A poem by Oscar Daunt Brennan, age 18, Dublin
When the needle-trees have crick-a-cracked,
And blossomers have burst,
When the leaves rust red and fall down dead,
Then the fifth begins.
The sun will rise with two blue eyes.
Spring arrived on Tuesday. But somewhere between the first bucket of water and the last drop of blood, we forgot what we were…
A landscape of illusory peace is depicted just before the guns of battle reach it in the first world war
Read ‘Local Warming’, ‘Fateh’s Chaat’, and ‘Garg in Goa’.
The poem evokes rural life with extraordinary power, reminding us that as we grow older, we often acquire knowledge that quietly…
A new work by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin
The weather has become untrustworthy, for determining the seasons and otherwise. As I write this introduction, the leaves remain…
