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Featured Authors:


Doireann Ní Ghríofa is an award-winning bilingual poet. Born in Galway in 1981, she grew up in Clare and now lives in Cork. Among her... MORE


Jessica Traynor was born in Dublin in 1984. Literary Reader at the Abbey Theatre and a creative writing teacher, she has published poems in a variety... MORE


Patrick Kehoe was born in 1956 in Enniscorthy, Co Wexford where he still lives. Educated at St Peter's College, Wexford, he studied History and... MORE


Patrick Deeley was born in Loughrea, Co. Galway in 1953, and currently lives in Dublin. His poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies since... MORE


Enda Coyle-Greene was born in Dublin in 1954 and lives in Skerries, Co. Dublin. She has published widely and is a frequent contributor to programmes... MORE


Gerry Murphy was born in Cork in 1952. His poetry collections include A Small Fat Boy Walking Backwards (1985, 1992) and five previous collections from... MORE


Theo Dorgan was born in Cork in 1953. He is a poet, prose writer, documentary screenwriter, editor, translator and broadcaster. Dedalus reissued his... MORE


Paula Meehan was born in 1955 in Dublin where she still lives. She studied at Trinity College, Dublin, and at Eastern Washington University in the U.S.... MORE


BILLY RAMSELL was born in Cork in 1977 and educated at North Monastery and UCC. His poems have appeared widely in magazines and journals and he was... MORE

Poem of the Month

Doireann Ní Ghríofa

We were there that day, in Thistle, Utah
the day wet clay began to bury the city.

From the attic window, we saw all the others
hustled away on buses. The swamp rose,

slow at first, trickle to stream to gush. When we
held hands, the lines on our palms sparked.

Mud dammed the creeks, sent surges of dirt-water
to swallow the sidewalks. It heaved houses aside,

toppled poles, smothered cars, snapped doors.
We stared until everything blurred.

Train tracks buckled in its path.
Railcar roofs became rafts, their carriages sank.

Mud settled to silt on the roads and in our throats.
Our memories faded, buried in the filth,

so we started our stories again. We learned 
new words and spoke in syllables of murk.

Now, when night sinks,
we swallow each other like silk.

(from Clasp by Doireann Ní Ghríofa, April 2015)


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