Monthly Archives: March 2010

thanks: downdirtyword the legendary

just rec’d lovely acceptance note from their publication is The Legendary. see below.


Thank you so much for sending your work our way! We would be absolutely delighted to accept three of these poems for our April 20th issue. They are “Angus Gets It Right”, “Looking For Work In Dublin”, “Old Shirt.” They are wonderful, with such a range of style and rhythm between the three.

We are passing on the others, but we did enjoy the read and we wish you the best of luck in placing them elsewhere.

Please feel free to send along a bio image for your author page, if you wish.


Katie Moore

John Hancock

23 march oz 10 no spell check month

so by ten am, breakfast ( coffee, oatmeal oj for me n shell, pancakes n oj for the child) shell n morg off to school, mediation, yoga session, ( mazy star for yoga… fade into you etc) tidy up a bit, and in the blaze of the sunnyest day of the year got ready to work/write. mess about on line for a while, then experience writers grump, like cramp but in this one you hate every thinng you ever did, everything everyone else ever did, all you ever wrote is shiot rubbish. anyway just lost half this fn post cause of shitty connection bradband my arse, neil young live at the filmore 1971 helped bloe out the stink, eventually settled into putting together 26 poems in a new book file to send to new publisher, coffee break now is abt 1;30, write this note then do final check n send manuscript today, need to get out n do a bit aof a run, started abut a week ago, just little at a time, althouugh the sun has blazed out into a breif hail storm a minute ago, hopefully the weather will be ok by the time i got to go, need to move on, will be getting dinner ready soon for the home commers, chichen n mushcrooms, n rice n such.

amy takes us out with her great album Frank.

and now off to see the wizard.

congats to america for voting to take care of yourselves, good begining for reforming the way you take care of the world.

our statments of intent are the basis of our slef

Mother Teresa of Calcutta

The final analysis

People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered;

Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;

Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true eneimes;

Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you;

Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone may destroy overnight;

Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;

Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;

Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;

Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is all between you and God;

It was never between you and them anyway.

– Mother Teresa of Calcutta

10. march oz10


accepted perennials & logh lene 9.march.10 to publish june/july. check them out here:

New Welch review not interested in any. so sent a few of those onto  Haggad & Hallo. they’re out a texas.

Shelly to dublin a half six this am. morgan home w/me from school. up a half 8. coffee for me pancakes n orange for morg. yoga, meditation, morgans playing ( adventure loosly based on burtoins Alice in wonderland which we saw yesterday afternoon.) some lunch, put on a load of laundry, showered and got dressed and went to work on puter.

morgs watching some dr who. went on tour yesterday to newgrange, standing inside a corbeled stone structor built five thousand years ago and still water tight. lovely and sunny irish spring day, no day anywhere in the world can match a good irish spring day.

say no to spell check month marh oz10

on the sidewalks of johnstown navan co.meath

nother sunny day. up for coffee, yoga, sent work to Voxpoetica and The Legendary, edit photos. nice explore of tara hill of yesterday, with morgan shelly n our little dog too, discoverd new paths and rope swings and sheep skulss and rabbits. bought new edition of joyces potrait of the artist, still reading ulysses and so it goes…. also a book by wayne dyer havent read anything by him in years in fact think i only heard a few tapes of him when i was working as unit dir of a residential drug tx unit in wtby. “there is a spiritual solution to every problem” says he was inspired by st franscis of assi, i like st fran, he was kind to all creatures including humans… any way havent stared it yet, still studing the dali lama books.

almost ,unch time. not sure what will pan out there yet.

no spell check month march oz10

wrote two poems this am. yoga, coffed showered n shaved, up load photos, coffe, meditation, etc. and now its just noon. lunch then out into a beautiful spring day, to tara and beyond….

morning by the river boyne

salad greens smoked octopus basil ravioli lg glasses spring water

4march oz10 say no to spell check month part 2

then post some stuff to new zealand mag. never sent anything to NZ before so how could i resist. fucked around on puter, did the yoga shower etc. now take the camera out for a walk see what i can see. Dave rawlings machine is cool. brite sunny day part two the afternoon…

apparently the us embassy where just calling to say hello and that htey will be in touch again by months end to set up shellys interview. well no news in not anything bad.

started march pomes. tweeked the half doxen i had roughed up since the first of the month.

Todays tip: if you want to write right den wright.

i want to mellon ball bite that lovely little bit of you thats only tuned into me squish and squeeze nd nibbl litely

where i was in 75

say no to spell check mar 4, oz10

Good morning at 7. making coffee and letting the sun in Rigoletto on the radio Morgan up and waiting for pancakes, shelly not far behind to make the oatmeal ( honey cinammon pin head n flakes). By ten afetr 8 they are on their was, morgan to school, shelly to the library in mullingar. she’ll be calling the u.s. embassy today from the moblie. got a call yrasterday, message for her to call them re visa immigration etc. First time they ever gave us a phone number. so today might be the day we know for sure where, at least what country we’re gonna live in. 8:20 writing new poems, well editing. check email and such. will be starting new collection. Have been reading Joyce again. Ulysses this time. got a good edition, the print is big enough and spaces comfortable enough to make out the words comfortably. one of the most important things, if you want a chance with ulysses you need a well-printed edition. this one is published by everymans editions 2005 i think. so just getting into the kidney of the thing. dont know how well it goes but i know this, joyce loved words and more important i think he loved the sounds of words. i find i must be able to take the time to read each word slowly fully mouthing them as i go and i dont know about understanding it but i know i like what it does to me, and when all else fails i think how was this guy who wrote such a thing in the 20’s or was it the 30’s? either way. And i must always be ready to stop n or start when the mood is on me. if someone is putting the muse before you, you dont ask too many questions, you dont need to understand, but you do need to pay attnetion and then if you’re luck you will emerge an appricate. so no joyce scholar me. Much prefer Portrait of the artist, where some of the most beautiful sentences, paragraphs, writing i have ever read live.

anyway, write now for an hour I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. -( wb yeats ),

then yoga om mani padme humng, then meditiation and on the out breath death, then

1 march oz10

sent work to Poetry Ireland review, new Welsh poetry review, the shop poetry magazine, other poetry magazine, verdad magazine today. also posted two of the new books Caribu & Sister Stones (click below for preview).

still not settled anywhere. might even end up staying here but moving down to Cork.  But meanwhile we are being well received here at Michelle’s sisters home.

keep writing. keep up the practise.

Pablo Honey by radio head – is good music for yoga.

Title Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems
Author Peter D. Lyons
Publisher Lapwing Publications
ISBN 1905425902, 9781905425907

The new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw

Ruth’s diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.Ruth’s first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow at

*These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat – books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about – princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.

I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say, ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for,’ before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.Continue reading at

Fiona Robyn
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