I have a poem in The Moth, out now!!!
The Moth
Issue 5 Summer 2011
Contents
The world’s equilibrium by Ginés Cutillas
Like Ships by Elizabeth Barrett
Do Not Swim Near Rocks by Cherry Smyth
A Microchip Translates from the Portuguese the Story of a Novel by Anne Haverty
Mr Wrong by Alan McMonagle
A Kind of Love by MacDonald Harris
A Dissolution by Peter Sirr
In the Dream of the Room your Mouth by Ailbhe Darcy
Crossroads, Bras de Venus by Augustus Young
Lifting Off by Morgan Harlow
As God Is My Witness by Alan Garvey
All Marcel Marceau: an interview with Colette Bryce
Charles Brady, Painter by Paul Durcan
Her Months Mind by Niamh Mac Alister
Love and the Seasons by Aamer Hussein
Five Tanka by Matthew Caley
From Margaret of Antioch by Gill Andrews
Eighteen by Dympna Dreyer
Country Girl: an interview with Fiona Maria Fitzpatrick
I Am Not Here by Mark Hanks
First Memory: Portmarnock Strand by Daragh Bradish
On Returning by Paul Adrian
White Fences Make Good Neighbours by Eileen Casey
Arnos Vale by Melanie Marshall
Odd Man Out by Gerard Smyth
Handover by Emily Hinshelwood
The judge, his horse and my sisters by Judy Kravis
The Ballymaloe International Poetry Prize
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
A poem or two
I have two poems in the current issue of the on-line magazine raft. check them out here : www.raftmagazineonline.com
Monday, May 9, 2011
Carlo Gébler on Writing
Exerpt from Gébler's 'A life in literature, or, what you may lose by becoming a writer' in Some Blind Alleys.
I am also bitter. I hope it doesn’t show, but I am. I am so fucked off with how the world has gone to the dogs and in particular that little bit of the world I think I care about most, which is the Kingdom of Literature: for on top of the abolition of the Net Book Agreement, all sorts of other deleterious developments have worsened the lot of writers (at least in these islands) over the last fifteen years, among which, and in no particular order, are the following: the rise of branding; the enslavement of publishers to media endorsement by celebrity presenters; the obsession with the physical appearance of writers which in turn has meant publishers demand ever younger, ever more photogenic authors; the decline of the editor in publishing houses in order to save money; the abandonment by publishers of the idea that writers have lifelong careers and that given the right support over a lengthy period they can develop; the failure of payment for literary endeavour either to keep pace with inflation or to reflect the actual amount of labour involved in literary production; the atrophy of community (writers have never been more marginal and their enterprise more quixotic and ridiculous); and, finally, the eclipse of literary forms that once helped writers to survive, such as the short story, especially the short story broadcast on radio.
I know this is just the way things go. I also know others have it worse than me, and their reasons for embitterment are more convincing than mine. Perhaps the greatest loss I have experienced by becoming a professional writer is that I no longer care about others, that I no longer want to hear their reasons. I give very little time (actually, no time) to those who are in trouble like me, whether fellow writers or fellow citizens: I’m blind to them: no, all that I see are the writers in front of me, the writers more successful than I am, those being reviewed and rewarded, féted and praised, loved and stroked, fluffed and fellated, and so on and so forth. I am filled with covetousness. I am enraged by their success. I watch these success stories obsessively and I judge myself against them; I measure myself against them. I do this all day, every day. I can’t stop. It is pointless and harmful: what I learn with monotonous regularity from these comparisons is always this: they are doing better, and I am doing worse.
I tell myself that these writers are competitors, and I try to reassure myself that while they may be successful – some of them, of course, deserve success; I have not lost all common sense – they are not as good as I am. But the reassurance is meaningless because no matter how often I assert this, it won’t and doesn’t change anything: they’re still ahead and I’m still behind. Nothing is going to change. No one is listening. There is no god listening to me and offering to pluck me from the rear of the field and pop me down at the front. That isn’t going happen. I am where I am and there I stay.
I am also bitter. I hope it doesn’t show, but I am. I am so fucked off with how the world has gone to the dogs and in particular that little bit of the world I think I care about most, which is the Kingdom of Literature: for on top of the abolition of the Net Book Agreement, all sorts of other deleterious developments have worsened the lot of writers (at least in these islands) over the last fifteen years, among which, and in no particular order, are the following: the rise of branding; the enslavement of publishers to media endorsement by celebrity presenters; the obsession with the physical appearance of writers which in turn has meant publishers demand ever younger, ever more photogenic authors; the decline of the editor in publishing houses in order to save money; the abandonment by publishers of the idea that writers have lifelong careers and that given the right support over a lengthy period they can develop; the failure of payment for literary endeavour either to keep pace with inflation or to reflect the actual amount of labour involved in literary production; the atrophy of community (writers have never been more marginal and their enterprise more quixotic and ridiculous); and, finally, the eclipse of literary forms that once helped writers to survive, such as the short story, especially the short story broadcast on radio.
I know this is just the way things go. I also know others have it worse than me, and their reasons for embitterment are more convincing than mine. Perhaps the greatest loss I have experienced by becoming a professional writer is that I no longer care about others, that I no longer want to hear their reasons. I give very little time (actually, no time) to those who are in trouble like me, whether fellow writers or fellow citizens: I’m blind to them: no, all that I see are the writers in front of me, the writers more successful than I am, those being reviewed and rewarded, féted and praised, loved and stroked, fluffed and fellated, and so on and so forth. I am filled with covetousness. I am enraged by their success. I watch these success stories obsessively and I judge myself against them; I measure myself against them. I do this all day, every day. I can’t stop. It is pointless and harmful: what I learn with monotonous regularity from these comparisons is always this: they are doing better, and I am doing worse.
I tell myself that these writers are competitors, and I try to reassure myself that while they may be successful – some of them, of course, deserve success; I have not lost all common sense – they are not as good as I am. But the reassurance is meaningless because no matter how often I assert this, it won’t and doesn’t change anything: they’re still ahead and I’m still behind. Nothing is going to change. No one is listening. There is no god listening to me and offering to pluck me from the rear of the field and pop me down at the front. That isn’t going happen. I am where I am and there I stay.
A Book
O'MACHINE O'MACHINE Part One: 'Three thousand and nine'.
This 96 page pocket size book is a revisualisation of the future in the year three thousand and nine. It contains new commissioned fiction by the artist and three new writers, Daniel Boland, Niamh MacAlister, and Pauline O'Hare. These stories were selected from an open call and selected by the artist, the arts office and John Banville. The book also contains an afterword by Francis McKee curator and director of the CAA Glasgow which accounts a short contemporary history of the origins of science fiction in Ireland.
This is published by Fingal Arts office and can be obtained through
http://www.fingalarts.ie/
or you can buy and ship direct from Blurb
http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/2116081
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Lunches
Bacon and Barley stuffed Peppers
2 Peppers, halved,
2 Streaky Rashers, chopped,
1/2 Courgette, grated,
Handful of Barley,
A few Olives, chopped,
1/2 teaspoon Harissa,
1/2 an Onion, chopped,
1 Clove of Garlic, crushed.
- Put the Barley in a pot with water and bring to the boil-simmer until cooked.
- Meanwhile saute the onion, garlic and bacon until nice and golden. Then add the courgette, olives and Harissa. Cook and stir, cook and stir.
- When everything is cooked combine and spoon into the peppers. Cook at 180 for about 30 minutes. And that's another week done.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Help!
Have been reading a lot of prose of late. Am enjoying all of it but because of it my poetry reading has come to a bit of a halt and is in serious need of a reboost-so any recommendations would be greatly appreciated. I need something to encourage me to put my poetry pen back to paper. My prose pen has been basking in the joy of my favouritism this last while so its time to adress the balance!
Fishing
The sunset from the South Wall while fishing last week. We didn't catch anything but we did eat cake!
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