Flare - Dublin's Singular Narrowsheet, brain child of Eamon Mag Uidhir

One of the few Dublin literary publications that my writing has appeared in, despite having written extensively on the city for a number of years. So, it does have a special place in my heart. Also, because it publishes fellow writers and friends whom I like very much, such as Micheal J. Whelan, Chris Murray, Daniel Wade and the also remarkable Rob Buchanan.

But it is really the poet, short story writer and novelist Eamon Mag Uidhir who is to be applauded here. As it is through Eamon's ceaseless enthusiasm that the narrowsheet appears as often as it does. It appears in conjunction with the Sunflower Sessions which are held the last Wednesday of every month in The Lord Edward across from Christchurch Cathedral, here in Dublin.

Eamon was kind enough to publish six sonnets from Henry Street Arcade and which appear in issue 8. If you'd like to purchase a copy, go to link below. Here's a taste of what you'll read.

Cheers to you Eamon!

 

Portrait of a Woman

Per me si va...

With her legs crossed, sublime movement

Of her flanks, her foot tap tapping on the air,

Balancing on the swivel position of her rump

On the chair, lithe limbs booted and in hose-

All revealed by the cut of her winter coat.

Behind her shoulder, like the backdrop of some

Northern European renaissance masterpiece;

You can just about make out Lambay.

The cold exterior landscape seen from

 Inside the compartment of the passing train,

Evokes Tacitus and Aleppo.

Beauty must always be contrasted with banality.

There she is, framed, in the company of some other

 Damned women, the train hurtling forward into the abyss.

https://www.flare.ie/shopping/index.html

https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/flare-and-the-age-of-the-narrowsheet-1.3062302

Christine Murray's Bind - Launch Speech at The Irish Writer's Center

One of my favourite poets working in the English language today, when she asked me to launch her latest book published by Turas Press last year, I jumped at the opportunity. Here is what I said on the night in the Irish Writer's Center, Dublin.

bind – by Christine Murray

An Introduction

Turas Press, Dublin, 2018

Writing is a system of belief – scripture! People often tend to overlook this simple fact. And, its most fervent practitioners, like so many other believers, live with it every day. This belief system of theirs is their way of trying to make a way in the world. Somehow, through their script, their inscriptions made, on whatever material is at hand, a formal trace of their lives will remain perhaps long after their physical remains are gone. This alone, no doubt, is one of the most fundamental reasons perhaps why writers, and particularly poets, do what it is they do, in order to, and in the words of one of the system’s most powerful and so representative voices; leave a stain. 

I was up in Kilmainham recently, walking among the graves in the smaller graveyard there opposite Bully’s Acre, trying to decipher whatever was left of the inscriptions that were made on the now great and blackened slabs of stone, and I thought of Chris. For Christine Murray is a stone-cutter by trade. One day she told me the most extraordinary thing. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing a living writer, or poet, has ever told me. She told me that as a stone-cutter you were used to inscribing letters and words on monuments, and in many cases to the dead. So, she told me that in her writing, this was a quality that she tried to bring to her work – this ‘monumental’ vision.

Imagine the time and effort that is required to first prepare the stone to receive the first chip of the chisel?

a granite stylus

a grave bed

green sea-bed of flowering heads.

shatter of tree hacked-through/

windmills beside an sruthán geal

gold coins  in – stream- glitter out to me[1]

Symphonic tonal variations on paper-stone/ Variations of symphonic tones on stone paper. Whatever way you will attempt to define them, this is what I love about the poetry of Christine Murray, it is her artful delight and the playfulness in which she chips away at the words, the way she lets them bleed into one another like perhaps the vein lines in a stone. Writing being a very physical act for her. For instance, her very deliberate choice of verbs or nouns(?) There is a very specific lexicon to Murray’s work. Listen!

     silica  caul  rivulet  and skein                          ( nouns )

ribbon    sear   quill  and embed                  ( verbs )

They are taken from the worlds of masonry and haberdashery, just two of which Murray effortlessly channels into her work. One overtly masculine, the other so decidedly feminine, but such binary concepts have no place in Murray’s universe, for Murray writing is an act of transgression; all borders must come down. Transgendered, be aware! With such words, Murray carves out constellations of sound, out from the graphemes lying there so apparently idle on the page hooking them up to stories, myth, legend, the stuff of folk-lore and sheer fantasy. Indeed, the worlds she creates in her books interconnect, which for the reader of her work is but a further reason to enjoy reading her books. For example, in this her latest bind , the first of her books to be published in her native country (and for this Liz McSkeane at Turas Press is heartily to be congratulated) all too familiar motifs such as birds, trees and leaves appear, as indeed they did in  She ( Oneiros Books, UK, 2014), and Cycles ( Lapwing, Belfast, 2013).

But let us first go to the title – bind , of this her latest work with its rather curious subsidiary title a waking book. What does this mean? Do other books sleep, and so dream? If one turns the page we come across the following quote, taken from one of the poems towards the end of the collection.

a leaf fallen

is always a poem

It signals autumnal decay, and reverie. In French, curiously, rever is the verb to dream while réveil is to awaken, so with just the slightest nuance in pronunciation we are in completely alternative states of consciousness. Feathers, birds, trees and leaves are some of the key signs  Murray peoples the psychic horizon, rather like the way signs do people the psychic world of the iconic French psychoanalytical thinker Jacques Lacan. So, the world of the subconscious very much being a deep well which Murray exploits at will. This is one of the key features which make her work so original, I believe, for she is one of the few contemporary poets in the English- speaking world, at least, who uses the symbolic power of words so advantageously, creating these astonishingly clear dreamscapes which we, the readers, are lucky enough to be able to inhabit in our reading/waking state.

When Chris told me that the new title of her latest book was bind, I remember smiling. Was it the verb or the noun, I thought? And this is the second feature to her work which I believe it is important to further highlight. As Murray has a deeply physical relationship to language. For like all truly great poets her understanding does not only encompass a deeply metaphoric resonance, which is crucial, but her deep appreciation of symbolism is also allied to her very clear understanding of the onomatopoeia of all language. This double distinction, coupled with her multifaceted interests in phenomenon at large in the world, give Murray’s work a particular edge over a lot of writing which is produced today.   

Christine told me in an email, and I will quote her directly, “ It is elegiac.” It meaning bind. “It is about not being limited by physicality but being bound by our inability to transcend certain rules – hence the double-bind. The Gordian knot.”

if there are birds here.

they are made of stone. [2]

Before passing you over to Christine herself, there are just three extracts from some of the poems that I wish to highlight here, to give you a little flavour of the miracle which she brings. The first is a rather playful paraphrasing of the all too familiar dictum of Heraclitus about never being able to step into the same river twice, due to the eternal flux of material things-Life. In the first poem cycle of the book, in which the main ideas are introduced, the poem narcissus figures. It is at once a nod to the classic figure of Greek mythology, complete with echo contemplating him in the wings, evoking all of the psychic resonance of the archetypal pair, while at the same time being just a wonderful tonal composition evoking nature’s splendour. Generosity is another hallmark of great art, and it is by such twin-fold bounty that Murray’s generosity comes.

not step twice into, not

step back from stream.

its nets are storm-blackened,

Nets figure again and again in bind -  appearing in the very first title poem ‘ her nets of dust, fire’ in relation to the wonderfully phrased ‘draughts of birds’ to the ‘chlorophyll nets’ which ‘patch the grass’ in the closing poem of the first cycle. Along with the ‘corridors’ which also figure, a whole poem being given over to them, the nets act as an architextural devices to further consolidate the overall theme of bondage which the book treats, of human bondage to quote Somerset Maugham. And, yes, there are strong sado-masochistic undertones seeping through the text, yet another layer Murray, the book’s Architext inserts; no doubt too out of sheer mischief. For Christine Murray belongs to a longstanding tradition of Gothic writers, and such is where bind, just like She and The Blind ( Oneiros Books, UK, 2013)  before it, needs to be placed, alongside the poetry of Sylvia Plath and Marianne Moore, in the modernist tradition, but also alongside Emily Dickinson, Karen Blixen and Mary Shelley.

it is voice brings us alive

So Murray reminds us in the poem stalk the open ring, again a poem taken from the first poem cycle in the collection, and again relating to the figure of Narcissus. In Lacan’s universe, the mirror stage is a pivotal moment in the child’s engagement with the world around them, as it is the first time they fully perceive visually that they are a body in the world which they perceive for the first time, like Narcissus in the Greek myth. It is a traumatic experience, according to Lacan, or at least it can be depending how the child handles the vision of themselves in the world. Murray seems to be evoking this Lacanian world yet very much with her own slant, the voice too entering consciousness to either startle the Other into wakefulness in order to ‘dream’ together, or Not!

it is an unearthing of voice,

brings us alive.

his hands bound by feathers, his

red wings, a difficult birthing.

the gash

female-d.

mauve,

her silks are.

her integuments retain,

prevent his voice from out-birthing.

Not, it would appear being very much the case, hence the elegiac register. But, to invoke Heraclitus and Lacan once again, is not such stifling, such repression, not the true Mid-Wife of all Art? Such conflict being the mother of all unique invention?

Finally,

bound to

& bound

in. is

the very

point

of

tissue(d) skin.

For a poet so obsessive of form such matter does not pass unnoticed, being bound, all puns intended, to both the physical and mental content. Acceptance being key; freedom is a cage. Embrace the bars! Murray seems to be telling.

it is dawn

In Beckettian parenthesis…

the nodding daisies mourn.

Peter O’Neill

Irish Writer’s Centre

8/10/2018

https://turaspress.ie/events/

See also Poethead, Christine's wonderful blog.

https://poethead.wordpress.com/

---

[1] Glendalough, at Iseult Gonne’s Grave, Cycles, Lapwing, Belfast, 2013.

[2] Taken from bind -  opening poem.

Yan Kouton - a great big thank you!

Certainly one of the most interesting developments has happened to me as a writer over the last few days, certainly this year, which has been a relatively quite one for me with only a few publications appearing since the year began. 

Yan Kouton, the Parisian based poet and friend, started translating the sonnets from Henry Street Arcade which I finished sometime last year. After trying unsuccessfully to find a publisher for the book in Dublin, I kind of put the book away.

Yan and I first met up in L'Etiquette wine cave on l'isle Saint Louis in Paris in November 2017. Yan was kind enough to attend the reading I held there with Christophe Bregaint, another wonderful poet based in Paris and whom I have translated on a number of occasions over the last few years, and Cey Jay, the rapper poet from Brussels whom I have also translated. 

I did not know Yan at the time, but I met him again in the same wine cave some months later in February 2018. I had organised a meeting with himself and Christophe to discuss a collaboration between the three of us. 

Well, after some months, and a few translations more, Yan started translating some of my sonnets, as I said. I can't express how happy I am with Yan's work. It is perhaps one of the most significant things to happen to me as a writer; to have some of my Baudelaire inspired sonnets translated into the language that I know and love so well. 

Merci Yan !

Here is a taste of what is to come.

The Grounding

The infinite position is the imminent peril of your emplacement,

Such should be your grounding at every encounter.

For from such a perspective can come the wholly equalling

Level of horizontality, allowing you to lie down with another,

Totally unencumbered by the impossible trappings

Of the forbidding echelons of absolute emptiness;

Doom spheres spawning vertical nausea.

Hourly calculations of liquid ice flows.

Sea changes involving continents of plastic,

Inside which swim fish with hardening anatomy.

The menu on offer will induce testicular cancer.

So, lie back with him/her and enjoy the tantalising notion

Of your sheer vulnerability; how they might kill you with but a word.

Or, for all your days, help you to finally reconstruct the world.

Le Fondement


L'infinie position est l'imminent péril de votre situation,
Telle devrait être votre assise à chaque rencontre.
Car de cette perspective peut venir l’égalité complète
L’horizontalité permettant de se coucher avec l’autre,


Totalement libre des pièges impossibles
Des tabous du vide absolu ;
Les cercles damnés engendrant des nausées verticales.
Les calculs horaires des flux de glace liquide.


Les mers portant des continents de plastique,
Dans lesquels nagent ces poissons à l'anatomie durcie.
Le menu ainsi proposé provoquera un cancer du testicule.


Aussi, couchez-vous avec lui avec elle et céder à la tentation
De votre pure vulnérabilité ; ils pourraient vous tuer d'un mot.
Ou, pour le reste de vos jours, vous aider à reconstruire enfin le monde.


































 ( Translation Yan Kouton, 2019. )

Morning Commute

We climb aboard the commuter train arbeit macht frei

Huddled together on airtight carriages impregnated with

The odour of deodorant, perspiration and cheap perfume.

At 8 AM, the majority of us are mezzo del cammin

 Most of us males suffer from intestinal

And bladder complaints, while our female counterparts

Pre-menopausal! Into the gyre of annihilation, in one

Form or another, we descend. The younger amongst us

Sleep, as the rest tap nervously on their iPhones.

Only one or two read; we are becoming distinctly

A more eccentric breed, us readers! Because of this,

I become interested in my immediate neighbour.

Sockless in brogues, like me she turns the page.

The buttons on her overcoat burn talismanic.

Despite the anonymity some of us can still reach for the sublime.

Trajet Matinal




Nous montons à bord du train de banlieue arbeit macht frei
Entassés dans des wagons étanches imprégnés de
L'odeur de déodorant, de transpiration et de parfum bon marché.
À 8 heures du matin, la majorité d'entre nous sont mezzo del cammin


La plupart des hommes souffrent des intestins
Et de troubles de la vessie, tandis que nos partenaires féminins
Sont pré-ménopausées ! Dans le tourbillon de l’anéantissement, d'une
Façon ou d’une autre, nous descendons. Le plus jeune parmi nous


Dors, les autres tapotent nerveusement sur leur iPhone.
Un ou deux seulement lisent ; nous devenons distinctement
Une race excentrique, nous les lecteurs ! À cause de ça,
Je m'intéresse à ma proche voisine.


Pieds nus dans des brogues, comme moi elle tourne la page.
Les boutons de son pardessus brillent comme un talisman.
Malgré l’anonymat, certains d’entre nous atteignent toujours le sublime.






























( Translation Yan Kouton, 2019 )



These two poems were first published in Levure Litteraire issue 13, see link.

 http://levurelitteraire.com/thomas-brezing-artist-germany-dorsaf-garbaa-poet-tunisia-ceejay-rapperpoet-belgium-peter-o-neill-translatortransverse-poet-ir

See also Yan's wonderful blog

http://k-yk.blogspot.com/

5 War Poems

A big thank you to Mark Ulyseas, Editor of Live Encounters Poetry, for publishing five short poems from Say Goodbye to the Blackhills. 

These poems were inspired by recent events, as reported in the media. The rumors of war, they seem to be every where. I have read a lot of books on the subject, like a lot of people I guess. So, it is not to difficult to imagine war breaking out. Its not as if it would be the first time.

I tried to imagine it happen though all around me, I mean visualizing it on the street on my way to work, or on the train coming home or going to work on the commute. That was the challenge. Well, these short five poems were the result.

 https://liveencounters.net/le-poetry-writing-2019/06-june-pw-2019/peter-oneill-war-poems/

Place Saint Michel & Baudelaire

This is a very personal poem, dedicated as it is to my son Liam who has lived in France all his life. I worry about him a lot, these day, due to the protests going on in Paris. I don't get to see him as often as I should, we last met in February last year when I was presenting a paper on the significance of the invocation in Comment c'est/How It Is.

I first went to Paris in 1989, living on the outskirts of Versailles for some years. I used to love taking the train into the city center and walking along the banks of the Seine, on the weekends. Stopping off at the bouquinistes, looking at the books, before grabbing a beer or a wine in one of the old cafes. Parisian life on the left bank.

When we went over in November, 2017, to launch The Dublin Trilogy as a homage to Baudelaire ( it was the 150th anniversary of his death) we stayed in a beautiful old hotel just five minutes from Notre Dame and Place Saint Michel. All the old ghosts came back to haunt me. I was really hit by profound feeling of time passing. This new poem taps into all of that, and my reading of Dante and Baudelaire, two sides of the same coin.

A toi fiston!

Place Saint Michel & Baudelaire

For Liam

Place Saint Michel, exiting from the Metro

Station, head perfectly aligned with street level,

The whoosh of air shunting up, intensity of

Movement from humans and their machines.

As you step up onto the street, like a priest upon an

Altar, or a passenger boarding a transport to some

Foreign destination, transcending the past, and a

Smokeless Notre Dame, without hunchback

But garlanded instead with saints, angels and gargoyle,

Towering above you, and the Seine, and all the goblets

Of Jupiters toasting in Le Depart, all manner of

Phenomenon vying for your eye, till you turn to face

The fountain, and it hits you - the Haussemannian

Edifice sublime! Its demonic aspect, once again

Startling you. This is France, not Ireland, so the

Christian motif is inspired, by Baudelaire.

This then the Satanic tributary where the source

Of evil flows… BOREDOM. The great Dantesque

Symbol of Satan, vanquished at Michel’s feet, the

Residual feature of an acute medievalism, which

On first sight might appear antiquated. This then

The great deception. For, nothing could be further

From the truth. So, what are the modern ingredients

To furnish the monster? What could possibly further

Stoke the apparition to conjure him rudely to our

21^st century, I almost wrote sensibility!... I’m clearly

At a loss as to what to say… However, move on!

Systematic annihilation, or better yet, as the Romans

Called it, decimation. In that it is a form of daily

Destruction, so finely attuned as to be a sign of an

Acute precision. “Why the forty hour week!”, Monsieur

Replies. “Cest ca, l’horreur!”   To borrow a culinary

Term, complete reduction! When played out over an

Entire life, 50 or so years, three hundred and thirty- odd

Days a year, taken away to be consigned to toil,

In the banality of the quotidian, starting with the

Commute, be it on plane, bus, car or on a train.

Body odours, or deodorant, and undesired for

Monologues on mobile phones assail you in

Succession, all with the hellish vision of  1000

Idiots before you scrolling on their iPhones, all

Being continuously surveyed, each conversation,

Text, post, or prattle. No escape from the Leviathan,

Which amasses now in the shape of  Satan.

“Papa Satàn, Papa Satàn aleppe!” This then the

Shape of the ravenous beast that Saint Michael

Seeks to ward off, destroy, attired as he is in

Breast plate, brandishing the sword, finger in

The air! The 19^th century symbolism redolent,

And hitting you like an aural shock. Unbalancing

You. So, that you step out onto the street, while

Catching your breath, getting your bearings as

You slightly falter; such is middle-age.

And walking down the boulevard of your youth,

Crossing over once again into the labyrinth,

In the footsteps of Dedalus. Mon semblabe, mon frere.