Category Archives: Poets

from “breath(en) flux ” by Michael McAloran

I

#

.…silence yes/ silenced yes/ as if to ever
having done with it/ stripped solace no/
 
vital lapse in all depth of becoming-un/ as if
because it were unto/ ash unto/
 
no/ pure as never was/ ever was/ given to
yet it cannot/ asks of dust what climb or
other than /
 
dry reach in catascopic/ hence shadow never
vital/
 
all traces then forgotten/ yet given to un-
forgot/ blind edge laughter/ afar/ no/

#

clamours afar/ yet nothing to it/ in banquet
of nothing no not a/

hence shadow’s dissolve in bit night balm/
well-spoken silenced/

of ghost-limbed rapture no/ call cards as if
to/ dissolve yet surface of what to it/

spit in eye of eye of it/ no/ traipse till yet
un-afar a-light unlit light of silhouette dark
what dark/

yet for as if to/ not a sense of all’s retrace/ of
fading nullity/ ever only of it/ spliced no
not ever…

#

…further echo further no/ as if to say that
no/ non further yes/ silenced in stripped
silence of/

rapture suffocate in which a-dream/ not a/
vibrates yes yet lack of sounding all colours
clear/

waste upon waste/ useless forage/ nothing
that ever was/ ever was or if/

what will in-speak derivative of what or
else/ blood can only ever be/ what can be/

unspoken detritus desire demarcate/ dim
light of eyes all dredged/

 

#

speaks yes or no no answer collapse of/

fallen flourish/ being in/ silence in/ yet not
a trace there is yet / silenced/ two three
what can be/

opens up in head of time spent forgotten/
fade of five steps/ back or forth no matter if/

dries eyes with waxen what bodily volatile/
reduction of all/ bind bite what what/

time rotting within skull of gild/ meat
locked to/ breath silencing allwhile…

II
#

…in breathless of/ all suffocate’s desire in
realm/ forgotten closure fissure fissure ice
until/

drag of tilt till shear of open spasm/ flail
naught un-sky/ dressage vortice no/

yet given of until/ reduct blind forage
empty emptily/ walls seep solace rupture
eye/

eclipt drags out all what once was once or
ever other than in if/ ashen dislocate/

resurgence/ resurgence no/ head drowns in
bloody latrine clear glass/

#

ruptures rails in absent sense derail/ cracks
blind all shadow deft until/ light snap
stone/

dirt in trace reduct/ fallen/ haven yes or no/
price of elective/

price of unsung what reach of purpose
strips death cloud from eye/ frozen breath
collapse/

juggernauts too/ two or four/ fore/ of a/ not
a/ resurgence nothing cracks here or ever
unto/ dead head disarm/ rolls dice around
on lacerate of tongue/ spits lest dawn…

#

…expels from out of which/ desire silence
breathless overtures/

oceanic collapse/ drags din wind collision
of/ sun forgotten/ worthless/

in click-clack steel bone drag hilt no/ rots
clap hands/ drained ever/

ever on yet what from purchase present
nothing was whatever was/

cold walls in which to/ collapse un-dread re-
dread/ head in vice of cold colours/
trick of light/

#

blood from out of forage ever-no/ steers eye
unto further no further distance/

screams out from it/ visage no/ warped
bones ever all/ all lies all present and
correct/

bitten white light silence breakage point
was once spoken or was not/ bites again/
rain rain in obsolete pulse bulb/

there is spit/ there is shadowing untold/
light’s corrode/ dead laughter realm/
bruised/ tacit/ stammers once more as if it/
silence silence/ rotting colours abound…

III
#

…in-dreamt capacity/ trades meat for
absent shores/ given less/ shadowed no/

nothing dreamt of furtherance become yet it
cannot/ furtherance of which in else of other
lessened/

meat trade in opulent unsound it trace
nothing/ unsound retrace un-meat of fallen
ash/

of prism pillage traces/ yet drains of/ there
or other/

collapsed purpose unfelt in an un-sky of
shatter-glass abattoir/

.

#

distances that never were unforgotten/ in
stench reek to abound one step shit flow in
veins/

it is cold it is not/ collected from/ wayward
sentence as flies gather in/ if said what once
was never once/

opulence/ circling skulled veins what
matter (the) vultured teeth of it/ scar tissue
un-livid/

naught a closed wound apathetic/ apathetic
stretches boundary tint/

collapse still yet nothing pressed to the
bone’s collision/ unspoken of…

#

…echo erased that never heard was not of a/
design utter violet sheer/ cold cast a bitter
a/
 
longing stretched/ meat solace of which of
eye in-dream/ else collision solace final/
 
redeem non-touch meat cold as ever was
before lapse eye a sleight of hand/
 
nothing to follow yet cannot/
 
etches from out of nothing furtherance
undone resolve forgotten/ rotted meat a
blister here/
 
#
 
solace fracture/ another’s density/tomes
cast dead no sentence in only of ever-like
fettered resound/
 
yet cannot sense/ un-sensed/ a locket/ in-
breath of sarcophagus eye given to fall/
 
long foreign hours never to be proven/ yet
what what longing/ else of none/
 
till dense approximate/ crumbling
measurements/ trace cold dead teeth a sneer
at the unutterable/
 
pressure point of long non-stir/ into utter/
cold meat as ever was before/
before having…

 
from breath(en) flux & © Michael McAloran

Michael Mc Aloran is Belfast born. He is the author of a number of collections of poetry, prose poetry, poetic aphorisms and prose, most notably Attributes (Desperanto, NY, 2011), The Non Herein & Of Dead Silences (Lapwing Publications, 2011/ 2013) Of the Nothing Of, The Zero Eye, The Bled Sun, In Damage Seasons (Oneiros Books (U.K)–2013/ 14); Code #4 Texts a collaboration with the Dutch poet, Aad de Gids, was also published in 2014 by Oneiros. He was also the editor/ creator of Bone Orchard Poetry, & edited for Oneiros Books (U.K 2013/ 2014). A further collection, Un-Sight/ Un-Sound (delirium X.) was published by gnOme books (U.S), and In Arena Night is forthcoming from Lapwing Publications. EchoNone & Of Dissipating Traces were also recently released by Oneiros Books. breath(en) flux, a chapbook, was recently released by Hesterglock Press.

“The Aunties” and other poems by Josephine Corcoran

Honeymoon

 
I wouldn’t call it a honeymoon,
those muffled nights in mothballed rooms.
With cake in the boot we pilgrimmed north,
taking a young marriage to old widows,
 
my father’s brothers dead,
their crucifixes still hanging.
In each house we were given the double bed,
my aunties inviting us to fornicate
 
on concave mattresses holding dead men’s
seed. Had we come one week before,
you would have been given nothing
but dusty blankets on a downstairs floor,
 
and I would have sunk, alone and deep,
into the mildewed sponge of a cousin’s bed.
My aunties would have spread
as wide as angels in their marital sheets,
 
their doors ajar, the solemn whispers
of their night-time prayers beating
as sweet as deathbed love-making.
But our wedding vows were said,
 
so we sipped tea on upright chairs
still dimpled from Brylcreemed heads,
and rolled like screws in sideways jars
on shelves in locked-up sheds.
 
   Seven years,
one son, one daughter later,
Jesus has been sent to us.
(The aunts are gone, their houses stripped)
His legs are broken (long marriages skipped,
 
thrown into landfill) and we laugh
when our little children ask about our honeymoon.
I see you dreaming down our garden path
as you hold the broken body in your hands.
 
He was nailed to the Anaglypta. You are picturing
the twist of wire you’ll use to bind his legs;
the nail, the hammer, the spirit level, the pencil
mark the place he’ll eternally outstare us.
 
I love the way our daughter sings
as her finger traces our wedding rings.
 

Dead Sisters

Maria and Elizabeth Brontë, died aged 11 and 10
 
So young to be marooned here,
we spend our pain on travelling
dreams, skating over frozen seas,
following their inky maps,
our boats to Gondal trapped
on battered moors. We straddle
the backs of galloping hares,
fly flat on the wings of marble-
eyed hawks grown dragon-sized,
since in our dreams we are
as tiny as toy soldiers.
We cry for them to carry us
beyond mountains and frog-filled lakes.
 
They shake in their beds.
The travelling box lies waiting.
We tiptoe on lopsided floors,
watch the news from Angria
ripple over them in sleep, whisper
We mustn’t keep you any longer.
 
They have laid out shadows
and attics and mists.
 
We disappear.
 

The Aunties

 
Brewing tea in our kitchen
we snort, remembering you screaming
to your mother we were witches.
Behind her back
we flew to fetch biscuits,
you said. We were trees in the dark
who followed you home,
the lampposts that tiptoed after you
to blind your unclenched eyes.
 
We fed you trifle, persuaded you
we hadn’t eaten your mother,
that shadows were not black blood
against a sunlit wall. You understood
she was drinking wine,
there was no hole in her side
where we’d ripped you from her,
and you knew that knives were for cake
and the crusts of sandwiches.
 
You threw careless waves to your mother,
ran into our house like a spring tide,
the seagulls laughing;
the old tricks had worked again.
 

Gasps and Sighs

 
Is it because
we fell from our nests
before we knew
we had wings?
that we remember
our heads crowned
in pain? our upended
legs? is it because
our wombs are
falling? a lament?
does all this explain
the gasps and sighs
we hear on landings,
through half-opened
doors, when we are
burglars at the top
of the stairs,
imagining ourselves
beating through
rooms, stealing
nothing?
 

Thanks for Not Switching Me Off

 
I’ll have no concept of time
so, no rush, and I may fail to respond
to painful stimuli,
and to sound, but don’t let that stop you
from playing me The Three Degrees
singing When Will I See You Again?
because even though I may be oblivious
to the doctor tipping light in my eyes
from her sterilised torch,
that doesn’t mean I won’t see again
Miss Travis,
Miss FitzSimons
and Mrs Cuthbertson,
or rather, three sixth-form girls on the stage,
done up as them, in gabardine raincoats,
sturdy shoes, clear plastic rain bonnets,
doing the moves, singing
hooo_ooh, haar_aarr,
precious mo_ments!
(The Three Degrees Fahrenheit! came the shout)

 
and wheeled to the daylight
I’ll shake again,
a laughing girl again
in a sea of other laughing girls –
when the future flung open
the world’s windows,
our lives soared in.
 
I’ll fly again with oxygen in my blood –
that was the first time I understood love
when I dared to look at the three of them
on the day of their retirement.
They laughed too,
their rock-hard curls trembling,
tears bright
on their bat-wing glasses.
We never knew
if they liked the carriage clocks,
if they ever set
their hearts ticking.
 

I Remember the Fear of Forgetting

 
I remember the fear of forgetting
the Austro-Hungarian Empire
under the cuffs of my school blouse.
Archduke Franz Ferdinand
and Sophie, his pregnant wife, are hiding
in my pencil case. The Black Hand,
Bosnia-Herzegovina and Serbia
aren’t visible until I creep
my skirt three inches up my thigh
and Sarajevo, 28 June
1914 is folded so small
it’s a blister on the sole of my foot.
 
I take Gavrilo Princip to my lips;
I would rather swallow ink
than hand him over.
 
The Aunties & other poems are © Josephine Corcoran

downloadJosephine Corcoran left school early with few qualifications. She returned to full-time studying when she was 30 which was when she started writing and submitting her work for consideration. She has two BBC Radio 4 credits, for a play and a short story, and one of her plays was produced at the Chelsea Centre Theatre in London. She has been writing poetry seriously since 2010 when she was a runner-up for the Bridport Prize. She has been published or is forthcoming in, among other places, The Rialto, Under the Radar, The Manchester Review, New Walk and Poetry Wales. Her pamphlet The Misplaced House was published by tall-lighthouse in November 2014. She edits the poetry site And Other Poems.

‘Moving Like Anemones’ and other poems by Lorna Shaugnessy

Crystal

 
The blower adds breath to heat,
turns and blows within the mould
until he finds precise form.
Molten glass vibrates.
It takes ten years
to learn how deep you can cut
before the glass shatters,
how deep you have to go
to catch the light.
Mistakes pile up
waiting for the furnace,
a second chance,
instability anchored
by the weight of lead.
 

Río Tinto

 
We cannot enter the Roman graveyard.
The gates are padlocked and chained
so we press our faces to the wire,
squint at the skewed angles of mossed stones,
the departed minions of enterprise and empire.
Behind us the mines, where pulleys and sidings
punctuate strata of centuries-old endeavour.
Rock and mineral are bared in russets and ochres
too raw for peopled places. Their cratered wounds
fill with water so deep you could drown there.
Today is Sunday. In the high, hushed
absence of trucks to rumble up the hill
we try to hear beneath the wind,
listen for the sound of stone,
touch the injured past, its fissured heat.
 

Moving Like Anemones

(Belfast, 1975)
 
I
 
I cannot recall if you met me off the school bus
but it was winter, and dark in the Botanic Gardens
as we walked hand in hand to the museum.
Too young for the pub, in a city of few neutral spaces
this was safe, at least, and warm.
The stuffed wolfhound and polar-bear were no strangers,
nor the small turtles that swam across the shallow pool
where we tossed pennies that shattered our reflected faces.
We took the stairs to see the mummy
but I saw nothing, nothing at all, alive
only to the touch of your fingers seeking mine,
moving like anemones in the blind depths.
 
II
 
Disco-lights wheeled overhead,
we moved in the dark.
Samba pa ti, a birthday request,
the guitar sang pa mí, pa ti
and the world melted away:
the boys who stoned school buses,
the Head Nun’s raised eyebrow.
Neither ignorant nor wise,
we had no time to figure out
which caused more offence,
our religions or the four-year gap between us.
I was dizzy with high-altitude drowning,
that mixture of ether and salt,
fourteen and out of my depth.
 
III
 
The day was still hot when we stepped
into cool, velvet-draped darkness.
I wore a skirt of my sister’s from the year before
that swung inches above cork-wedged sandals.
You were all cheesecloth and love-beads.
I closed my eyes in surrender
to the weight of your arm on my shoulders,
the tentative brush of your fingers
that tingled on my arm, already flushed
by early summer sun.
Outside the cinema I squinted,
strained to adjust to the light
while you stretched your long limbs like a cat.
You were ripe for love and knew it;
I blushed and feared its burning touch.
 

Dogged

 
The injured past comes back like a mangy dog.
It hangs around, infecting my doorstep with its sores
and the smell of neglect, trips me up when I venture out,
circling my legs, ready for the next casual kick.
If I feed it, it’ll never go away.
If I ignore it, it’ll never leave
but press its scabby skin against the door-pane,
crouch in the corner of my eye, licking its paw,
or cower in the wing-mirror as I drive away
and limp out to meet me when I come back,
loyal and unwelcome as disease.
 

The Watched Phone

 
Her son is out there somewhere
the rain beats his jacket seeps through his jeans
runnels of water travel from nape to chin
 
somewhere out there her son in seeping jacket
beaten from nape to chin
travels through runnels of water
 
out there the rain seeps nape to chin
water runnels down jeans and jacket
her beaten son is travelling
 
he seeps through jeans and jacket
runnelling out somewhere
rain beats
 
water seeps and her son
travels rain-runnelled nape to chin
beaten out
 

Pain has a shaved head

 
and no eyebrows. It stands on one leg,
one foot, the side of one foot,
afraid to take up too much space,
knows the meaning of nothing
and the provisional nature of everything,
knows in a split second it could plunge into something worse
but has no tongue to cry out, only a beak that opens
and closes without sound. The soles of its feet are charred,
toenails thick as claws and a grey-green mould
grows slowly up its legs to bloom in the moist places
of the groin and under arms. Spasms
contort the torso into impossible forms
but its eyes never leave the pitiless ground
that thrusts frangipani, oleander, passiflora,
bird of paradise, hibiscus and royal palm
up and up, relentless,
till the nerve-ends of fronds
touch blue sky.
 
Moving Like Anemones‘ and other poems is © Lorna Shaugnessy

t4_-491194348Lorna Shaughnessy was born in Belfast and lives in Co. Galway, Ireland. She has published three poetry collections, Torching the Brown River, Witness Trees, and Anchored (Salmon Poetry, 2008 and 2011 and 2015), and her work was selected for the Forward Book of Poetry, 2009. Her poems have been published in The Recorder, The North, La Jornada (Mexico) and Prometeo (Colombia), as well as Irish journals such as Poetry Ireland, The SHop and The Stinging Fly. She is also a translator of Spanish and South American Poetry. Her most recent translation was of poetry by Galician writer Manuel Rivas, The Disappearance of Snow (Shearsman Press, 2012), which was shortlisted for the UK Poetry Society’s 2013 Popescu Prize for translation.

“Snowbird” and other poems by Jessamine O’Connor

Snowbird

after Mary Noonan’s house
 
If I had known, I would have said goodbye years before.
 
Not at the artificial grass graveside
or the airtight TV room where you all sat like stuffed animals,
but at your table, over the paintbrushes,
 
or on the coral strand, between sandwiches,
between swims, where I wallowed in the shallows
and admired your distant bobbing head trawling the horizon,
 
long before the vaporous woman seeped into you,
every year swelling, squeezing more and more out,
until there was only an occasional glint, or a short sharp smile.
 
There, up the powdery path, against your redbrick wall,
when you unclipped and lifted me from your daughter’s bike
and held me high over your face, naming me Snowbird.
 
It should have been then. If I had known, it would have been then.
 

To The Oxford University Press

  regarding the updated Junior Dictionary
 
You’ve taken the world around us away,
surrendered it all for a virtual world.
 
A dictionary teaching children that trees,
birds, and a whole fieldful of grass
are not really real.
 
Illustrating, by elimination,
that nature has no value and is not worth keeping,
 
what matters now is Chatroom,
Blog and Celebrity,
and what would a child do with a Conker anyway?
 
A Buttercup can’t tell you anything
about the lactic tastes of an iPod,
and no one climbs Beech trees
or gathers Hazel nuts these days
 
  or so you must hope
 
because you’ve hidden the words
where children can’t find them.
 
So when they go searching for an Acorn
or Bluebell, or Newt,
they’ll discover that those things don’t exist any more;
 
their inheritance
is Cut-and-Paste,
Block-Graph and Voicemail.
 
You inform them that a Blackberry is not sweet with juice,
but hard,
and demanding,
and needs to be bought.
 

Three Monkeys on the Road to Rossport

 
Purples wander into the water,
slow waves of heather,
cocoa streams of turf
ripple from the land
down to Broadhaven bay,
and travel long enough
there’s nothing else to see,
but a blackbird egg sky
speckled with reeling wings,
and the dryblood brown earth
pulsing with plants
and all the things that scuttle,
build, eat, mate and die –
but the first monkey sees nothing
through the gleam in his eye.
 
Swishing grass trickles,
the road hums,
spun under the wheels
of their speeding car.
Overhead gliding gulls
start a chain of alarm,
vixens screaming,
grunts and whistles,
then fish flicksilver,
rushing west
mouthing their dread –
but the second monkey hears nothing
only the echo
 rich   rich   rich
ricocheting in his head.
 
The third monkey is quiet,
he’s holding the wheel,
steering them
into the postcard
perfect peninsula,
wondering if he can shake on this deal
to steal the land,
spew up the sea
and rape the ground,
for nothing
more than fleeting greed.
Can he sign up to bleed this place,
feed on mangled fox’s dens,
breathe the buried field mice,
bird’s nests and burrows?
 
He feels the familiar
panic prickle,
wonders how he would live
after this,
how will he be able
to be alone and barefoot,
and answer the accusations
that creep up in the dark –
but the third monkey keeps driving,
says nothing,
and digs a hole
for the wild thoughts
deep
down
inside.
 

Asimo – On Prime Time TV

 
Asimo, performing to adoring sighs, like a communal child.
You carried out a tray of drinks, trod down steps,
and ran -actually ran.
 
You danced with the guest, soulless,
but everyone agreed you outdid her with your mechanical moves,
programmed to seem servile, dancing on screen,
 
running across the stage while the audience oohs,
delighted, letting themselves play the proud parents,
the presenter even called you He.
 
What I see is how fast you can run,
and how those hands are so easily swapped for guns, or needles,
or spray, or voltage –how long are you going to stay four-foot-three?
 
Your dance is the decoy, the wooden horse.
They cheer and let you in, suppose you will be their pet
and dance all day carrying trays.
 
Of course they say you’ll do the jobs we don’t want.
As if a million-dollar-man like you will ever be wasted cleaning loos,
or down an aluminium mine,
 
or picking over smouldering plastic
to find pieces of re-useable metal
like our children do.
 
Your act is faultless, your cracks invisible.
I watch and feel low level dread, a crawling tension not just in my head
but tangling round my stomach and chest,
 
and you’re hiding something we can’t see yet,
all these antics for our amusement, like we’re fed up of humans
who can do what you do but so much better,
 
even my toddler dances better than you,
because she hears, and feels, and is moved by music,
and it’s not a programmed response but a rush in her ears.
 
I hate it but I ring with fear – emotions I have, you wouldn’t know –
I also have imagination; like I find you, shut down in a box maybe,
and smash you with some heavy thing left nearby accidentally,
 
or clip you and pull out your wires with pliers which I’ve had the foresight to bring,
or just drive straight into you, goose-stepping down the street,
in the future when you don’t dance anymore.
 
I can feel these things, my pet, and an awful lot more.
What is it you do again, when you’re not playing the puppet,
distracting everyone on prime-time TV?
 

Ten So Far This Morning

-Gaza, November 2012-

Last night I closed the paper
on the pictures,
then sprang for the remote
to make the children disappear,
to stop them being lowered, so fast,
into rectangles
cut from clay.

Ten so far this morning

 
Now it’s numbers I’m trying not to hear,
wiping the table for breakfast,
seeing again
and again
the white bundles,
sped along in the strong arms
of numb-faced men.
 
Ten so far this morning
 
I let the porridge glue,
and start forcing tiny trousers
onto reluctant legs,
living, pink, thrashing legs,
snapping –
why cant you just behave?-
as they go scampering away.
 
Ten so far this morning
 
Boys crouched under shields
made of their own front doors,
hiding from the sky
behind doors just like mine
still flapping
with letterboxes,
the childhood in their eyes.
 
Ten so far this morning
 
I get back to the table and wipe,
lean into it, wiping, lean on it,
a terror of vomiting,
the walls moving,
cupboards circling,
swaddling me,
and I’m choking on clay.
 
Ten so far this morning
 
I need to breathe,
I need to want to breathe,
to want to be, here,
where for all my retching sorrow
I can only spare one small drop,
that falls, reflects,
and is quickly wiped away.
 
Snowbird and other poems is © Jessamine O’Connor.

Jessamine O Connor lives in south Sligo, and comes from Dublin. Her chapbooks Hellsteeth and A Skyful of Kites, are available from www.jessamineoconnor.com.

Facilitator of the weekly Wrong Side of the Tracks Writers, she is also director of performance poetry/art/music ensemble The Hermit Collective.  She was this year’s judge for the New Roscommon Writing Award, and has given readings, poetry and ‘zine workshops, and a beginners creative writing course for the Roscommon Women’s Network.

Winner of the iYeats and Francis Ledwidge awards; Short-listed: Hennessy Literary; Over The Edge New Writer; Red Line Book Festival; Dead Good Poetry; and Bradshaw Books Manuscript competitions; Long-listed: Dermot Healy; Desmond O Grady competitions and more.

A recipient of an artist’s bursary from Roscommon County Council in 2013 to publish her first chapbook, her second was printed on the proceeds. Both are favourably reviewed in Sabotage Reviews.

Publications: Agenda; Tridae (in translation to Spanish); Poetry NZ; Skylight47, Crannog, Ropes, The Stinging Fly, Abridged, New Irish Writing, North West Words; Stony Thursday Book, anthology Balancing Act, The First Cut, Shot Glass Journal, The Galway Review; and book Yeats150.

Jessamine’s Website

‘Cry Oceans’ by Mary Cecil

Cry Oceans

 
Cry oceans and weep the seas
Where waves flow over
The endless motions of life
The swimming perfection that flees
 
The Armageddon of destruction
By all means possible
The mechanisation of death
The beginning of the end
 
For whales and tuna to consume
The mercury to garnish
The insatiable greed to fill
The merciless plunderers
 
To crush and pulp for cattle
The wanton waste of the world
That flies in the face of God
And wilts in the sun
 
The lonely song of the whale
That echoes in silent reproach
The albatross that soars
Over oceans of emptiness
 
The flowering coral that dies
Blooming in acid
The hymn of death
Beneath blue heaven
 
© Mary Cecil, Rathlin Island
 
Written in protest to the mechanisation of fishing with super trawlers

Mary Cecil is the mother of large family and Grandmother to eleven. The widow of Rathlin Island’s famous campaigner, diver, author (Harsh winds of Rathlin) Thomas Cecil. Lover of Rathlin Island, Northern Ireland’s only inhabited island. Mary enjoys community development and current events. She has been writing poetry for several years. Enjoys writing a variety of poems, spiritual, war, romantic, protest and nature. Keen to compose more poems based on Rathlin Island’s myths & legends. She worked in owning and managing tourist facilities both on and off Rathlin Island. Public Appointment as Lay Member, The Appropriate Authority, Criminal Legal Aid Board .

Mary Cecil’s Rathlin Island poems