drama Scripts (Russell House Publishing, 

2007) and The Scale Of Things (Salmon Poetry, 2013). He has 

worked with his daughter, photographer Abigail Denniston, to produce seven 

framed pieces, entitled Word / Image (2014), which were exhibited in 

Waterford, Dublin, and Longford. In 2016, his poem The Sheepskin Coat was 

awarded first prize in the Hungry Hill competition, Poets Meets Politics. 

Another collection from Salmon is due out in September 2017. 

Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in , Antipodes, Australian 

Book Review, Australian Poetry Journal, Cream City Review, 

Poetry Salzburg Review, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two- 

Thirds North. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness 

joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He lives in the Gippsland 

Lakes area of Victoria, Australia. 

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A Word 

I have watched you, brother 

caress the impeccable shape of an ostrich egg 

keep sticklebacks, hamsters, snakes 

design puppets out of pipe sticks 

I have watched you 

purloin a belisha beacon for decoration 

build sandcastles, stone keeps with dungeons 

serve stargazey pie: a tart of sardines 

pull a tooth from my mouth with a doorknob and string 

I have watched you, brother 

And listened too 

I have seen your skin melt like cheese on toast 

Heard your cheeks collapse, teeth explode 

Saw your eye go blind 

Observed your bones sharpen and poke 

As you command 

Know that, I have watched you, brother 

All this time, without saying a word 

Kate Ennals 

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Bad News 1982 

The operator said that he would phone 

through to Ned's – it would be quicker than 

sending the telegram boy all the way from Keel; 

passed on his condolences, of course, we are 

related, all of us Islanders, took my number 

in London for the return call – a man well versed 

in tragic circumstance. I wondered who from Ned's 

would convey the message, who was home; maybe 

one of the twins, born long after we'd left; I reached 

again for the Remy Martin, pictured someone 

emerge, hurry down the long avenue, run along 

the Cawban Road, leap Pat Jack's gap to 

shortcut through the meadows; August the tenth, 

the long grass waiting for September's cut – 

they eked out each inch of growth in those days - 

bolt the dyke into our bottom field, feel 

the rushes lash his bare shins as he passes 

the quilt-patched crops of ripening oats, the rye, 

the ridges of green-stalked spuds, the mangold ground. 

the neat-laid drills of vegetables, vault the stone wall 

into the Leitrim woman's sanctum of nurtured 

violets, sweet williams and blousy nasturtiums. 

see him knock on the red porch door; our mother lift the latch, 

reach again for the Remy Martin. 

Mike Gallagher 

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The Flood 

The coffins float to the surface 

like rebellious architecture, buoyed by the floodwaters 

that have shaken everything loose. We pass sandbags 

hand over hand to build a wall between us and the river 

shouting panicked instructions to the trucks to bring more. 

The water pouring in from the river is frigid and cold 

numbing ankles and hands, but the water 

running off of the bloated cemetery is warm, as though the water 

is carrying the last breath and embrace of the dead 

across the grounds to keep us from freezing. 

Holly Day 

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Kate Ennals is a poet and short story writer. Her first poetry collection, AT The 

Edge, came out in September 2015, published by Lapwing. She has had poems 

and short stories published in various literary publications such as Crannog, 

Skylight 47, Burning Bush 2, The Galway Review, Ropes, Boyne Berries, North 

West Words, New Ulster Anthology, The Honest Ulsterman, The International 

Lakeview Journal and featured in The Spark. A Londoner by origin, Kate has 

lived in Ireland for 22 years. In 2012, after working in community 

development at national and local level for 30 years (London and Ireland), 

Kate did the MA in Writing at NUI Galway. She now runs poetry and writing 

workshops in and around Cavan. Kate also facilitates a regular literary reading 

evening and open mic (AT The Edge), funded by Cavan Arts Office. Her blog 

can be found at https://kateennals.com/ 

Mike Gallagher is an Irish writer and editor. His prose, 

poetry, haiku and songs have been published worldwide. 

His writing has been translated into Croatian, Japanese, 

Dutch, German, Italian and Chinese He won the Michael 

Hartnett Viva Voce competition in 2010 and 2016, was 

shortlisted for the Hennessy Award in 2011 and won the 

Desmond O'Grady International Poetry Contest in 2012. His 

collection Stick on Stone is published by Revival Press. 

http://www. limerickwriterscentre.com/ books/stick-on-stone/ 

Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minnesota 

since 2000. Her published books include Music Theory for Dummies, Music 

Composition for Dummies, Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, Piano All-in-One for 

Dummies, Walking Twin Cities, Insider’s Guide to the Twin Cities, Nordeast 

Minneapolis: A History, and The Book Of, while her poetry has recently 

appeared in New Ohio Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry book, 

Ugly Girl, just came out from Shoe Music Press. 

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A Faulty Pedometer Reading 

Sandblasted at the beach 

without a rubber pipe in sight, 

velour grains became harsh abrasives. 

Mini missiles crashed the film of my eyes. 

I struggled to walk, rooted to the spot 

pushed against the gale. 

My raincoat inflated - a distorted balloon, 

a parachute of little promise. 

My skin bestowed a sticky film 

skimmed off salt from waves, 

tinkled from a flute. 

Houses blurred into clouds ahead, 

hedges contours furred 

as marram grass shook out rustles. 

The coarse blades bound to sand, 

their buried stems forked hand emblems. 

Fresh sea spray's not too far away, 

on the viaduct where ghost trains trundle 

with the wind, on corroded tracks. 

Lorraine Carey 

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Galway Departures 

I take my last walk over the Corrib. 

As the sun nears the Atlantic, 

the papal state is fading away. 

A Good Friday pint is on the horizon, 

as is the wedding of Núala and Peig. 

'a terrible thing, to renounce your country' 

Jennie N. D. (1919-2001) 

After seven years a servant, 

hidden in Dublin, 

you depart the new Republic 

like a thief in the night. 

A victim found guilty 

by theocracy's iron handyou 

will never see your mother again. 

Your daughter is lost, behind the walls of Tuam. 

As your ship docked in New York Harbor, 

a shiver coursed through your body. 

Passing through Customs, 

you did not declare your tragedy. 

I declare you lived your American exile 

with a passport that remained green. 

Tim Dwyer 

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Lorraine Carey originally from Greencastle, Donegal now lives in Kerry. Her 

poetry has featured in: The Honest Ulsterman, Vine Leaves, The Galway 

Review, Proletarian, Olentangy Review, A New Ulster, Quail Bell, Live 

Encounters, Stanzas, Vine Leaves, ROPES and Poethead. Her first poetry 

collection From Doll House Windows is published in May by Revival Press. 

Tim Dwyer’s recent chapbook collection is Smithy Of Our Longings: Poems 

From The Irish Diaspora (Belfast: Lapwing Publications, 2015). He has 

previously appeared in North West Words. His poems have recently appeared 

in A New Ulster, Boyne Berries, Cyphers, and Honest Ulsterman. He was a 

featured poet at the 2016 Galway Fringe Festival. His parents were from 

Galway. He currently lives in Stamford, Connecticut. Galway Departures is 

dedicated to victims and survivors of Tuam and of other institutions of abuse. 


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Interview: Margaret O’Brien and Nollaig Brennan of The Story House 

Ireland (co-founders) 

Nollaig Brennan and Margaret O’Brien 

Nollaig Brennan and Donal Ryan 

North West Words: What is The Story House Ireland? 

Margaret and Nollaig: The Story House is the first to offer taught 

residential writing courses in Ireland to anyone who wishes to write. It 

was founded by us in 2014 and we delivered the first course, on Short 

Fiction, in March 2015. Although, as you’re aware, there are many 

good writing courses and retreats available here in Ireland The Story 

House is unique in recognising the value of a taught residential model, 

making the benefits of this kind of immersive experience available to 

everyone who wishes to write, but most especially to those who are 

at the beginning stages of a writing life. Each course at The Story House 

is led by two professional writers, experts in their genre, with a 

midweek guest writer. The week runs from Monday afternoon 

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through to Saturday morning, with morning workshops, afternoons for 

one to one meetings and time and space to write (and walk, take a 

nap, whatever is needed to fuel creative energies). Evening meals are 

communal, and prepared in turn by three participants, who are given 

recipes and ingredients, and afterwards there are readings and chats 

about writing-related topics. It’s a very full week but with lots of space 

and time built in for individual writing. At The Story House we 

appreciate the importance to the individual of the process of writing 

as much as the ultimate product. 

NWW: What first drove you to lobby for support for The Story House 

Ireland and why was this needed in Ireland? 

M & N: The initial drive arose from Margaret’s experience of attending 

a course at The Arvon Foundation’s centre, Totleigh Barton, in Devon 

and meeting Arvon’s founder there, the late John Moat. It was there 

that she was first explicitly invited to experience ‘the transformative 

power of writing’ and that was indeed what happened as the week, in 

all its simplicity, unfolded. John Moat has described it as the 

‘apprenticeship model’, where everyone there is regarded as a writer 

and is there to learn more about the art and craft of writing. Margaret 

was very struck by the lack of such a centre here in Ireland and was 

passionate about the benefits it would bring, drawing on her own 

personal experiences and also in her professional capacity, at the time, 

as a lecturer in Adult Literacy Studies. Then, just before his State visit 

to the UK in 2014, President Higgins raised some questions in an article 

in The Irish Times, “What is necessary to human flourishing? What 

human capabilities does Irish society encourage, genuinely enable, or 

block?” This question brought an answering Open Letter from 

Margaret suggesting that he include a visit to Arvon while in England 

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and her letter went on to outline the many potential benefits of 

making creative writing available to as wide a spectrum of Irish society 

as possible. The Open Letter argued that creativity is necessary to 

human flourishing, and that creative writing has multiple benefits for 

the individual and society, and called for the establishment of a 

residential centre offering taught courses, modeled on Arvon. 

NWW: What Story House writing centre residencies have been run 

so far? 

M & N: The first course at The Story House was on Short Fiction in 2015 

with Susie Maguire, Julian Gough and midweek guest Donal Ryan. This 

was followed in 2016 by ‘Poetry: The Craft’ with Nessa O’Mahony, 

Peter Sirr and midweek guest Patrick Chapman. This year, in February 

2017, we ran ‘Writing for Young People’ with Sheena Wilkinson, E.R. 

Murray and guest Patricia Forde. All the courses are limited to 12 

participants which ensures that attention can be given to everyone. 

NWW: How did these residencies impact on participants and have 

the residencies fulfilled your original vision? 

M & N: The feedback and evaluations from participants and tutors 

have more than confirmed our original vision for this. It is very obvious 

to us, not only from the feedback, but also from conversations during 

the week that writers really value this time away from their everyday 

responsibilities, with time to write but also supported by two 

professional writers. The workshops, communal meals and one to one 

tutorials and the time alone to write gives the writer space to allow 

ideas to germinate and new approaches to be considered. It is the 

mixture of all of these that work in so many different ways on each 

participant and allows creativity to flourish. 

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The very first course made such an impact on a participant, who wishes 

to remain anonymous, that it has resulted in their offering a cottage in 

the west of Ireland for one week in the year as a residency to a 

participant on a Story House course. We have just awarded the first 

residency to a writer who will take this up in May 2017. This is intended 

to support a writer to work on a writing project and is a stunningly 

generous gesture. 

Other tangible impacts include a participant securing a book deal and 

another who has attracted the interest of an editor at a major London 

publishing house. But there are other effects, equally beneficial and 

positive, which are not so easily quantifiable but on which we place a 

high value. These include a renewed creative confidence and energy 

and feeling part of a supportive community of writers. We are 

prepared to take the long view on this. 

NWW: Has running these residencies enriched your own writing life? 

M & N: The challenge is always to find the time to support your own 

writing, but we know that unless we are engaging with the struggles, 

challenges and pleasures of writing ourselves then we cannot 

authentically relate to others on the same path. It has been stimulating 

and enriching to us to have got to know so many talented people over 

the past few years through working on this very interesting project and 

this certainly feeds into our own writing life. Like so many others we 

are also working at our day jobs and juggling other personal and not 

so personal commitments. We know intimately the difficulties of 

carving out space and time for writing in a busy and demanding life. 

And we also experience those daft voices in our heads that tell us that 

anything we put on paper or screen is rubbish. You may know of them? 

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They’re in your head too? 

NWW: Are there any funded support opportunities for prospective 

participants? 

M & N: At the moment The Story House is dependent on local 

authorities and their Arts Officers to provide bursaries and such 

bursaries have been awarded for each of the courses run by The Story 

House so far. But we do ultimately want to build a fund that would 

allow us to offer bursaries from The Story House independently, 

because support from local authorities can be patchy and 

unpredictable for various reasons. We don’t want writers excluded 

from participation because they live in the ‘wrong’ geographical 

area/county and we certainly don’t want courses at The Story House 

to be the preserve only of those who can fund it themselves. The fees 

charged are the minimum to allow each course to be self-financing and 

both of us currently work on this in a voluntary capacity. 

NWW: What are the future plans for The Story House Ireland, and 

especially, what are the key and ongoing challenges? 

M & N: The Story House has the potential to be the internationally 

recognised residential venue in Ireland where writers and writing are 

supported in the best way (in addition to Irish based writers, TSH has 

already had participants from the UK and the USA). Up to now we have 

run on a pop-up basis in different locations, and we are indeed grateful 

to the host venues who generously gave us a special rate, significantly 

below their usual commercial rate, to allow The Story House to 

happen. However for TSH to achieve even a fraction of its potential in 

the short to medium term we need to have a permanent base, which 

will need funding. We know that this base needs to be rural, idyllic and 

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have the capacity to house a maximum of 19 people on a given week. 

Not a small order! As you can see, all of the visions we have for The 

Story House will need funding, including bursaries as mentioned 

above, but we have brought it a long way from the beginning with 

nothing except our own energy and our belief in the concept and 

without funding of any kind. This has been also due in no small 

measure to the people who have been convinced of the worth of what 

TSH stands for and who have offered their professional services to The 

Story House on a pro bono basis, (we would like to make it clear that 

we pay writers who teach on our courses a good professional rate – 

they have all been amazing). And we are also very honoured to have 

as patrons Jack Harte and Sabina Coyne Higgins, people of great 

integrity who have a long history of working on behalf of writers and 

artists. We are very gratified and encouraged by all of the generosity 

and support we’ve experienced since the beginning. 

But in the near future we would like TSH to be in a position to offer at 

least several courses a year in different genres and to eventually 

develop so that it works with teachers and schools and other 

communities, not solely public programmes for individual writers. We 

know that this has such amazing potential benefits on so many 

different levels, individual, social and cultural. At the moment Creative 

Ireland is being rolled out around the country and its programme 

brochure outlines many of the benefits of the arts to society that we 

had already identified and named. The Story House has now shown 

proof of concept, is established and ready to deliver. We know at a 

deep level what this is about, but the key challenge for us right now is, 

you guessed it, funding. 

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NWW: Margaret, as a writer, and creative writing teacher yourself, 

what are your key points of advice for writers – especially new or 

emerging writers? 

Margaret: This is a good question and I’ve been giving it some thought. 

I would say that probably the most important thing is to find your 

community of support and in this way gradually begin to engage with 

the larger ecosystem of the writing world. And in my experience 

established writers are incredibly helpful and generous to other less 

experienced writers. I think it’s the greatest fallacy that writing is a 

solitary pursuit and that all the famous writers have produced 

masterpieces out of their own genius. In certain respects it is of course 

solitary, but if you read any bios of successful writers and research 

their background there is almost always some group they have 

belonged to and some people they could turn to for support and who 

were significant in their development as writers. Or they belonged to 

a social / cultural group where it was acceptable to write. For many 

people this is not the case and too many promising writers wither for 

lack of appropriate support. It seems to me to be the main reason why 

working class writing is underrepresented, for instance. 

If you are on your own, outside of main urban areas and wondering 

how to connect with people who also wish to write, I suggest that you 

can be the one to start something – maybe try and organise a local 

open mic once a month. It can be very simple, just a room in a local 

café, pub or theatre and spread the word on social and, traditional 

local, media. Even if just a handful of people turn up then it’s a success. 

Do this for 6 months and see what happens. It gives you, and others, a 

deadline to get some writing done and it’s a social gathering as well – 

be sure to include a break for tea and biscuits and chat, this will help 

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people to connect. Have some simple rules (no more than two poems 

or a shortish piece of prose, it’s fine to share writing you love that’s 

not your own, for example). This is how I started the Poetry Plus open 

mic in Brewery Lane Theatre. I love the idea of small groups in villages 

and towns getting together to give voice to writing all around the 

country. It will cost little or nothing and who knows what might be the 

result! And I have no doubt that was the kind of impulse behind the 

setting up and the success of North West Words. And thank you so 

much for having us here at NWW. 

Thank you, Margaret and Nollaig, from North West Words. 

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Writing group profile: Pen2Paper - Donegal Town 

Standing L to R: Stephen Thomas, Geraldine McBrearty, Anne Leonard, Margaret 

O’Kane, Eilish McBride. Sitting, L to R: Cathy Anderson, Lizzie Anderson, Charlie 

O’Doherty, Dixi Patterson, Peggy Hegarty. 

“Pen2Paper” writers’ group was formed over 6 years ago, originally 

with help from Peace 3 initiative. Julie Costello was our mentor, and 

greatly helped and encouraged us all to “find our voice”. In the early 

stages we had writers from different ethnic backgrounds, including 

asylum seekers, which greatly enhanced our group experience. 

We provide an environment which encourages everyone to develop 

writing skills, confidence and knowledge, and encourage members to 

use their energy, talents, skills, knowledge and expertise to benefit 

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each other and the larger community. Membership is open to 

everyone, as the group has no political, religious or ethnic affiliations. 

We have 11 members from different parts of the County, Stranorlar, 

Convoy, Rosbeg, Portnoo and Donegal Town, and we meet every 

second Tuesday evening in The Family Resource Centre, Donegal 

town. We have rotating facilitator system, and he/she brings prompts 

on the night – we write for about 25-30 minutes, and then read back 

our work. Our evening ends with Tea/Coffee and chat, which is always 

good fun. 

Twice a year, Summer and Xmas, we all meet for a party evening and 

this is something we all look forward to. 

Margaret O'Kane 

The Pen2Paper writing group will read at the North West Words Arts 

night on 25th May 2017 which starts at 8pm in Florence Food Co. 

Letterkenny. 

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Ancestry 

I am from the hill people 

Those brawny men and women 

Who worked from dawn to dusk 

And knew no comfort. 

I am from the heathers 

Blues, purples, pinks, whites, 

Tough roots clinging fast 

To grey granite rocks. 

I am from the sea 

Blue warm in summer 

Grey cold in winter 

A constant movement of life. 

I am from the Glens 

The cool river dividing 

The splendour of the mountains 

Where sheep freely roam. 

I am from the Islands 

Cut off from the shore 

The only light a beacon 

To show the way home. 

I am from the Northern lands 

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Where troubles seemed like normal 

And normal seemed like trouble 

A melting pot of confusion. 

I am also from the Southern lands 

With lush green fields and rolling hills 

A striking contrast to the harshness 

Of home. 

I am from those who asked “why” 

And became one who asked “why not” 

I am from those who bowed under 

And became one who would not. 

Margaret O’Kane 

My name is Margaret O'Kane, and for the past 4 years I have had the privilege 

of living in Narin, Portnoo. I always had a desire to write, but until I met Julie 

Costello over 6 years ago, and joined what became Pen2Paper, I didn't have 

the courage to start. I now write short stories, mostly memoirs, and a little 

free verse. 

Belfast-born Dixi Patterson settled with her six children in Rossbeg fishing 

village in 1985. Director of Donegal Workshop Theatre, founder member of 

Ardara Writers’ Group, Pen2Paper, Dolmen Writers and Ardara Bookclub. 

Winner of Patrick McGill Trophy for the ballad from her famine play ‘Hungry 

for Change’. 

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Imprint 

Flimsy lanterns 

with orange flames 

are launched from the 

beach 

Some founder 

on dark rocks 

like miscarried 

babies 

some waft upwards 

only to falter and 

dive into merciless 

seas 

some soar into the night 

far, far away to burn 

haystacks & startle secret 

lovers 

From the balcony 

I look back at the sand, 

To the footprints of my six 

children 

And the stiletto 

heel-print 

of tonight’s 

bride. 

Dixi Patterson 

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Walking at Narin 

Welcome 2017 

Windswept, Exhilarating 

New Years Day family retreat. 

Mother Nature's force 

Against our bodies 

We brace before strength and tenacity. 

The surge and roar of the waves 

The expanse, The freedom 

We climb the dunes 

Her and I. 

A lifelong companion 

A little adventurer 

Follow her lead 

Along precarious dunes 

Breathtaking scenes 

Spectacular Narin 

Beach of my youth 

Many treasured memories 

Hard beating skites 

Across the face 

Brain freeze headaches 

Soaked through but 

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Happy happy happy 

Blast off the old 

Welcome 2017 

Tough trudge back to Base 

Shelter the little mite 

A wall of love 

Heads bowed against the onslaught 

Onwards we go 

Footfalls don't abate 

Keep on moving, keep on fighting 

Keep on loving, keep on living. 

Welcome 2017 

A good start so far...... 

Geraldine Mc Brearty 

My name is Geraldine Mc Brearty. I am originally from Donegal Town, but 

living outside Mountcharles. I’ve four wonderful girls a pampered cat, our 

hyper pup, two silkie hens and two fish. I never wrote until I joined the little 

group Pen2paper and I'm thankful to know such wonderful people. I hope to 

keep writing when I can get the time. 

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A Teenager Stepping Stones 

I’m a lively teenager 

Making decisions as I cross the big wide river, 

I’m leaping and stepping with joy from stone to stone 

Having escaped from my adolescent world, 

Of confusion, tantrums, sulking rages and surging hormones 

I’m dreaming about my future. 

Forgetting about exams and worries 

Thinking about dances discos, romance and lovely garments, 

As I sway it seems as though I’m floating on air 

It’s a beautiful sunny day, 

My hair all windswept and curly blowing gently in the breeze 

Surrounded by trees I’m feeling as free as a bird. 

Splashing the water with the palms of my hands 

What if it were a cold winter’s day! 

Do I stop to reflect, oh I am freezing! 

The waters flowing I’m leaping with glee, 

Enjoying my independence away for a while 

I’m very happy stepping from stone to stone. 

As I sway the seasons are changing its autumn time 

All dripping wet but oh to be young again! 

Would I do the same things if only I could live my life over? 

Sorry this is only a dream, the rustic leaves are fading! 

As I keep my balance it’s time to go home. 

Catherine Anderson 

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My Name is Cathy Anderson. I’m originally from Co Cavan. I Started writing 

poems and creative writing about 12 yrs ago. I really enjoy participating in 

our Pen 2 Paper writing group. Over the past 3 years I have won 2 prizes in 

the Frances Browne competition. I was shortlisted and read at the Des 

O'Grady Competition in Limerick 3 years ago. Over the years, I have had 

several pieces published in the Finn Valley Voice. 

The Bogs Of Tyrone 

Through the bogs of Tyrone sure I loved to wander. 

With its heather so purple and bog cotton so white. 

Watching the honeybees as they collected the nectar. 

From the rich purple heather in the bogs of Tyrone. 

In the nineteen forties when I was young. 

I sat with my Dad in the warm summer sun. 

We’d listen to the wild birds big and small. 

And he taught me their names by the sound of their call. 

In the evening time the Curlews were calling. 

The Lark in the blue sky hovered high up above. 

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For such a small bird its voice was so strong. 

I’d stand and I’d listen to its melodious song. 

My Dad said be careful as you wander around. 

As a lot of wee birds make their nests on the ground. 

Sure I know that one day when God calls me home. 

He’ll allow me a last wander through the bogs of Tyrone. 

Lizzie Anderson 

On Tuesday nights we come together 

On Tuesday nights we come together 

But not to talk about the weather 

Our thoughts to loftier things aspire 

To write creatively is our desire. 

We set about it a little later 

Putting the might of our pens to paper. 

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We rack our brains for inspiration 

And call on our imagination 

A mental block of some dimension 

May cause some serious suspension but 

Soon switched on is a light in the head 

We give thanks for that---- we are not brain dead 

The moment comes to put pen to paper 

Words flow from it with a little endeavour 

We enter the world of imagination 

And though it has it’s limitations 

We scribble on with determination 

Hoping the creative will soon be written. 

The drop of a pin can almost be heard 

Heads are down as word follows word 

When it’s time to wind up and write full stop 

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We’ve almost developed writers’ cramp 

The proof of our efforts will be all in the reading 

Creative genius has been put in writing. 

Peggy Hegarty 

Peggy Hegarty: It was on a visit to my hairdresser that the subject of creative 

writing came up. In my younger days I had toyed with the idea of joining such 

a group, but with lack of confidence as well as thinking it was out of reach for 

me on many levels, the idea was put to one side and lay dormant for many 

years. My friend Anne brought me along. And as I have said the opportunity 

came my way and this time I grasped the nettle and to my great surprise it 

has proved a very fulfilling and rewarding experience. From a personal point 

of view it was a unique opportunity and even though it could be described as 

a baptism of fire I grew in confidence and the support of the members was 

always encouraging. The weekly writing sessions became a big part of my life 

and I looked forward to them greatly. Although writing was the main focus of 

joining Pen2Paper I have made wonderful friends. For me it was a healing 

experience as my beloved husband of over 50 years had died and I found a 

fulfilling safety valve in the weekly sessions. I have always enjoyed writing 

letters and little pieces of verse and this was a wonderful opportunity. I hope 

to be part of it as long as I can. 

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North West Words Spring Summer Issue 7

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