Neil Slevin is a 26 year-old writer from Co. Leitrim, Ireland. A former English teacher in the U.K., having graduated with a B.Sc. in Physical Education with English from the University of Limerick in 2011, he has returned to university to complete an M.A. in Writing at N.U.I. Galway and to pursue a writing-based career. His work has been published by The Galway Review and various American journals. When My Colours Run… The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. W.H. Auden Learned old men tell the story of Cathay’s emperor, a man who avoided the future like the plague; who, in his divine wisdom – and facing death – forbade his people from using the future tense, because without him they could have no future. And they muse about time and how we tell it, highlighting that before Christ we had no such thing, and that after His birth we had options… Did you ever make that mistake at school (you know the one), believing that if B.C. stood for ‘Before Christ’, then surely A.D. meant ‘After Death’? And later, did you read of Macbeth’s raging against tomorrow, of Othello’s beseeching kind-hearted words written in hindsight-parted letters? Wiser now, I wonder if old Cathay and Christ, Macbeth and Othello were one and the same, perhaps not in face or nature, but in outlook: all believing that Time would wait for them to find their way back from the ether, as if men could forbid the wind from breath and stars from smile, their fellow man from a life of dreams and death, while they packed up the moon and dismantled the Sun. And I wonder who will care when my life-clock stops ticking, whose day will speed up and whose night will slow down… Who will remember me not as I was – but as I am and always will be – when my dreams die and my colours run? Unforgettable Fire “Have you ever tried to remember something that you’ve never remembered before?” his face asked curling into a mischievous grin, like a magician’s goatee laughing at its master’s double chin. Incredulous I thought he was joking, but soon realised he was not; he wanted me to summon something I couldn’t remember – something that I’d a long time ago forgot’… So with my mind unleashed (like the good Catholic boy that I am), I looked away from him into the distance, in hot pursuit of the bait thrown from his hand; I wandered off, all alone in my dark, scratching at the lower backdoors of unvisited memoirs, resisting the soul-consuming urge to bark. Before pawing at the contents of my mind’s toilet-bowl mixture, as around they swirled, all refusing to unfurl, and resorting to gnawing at my still-beating heart. Up all night I played with the frayed edges of images long before torn apart, chasing the cars speeding away from me with far too much of a head start. All this before, finally, I stopped, exhausted, and slowly made my way home: no longer was I a foolish dog of the night, seeking the bitter reward of a juicy bone. Memory-chasing I remembered that I accept what I can remember; that I want to forget what I’ve come to regret; that my memory is a fire full of burning embers, some aflame, some smoking, some dying: it’s one I can’t relight or re-set… So after a long pause I met his unsmiling eye, his star-twinkle now buried deep and within, “No,” I said, forgetting myself – wishing I could forget him.
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Marie Hanna Curran resides in Galway, Ireland. Her poetry and short stories have been published in Ireland, the US and India and her column “Musings from her Couch” can be read in the magazine Athenry News and Views. Her first poetry collection Observant Observings, was published in 2014. To see more, visit www.mariehcurran.com. DEFILED MY FATHER by Marie Hanna Curran I blame the British for my father’s problems, The way they used us Irish to farm their lands And so it’s come as no surprise, to find my father in his sixties Bended back and knees, calving cows, sowing grass seeds. This man, my father, works past the sun Knowing nothing of the word retirement, Knowing only that it was his father who bought this land Worked and died doing so. My father’s identity is so wrapped up in each sod of earth That as a child, I was referred to as His Daughter - never my mother’s - And I was nurtured on zealous stories of my ancestors, How they hailed from the Parish of Glenmore and how my cousin Pat owns that land now. This word ownership means nothing to me now And in this active nothingness I’ve defiled my father, my father’s father. I’ve defiled My Father. LIMITED HORIZON by Maria Hanna Curran Trees, thick leafed trees of April Through to thicker early autumn Encompass my horizon, Stop me Seeing beyond Cloonkeen, Gurteen Hold my back from Balymac– Their constant summer teasing Filling up, greening up My pegged fence line. Only I know come late autumn And into winter, I’ll catch my glimpse again Prolong my view beyond this one room Parish. By then, Hungary’s one hundred and ten mile fence Across its Serbian border Tasked to hold optimistic migrants back, To keep them out of view Of European leafed trees, keep them in view of peep holed wire Throughout autumn, winter, spring. Again– Will be joined by bigger fences, bigger struggles Europe troubled. WORK OF SOME GOD by Marie Hanna Curran
Near Perfect Work of some God, She’s thrust into our world ovum to calf Known only to us as Five-Legged-Calf, Dad settles all giggles With pure mathematics: The cost of her milk worth less than her life As an amputee calf. Near perfect Work of some God, She vacated our barn To be re-cast again. Neil Slevin is a 26 year-old writer from Co. Leitrim, Ireland. A former English teacher in the U.K., having graduated with a B.Sc. in Physical Education with English from the University of Limerick in 2011, he has returned to university to complete an M.A. in Writing at N.U.I. Galway and to pursue a writing-based career. His work has been published by The Galway Review and various American journals. SEWING THE SEA by Neil Slevin Fishing for water, sewing the sea, you sit on your wood by water swept and beaten quay, passing no heed to ticking time nor tide, nor in the distance, me. And shimmering on the water is your joy; the sunlight’s speckle bobbing your face, settling like stardust in your golden hair’s embrace. All happening in this moment – not that you seem to notice, and not that you seem to care; for you are at labour, lost within your working world, just another day’s laissez-faire: your legs swaying to the freedom of the water’s flow and flair, its splashes freckling the day’s outlook, your life (at least right now) all moderate to fair. Because for now you are free to stitch your own ties, ones that will exert their own force, but – not now – later, in due course. And so, not having moved, you return to your post, sewing the sea, fishing for water almost. FOOD FOR THOUGHT by Neil Slevin “What’s eating you?” they ask when I push the food around my plate. “Nothing,” I say rawly, not pausing, nor stealing a moment to hesitate. I lie to them, but not myself (no, not to me, I see my fate), knowing what’s eating me: eating is, all-too-figuratively. And so, eschewing truth, I respond with nothing, quite literally… I eat myself bite by bite, bone-by-bone – body, brain, and soul. Why? Because I can. And I can’t stop me. And why should I want to stop, when this is a game that only I can win and lose – and see me, raise me, or fold? I will have to stop, in the end, but not for me: I live a life divided into selves, and each and every one of us is no longer whole. I hate my body; know that he hates me. Like a loveless marriage, we are stuck together, indefinitely. Not because we want to, need to, must, but because we have to be: I’ll eat away at him while he eats away at me. MY CURTAIN by Neil Slevin “Ich bin ein Berliner.” John F. Kennedy A sweltering summer’s day. A wall rises as if by itself, partitioning our rented flat from east to west. A stranger greets my arrival home, plays the role of builder, waves the trowel in his hand – like a flag – plastering out the light. I escape to my confinement. His grunts and sweat and sighs are the seasons changing, but I still sense the sun’s shine somewhere outside. Beyond the walls. Beyond my feeling, walls that cry out for my release, but keep me locked inside my cell – myself. Later, my communist landlord greets me. He shakes my hand, startled I shake back. He cuffs the wrist I still have, my wrist still free of state, leaves me to my divided city; I laugh, jeer in the wake of what I see as his mistake. “Tear down this wall!” Reagan declared. His command I roar each time I tread my own. Under cover of darkness, always, I make it to the other side. Years late. |
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