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Poetry News

Dublin Poetry
Galway Poetry
Errigal Writers, Letterkenny
Java’s Coffee House, Galway
POET'S PLATFORM AT Tigh Filí Arts Centre Mac Curtain Street, Cork
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Poetry Events
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POET'S PLATFORM AT Tigh Filí Arts Centre
Mac Curtain Street, Cork

no details

Errigal Writers
EVERY TUESDAY @ 8pm : Admission FREE
Glen of Aherlow, 29 Emmet Road Kilmainham
Featuring, special guests, open mike, recordings, & video's
Buses, 78A, 51A, 51B & 51C stop at the door (from Aston Quay). Also the Red Line Tram stops nearby at Suir Rd. Bridge.
Read your work, catch up on the gossip and hear what's going down!

9.00pm, 2nd Monday Every Month
No details

Java’s Coffee House, Abbeygate Steet
The Fiction Clinic with Susan Millar DuMars.
Fee: 8 Euro per session (6 Euro concession) for details 087—9428540
no details

Salthill Active Retirement Association (S.A.R.A) Writers' Group would welcome new members.
When? Thursdays 10.30—12.30. a.m
The group meets fortnightly.
Where? Meeting Room, Salthill Church

Dublin Poetry Revival
VENUE: The Left Bank (behind the Oliver St John Gogarty's Bar, Fleet St;)
DATE: Every Tuesday night
TIME: 7.30p.m. ‘til 10.30p.m. Open Mic for everyone so come along!! For more info contact Gerry Mc Namara at

Poetry Ireland
120 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2

December Over The Edge: final Open Reading for 2022

The December‘Over The Edge: Open Reading’ takes place in Galway City Library on Thursday, December 15th, 6.00pm-7.30pm. The Featured Readers are Marc Gregg, Abby Oliveira, & Bill Heaney. There will as usual be an open-mic after the Featured Readers. New readers are especially welcome. The Over The Edge end of year celebration will take place afterwards. There will, we understand, be mince pies. You are invited to come and mark the end of the strange year that has been 2022 with Over The Edge. There will be a surprise or two.

Bill Heaney grew up in the heart of Galway. His family had a pub in the dock area of the city. He worked in Dublin and London for many years before returning to Galway. He had a variety of work situations from pubs to prisons to homeless services. He cites these experiences as inspiration for some of his writing. Bill started attending writing classes with Susan Millar DuMars and Kevin Higgins about five years ago. He writes both poetry and short stories. He has had some of his poems published in Vox Galvia. Bill’s poetry is mainly inspired by the injustices in society.

Abby Oliveira is a writer and performer based in Derry. Her work is often cross-discipline and collaborative; comprising poetry, storytelling, music, prose, playwriting, and/or physical performance. Her work has been most recently published in The 32: An anthology of Irish Working Class voices (Unbound, 2021), The New Frontier: reflections from the Irish border (New Island Books, 2021), and Empty House: poetry & prose on the climate crisis (Doire Press, 2021). She has been commissioned as a writer by organisations such as The MAC in Belfast, BBC Radio 4, BBC Radio Foyle, RTÉ Radio, and more.

Marc Gregg is a writer and classical vocalist from Lisburn, Northern Ireland. Previously, he was the host and co-producer of a show called Soap Opera on BBC Radio Ulster that examined the stories we tell through the voice. He also founded "Button Mash", Northern Ireland's largest video game tournament series for the Tekken franchise. Currently, he is working as an Assistant Producer with Outburst Arts in Belfast producing their queer literature magazine "Catflap" among other pieces of theatre, opera, gallery shows, concerts and artist development work. His current work focuses around queerness, class and technology and the hazy boundaries between the three. An essay of his recently featured in The 32 – An Anthology of Irish Working ClassVoices (edited by Paul McVeigh).

The reading will also be broadcast live via Over The Edge’s Facebook page

Over The Edge acknowledges the ongoing generous financial support of Galway City Council, Poetry Ireland & The Arts Council.

Limerick Poetry


Without a doubt
A Limerick’s about
To burst from my soul and go Yonder.
Now if any can tell me
What my Limerick will be
tis sure I will no longer ponder


There once was a pigeon with vertigo
Who always approached a long drop slow
And thought what a bind to be in
For a pigeon it must be a sin
To be frightened to fly anywhere that you go

Unplanned Escape on the 3:15
It had never existed
right from the start
but what would you expect
from an introverted fart

As it lay there in wait
it dreamt of the day
when nothing any longer
stood in its way

It had survived all assaults
from brute force to Epsom
and now it was ready
to break free from the rectum

It slithered through the gate
with not even a sound
dozens of victims
were there to be found

Its beatiful invisibility
said it could not be felt
but you could tell by the faces
it was certainly smelt

The carriage heaved a sigh
as the people spread out
It was determined to prove
beyond any doubt
that it was more than just wind
more than just smell
it was a demonic aroma
from the very gates of hell

Awake he sleeps a dreaming
as the rains fall quick and slow
his thoughts they fly a speeding
from whence he cannot know

The moment lasts forever
yet though lingering still is gone
a distant echo in the forest
a song from way beyond

To stir the breeze with gentle fingers
and sing forever would be sweet
to slide toward the rainbow's end
a reckoning to meet

'Tis there all pastures wander
thru the everlasting storm
to that place where pots of gold
are souls entwined in shapeless form

<H 29/11/01


I knew a spunky man
Who slept in a spunky bed
Everything was spunky
Including everything he said
There was spunk all over the ceiling
There was spunk all over the floor
and every time he went and came
there was spunk a little more

I knew a spunky man
Who lived in a spunky house
There was spunk between the rafters
and spunk on the resident mouse
There was spunk upon the balcony
And spunk all down the stairs
You never would see such a spunky house
If you travelled the world everywheres

I knew a spunky man
who longed for a spunky wife
to take care of all the spunk
that was cluttering up his life
There was spunk inside his bankbook
There was spunk just everywhere
The only place there was no spunk
was in Mrs Robinson’s chair

Mrs Robinson was
A friend of the spunky man
She didn't seem to mind at all
she even bought him a spunking can
But there were certain conditions
Mrs Robinson set
and one of them said there'd be no spunk
on the chair in which she sat

Yes I knew a spunky man
who lived a spunky life
perhaps by now he's found himself
a lovely spunking wife
But the house in which he lives
is a terrible site to see
its been leaking spunk from the windows
since 1953

Oh there was a spunky man
the spunkiest of all
who said spunk this
then said spunk that
then said hell well spunk 'em all
The last I knew he was still
spunking on his way
heading down the spunky road
to another spunking day

Lay my head in your lap my love
So that I may know your longing
Let my lips speak silent whispers
To caress your ceaseless wanting
As your body lies a trembling

Lay your head in my lap my love
So that you may know my longing
Let your lips speak silent whispers
To caress my ceaseless wanting
As my body lies a trembling

Lay your hand in my hand my love
Let my fingers feel your passion
Walk a while besides me
As though somehow it still is fashion

Lay my hand in your hand my love
Let your fingers feel my passion
I'll walk a while besides you
As though somehow it still is fashion
<H 2007

I stand embattled amid the throng of j’ai accuse
Pen drawn and sharpened ’gainst bullet and sword
Unflinching they do not hesitate to use
Their weapons against me and the word
In the name of justice and of what is right
The legions gather preparing to fight

In a still place of silence the albatross soars
Fearless and bold as his wings wide unfurl
The clamouring hordes so far below
are but memories from long long ago

A blanket of cloud eclipses the sun
Divorced from the light the free bird is one
Unfettered, released, the free skies to roam
A star in the darkness in a world that is home

They shout and they holler, j’ai accuse j’ai accuse
Answers too clear they twist to confuse
I stand embattled ’gainst the throng yet I muse
On differences ’tween right and wrong they abuse
Is dream an illusion or could it be real
j’ai accuse, j’ai accuse, I lodge my final appeal

Lonely people line the street
the fanfare of the common man
a whistle blows
a church bell tolls
a vessel leaves the harbour
salvation's prayer
a moment's glory
a smiling face remembered
a reaching hand
a dream denied
the pages of life's story

Old Penis Poem
My nookie days are over
My pilot light is out
What used to be my sex appeal
Is now my water spout.

Time was when, on its own accord
From my trousers it would spring
But now I've got a full-time job
To find the blasted thing.

It used to be embarrassing
The way it would behave
For every single morning
It would stand and watch me shave.

Now as old age approaches
It sure gives me the blues
To see it hang its little head
And watch me tie my shoes.

The poems of life
a horse in a breeze
an honest wife
the lies that deceive
flesh on the bone
yet nothing to chance
companions alone
in the looking glass
where the face of illusion
stands proud and tall
lies only deliver
truth to us all

I am just a fly in a bar
Nobody knows me and
I don't know who you are

I land on hanging clothing
I examine covered food
I believe my life has meaning
even though you think me crude

Yes I am just a fly in a bar
my life is over before it gets far
I watch the correlation
of father, mother, daughter, son
though you may swat me down
who knows who may have won

I am just a fly in a bar
you might see me someplace near or far
and if you do then this I ask of you
see my wings of gossamer
see my thoughts of silken thread
see my vision as I see you
and stop a while to ponder
this world in which we live
for just like you, I too
have something to give

I am just a fly in a bar
my friends are scattered wide and far
this karmic burden
I carry on my frame
for I am a fly in a bar
that's the nature of my game
<h 9.6.02

Summer is like
a Whore
as she raids
herself from the higher
God, but who's to say
she wades
herself through
the human race
M.Michelle 3—1—02

As she rides
the storm she
fades out

You see her
coming as
she yearns her
way forward
for a month or two

that's why she
begins at
the end of each year

M.Michelle 3—1—02

Hyperion's song of destiny
You stride up there in the light
on soft ground, blessed spirits!
Luminous divine breezes
touch you gently,
as the fingers of a woman player
touch holy strings

Freed of all fate, as the sleeping
infant, breathe those in heaven:
chastely preserved
in a modest bud,
their spirit
blossoms eternally;
and their blessed eyes
look out in peaceful, perpetual clearness.

But to us has been allotted
to rest at no abode;
vanish and fall
will a suffering mankind
blindly from one
hour unto the next,
be cast like the water
from cliff unto cliff,
through the years, down into the uncertain.
Friedrich Hölderlin

Family is family it is said
but mine is not
sometimes I swear
we is the worst o' the lot

She came
She went
She came, she went
She came
She went
my love

<H 1—10—2001

THE BOSTON STRANGER—an English recollection
From Donkey Town to Dummer
through the Fairleigh Wallop hay
From Alfred's Tower to Croydon Hill all along the Brendon Way
I wandered as a pilgrim bent on feckled mare
never knowing what I'd find
whensoever I got there

I took a turn at Battery Hill bound for the Freedom Trail
to find myself a peddling head on agin a gale
I set myself one mighty fight
to task that vicious storm
knowing I would some day find my way back home.

It was then and there I smelt it like a vat of rhubarb wine
that old familiar Holborn air where me granddad wasn't born
or was it no me granddaughter, well I'm really nay so sure
it must have been but one, but it might have been t'other
cos I duzna have no sister and I's only got one bruvver.

The doctor said he couldn't help
I had a solid head
no matter what he pumped at it
’twould cure nowt all he said
So I took to eating sawdust pie every Saturday afternoon
with a kind of hopelessness, every bite the taste of doom
that stretched just like the avalanche of a tidal wave at sea
oh gawd look out now christ—here it come again
I woke at Effingham Junction and missed the last damned train

The cleaning woman looked at me at a little after five
my ankles in the urinal where I smelled more dead than alive
I wouldn't have been as stinking if only the flushing would stop
but then she started swabbing me with her evil smelling mop.

And would you believe it was Sunday, the worst bloody day of all
no trains leave from Effingham Junction and its miles to any watering hole
there's a train that leaves on Monday, but it goes the other way
and the next one's not till the Monday next, and when it comes in it don't go away.

Really there's nothing for it, the cure is so fatal a dose
that the very thing that's curing simply prefers to give up the ghost
and return again to Donkey Town and the Fairleigh Wallop hay
to take up residence on White Sheet Hill and be mistaken every day
for the memory of somebody who long ago once passed on close by there
upon the gentle dappled back of a sprightly feckled mare

<H 10—11—2001

POEM 831
A passing smile
Wide as the memory
Of a byegone mile
Irreparable damage in the constant
While epochs pass
my love dreams irrecoverable
dreams of the lonesome whippoorwills

So where do I go
And what do you want
Are we not just Eternity
infinite scree
A ripple in a fountain
Mist on the mountain
Calling to you in the jewel of morn's dew

So where is this wonder
A teardrop and leaf
And where the boundary
to love become grief

The valley of laughter
the comedy of pain
Insecurity's fusion
of pleasure to gain
And mirrors of belief
reflect the deceit
but the window is silent

<H 1/1/01

The face of anticipation
The surgeon's knife
The crowded isolation
The hungry wife
The dream of riches
The ignorant elite
This window of witches
This civilised street

The sidelong glance
The hand that would paint
The feet that would dance
The eyes of a saint
The unhappy smile
The forgiving frown
This familiar style
This inescapable gown

The lonely saxophone
The desert awash
The wonder of home
The cold winter frost
The swell of the tide
The warmth of the sun
This pain we abide
This is all but one

<H 17/7/01

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
The Man With The Wart On His Glans
could think of nothing to say or do
or write
The Man With The Wart On His Glans
was a lonely man
with seven warted daughters
and one completely wartless wife.

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
hated having a shower and hated baths more
because warts float.

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
hated his best friend who one day
told how he had a wart on his hand
until he bit it off.

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
had to get a divorce because
he could not wear a condom.

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
spent his time poring over mirrors
he was
The Man With The Wart On His Glans

Oh The Man With The Wart On His Glans
had no friends
except his English hedgehog
because the English hedgehog liked
The Man With The Wart On His Glans

The Man With The Wart On His Glans

Some poetry from Limerick poets

by James Anthony Kelly
Come near me now
breathing lonely to my breast
when light softly vanishes on the bow
or on the rims of a nest

Come near me now
oh my weak weeping child.
Let us end this sensitive row
for we are no longer so wild

Come near me now
for life is sad
searching the colours of the rainbow
and wasted dreams we had

Come near me now
for the poet feels too much
come near me now
with your gentle touch

by James Anthony Kelly
I believe in Free Love
I could never afford it.

Louse Woodward
Maybe, Maybe Not
by Tom McNamara, 2001
Beyond a Doubt was it
No I Guess Not
Jury Deliberating
Mind To Make Up What
Guilty Not Maybe
Not Guilty At All
And Then Why Convict Her
Is The Worldly Bawl

Release Now Release Her
Let Her Go Free
Beyond A Doubt No Sir
She Is You See
Not So Or Maybe
Did Maybe Not
And For That Reason
Set Her Free "Off"

Positive Be Positive
Don't Grope In The Dark
Evidence Is Evidence
Not Hearsay Lark
What She Did Telling
I Did Not Do
What I Am Sentenced For
Do You Know For Sure?

Justice Is Justice
When It Is So
Done In This Case
Looks More And More
Like A Mixed Conviction
Can't Make Up Their Minds
And Doubt As In Doubting
Convictions In The Blind


The Extended Luimneach Version

Jangle Laureate

Changes there must be
I’m sure you’ll agree
to laws letting car alarms sound in the city.
‘Coz if they don’t set ‘em right
they disturb someone’s night
and intrude on the thoughts of the witty.

Ne’er mind the gas it might be green but it’s gas
and okay might somehow fit in here
If car alarms had been then Ilyiad might never
and I know that sounds strange but it’s strange sounds that matter
to a crazed car alarm city dweller.

You know we just might if we put up a fight
get a fine brought in for the offender.
  500 I am sure would silence the cur
and get car alarms fitted far better.
But then where would we be
well asleep, yes well maybe
in dreams of a car alarm free perfect city.

Sometimes I declare
That without them then there
Would be no one awake with this ditty.
If Karma was cool and not such a fool
And those who were wrong were right all along
Then those who weren’t right might wrong better.
But Karma sneaks in and you know when its been
‘Coz you end up a car alarm hater.

Outside in the street and stuck there all week
Is a bloody great big expensive Mercedes.
It shrieks day and night
And you’d think someone might come along and make it feel better.
But no one appears and I’m a little afeared
I’ll turn into an alarmed car destroyer.

So I’m sure you’ll agree Changes there must be
to the laws that let car alarms sound in the city.
When they don’t set ‘em right
they disturb someone’s night
and intrude on the thoughts of the witty.

Since the items below were published, the UK Government has announced its intention to grant pardons
to all UK soldiers shot by firing squad as traitors during World War One.

Final Dawn
They say I ran away.
Just like the day you told me
Not to leave our garden.
Do you remember Mother?

They captured me;
I was court—martialled.
You captured me;
All cross you were.
Smacked my legs, so hard,
Then hugged me, so close.
Do you remember Mother?

I stand in my prison, staring,
Just staring at the wooden post.
The one they'll tie me to.
You shut me in my room,
I stared out then too,
Crying, watching kids out playing.
Do you remember Mother?

I remember it all.
I remember you coming for me,
With milk and biscuits.
Now I hear them coming.
Hug me again, Mother.

© Diane Wilson

You Call Me A Coward
You call me a coward
You who sit in judgment here
That's easy for you to say
When no enemy shells fall near.
You call me a coward
You who want an example made
You say I must have run
And thrown away my gun
You say I must have fled
For all save I were dead.

My version of events
You reject out of hand
You say it’s good I survived
The hells of no man’s land
For it means I lived to die again
In front of true and trusting men
Who've swallowed all your lies
And would just as soon
Shoot one of their own
Than swat at bothersome flies.

It is dawn behind the battle lines
The daylight’s blossoming hour
And many of your own you murder
So no cowardice here may flower
You need to teach a lesson
To soldiers one and all
They’re fighting for King and Country
But their fate lies in your hands
If they fail to fall in battle
They’ll be shot against a wall

© George Macintyre


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