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Articles by Derek Mahon
After the Titanic
They said I got away in a boat And humbled me at the inquiry. I tell you I sank as far that night as any Hero. As I sat shivering on the dark water I turned to ice to hear my costly Life go thundering down in a pandemonium of Prams, pianos, sideboards, winches, Boilers bursting and shredded ragtime. Now I hide In a lonely house behind the sea Where the tide leaves broken toys and hatboxes Silently at my door.
The Art of Distance No. 38
By The Paris Review December 21, 2020 The Art of Distance In March, The Paris Review launched The Art of Distance, a newsletter highlighting unlocked archive pieces that resonate with the staff of the magazine, quarantine-appropriate writing on the Daily, resources from our peer organizations, and more. Read Emily Nemens’s introductory letter here, and find the latest unlocked archive selections below.
1.14: Derek Mahon, Louise Glück, The Great Hunger; Neil Hegarty - Books for Breakfast
Books for Breakfast 1.14: Derek Mahon, Louise Glück, The Great Hunger; Neil Hegarty Oct 15, 2020 Peter Sirr and Enda Wyley This morning's episode pays tribute to the late Derek Mahon, one of Ireland's finest poets, and also considers the work of Louise Glück who has just been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. We also review the Abbey Theatre's production of Patrick Kavanagh's The Great Hunger at the Royal Hospital, Kilmainham.
A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford | RTÉ – Poem for Ireland
RTÉ – Poem for Ireland Scroll down the page for information about the poem, a biography of the poet - and more. Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Share on Google+ Open Shortlist About the poem Biography Media The Shortlist A Christmas Childhood by Patrick Kavanagh A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford by Derek Mahon Dublin by Louis MacNeice Easter 1916 by W. B.
The Terminal Bar
(for Philip Haas) The television set hung in its wire-net cage, protected from the flung bottles of casual rage, is fetish and icon providing all we want of magic and redemption, routine and sentiment. The year-old tinsels hang where an unclaimed no-hoper trembles; fly-corpses cling to the grimy flypaper. Manhattan snows swarm on star-boxed waters, steam trails from warm subway ventilators . . . Welcome to the planet, its fluorescent beers buzzing in the desolate silence of the spheres.
PN Review Print and Online Poetry Magazine
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Afterlives by Derek Mahon
(for James Simmons) 1 I wake in a dark flat To the soft roar of the world. Pigeons neck on the white Roofs as I draw the curtains And look out over London Rain-fresh in the morning light. This is our element, the bright Reason on which we rely For the long-term solutions.
Give It A Go: Poetry
Whether you’re just starting out or need some inspiration, Poet, Writer and Lifeboat Volunteer Eleanor Hooker shares her top tips on the art of writing poetry. ‘Poetry is a profoundly consoling art, especially in these difficult times,’ says Eleanor, who has had a passion for poetry all her life. So, when did you start writing poetry? ‘I always wrote for myself without the intention of ever publishing.
Song Of The Wind: White Ink Stains By Eleanor Brown
Steve Whitaker Literary Correspondent 3:05 AM 15th February 2020 Eleanor Brown’s first collection of poems, since her acclaimed volume Maiden Speech of 1996, is freighted with unspoken empathy. This unusual and beautiful volume gathers the lost voices of the past in a benign web of poetic exegesis, restoring individual merit commemoratively and declaring an affinity with those who ‘go down in history’ unnoticed, in Tony Harrison’s resonant words.
Review: Life In Our Hands at Settle Stories
Steve Whitaker Literary Correspondent 1:59 AM 5th February 2020 This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calm’d – see here it is – I hold it towards you.
Poem Of The Week: 'Everything Is Going To Be All Right' By Derek Mahon
Steve Whitaker Literary Editor 12:59 PM 2nd February 2020 arts Everything Is Going to Be All Right How should I not be glad to contemplate the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window and a high tide reflected on the ceiling? There will be dying, there will be dying, but there is no need to go into that. The poems flow from the hand unbidden and the hidden source is the watchful heart. The sun rises in spite of everything and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford
Even now there are places where a thought might grow — Peruvian mines, worked out and abandoned To a slow clock of condensation, An echo trapped for ever, and a flutter Of wildflowers in the lift-shaft, Indian compounds where the wind dances And a door bangs with diminished confidence, Lime crevices behind rippling rain barrels, Dog corners for bone burials; And in a disused shed in Co. Wexford, Deep in the grounds of a burnt-out hotel, Among the bathtubs and the washbasins A thousand...
“Data”
I’m noticing once again the singular things I noticed as a boy: the hidden springs, the sound of silence, nap of tablecloths, sea taste of iodine, the scents of clothes, raw grain of wood, a scrambling interface of ebbing tide and incoming tide race.
No Coward Soul: Emily Brontë – A Life In 20 Poems By Nick Holland
Nick Holland published In Search of Anne Brontë to some acclaim in 2016, and it is clear that he has broken much new research ground in his latest foray into an ongoing preoccupation. Emily Brontë – A Life In 20 Poems appears in the bicentenary anniversary year of the writer’s birth, and takes a necessarily unusual line in an over-populated critical oeuvre, by tracing the psychological connections between Emily’s poetry, her resolute and stoical turn of mind, and her experiences.
St. Patrick's Day by Derek Mahon
Down the long library each marble bust I hardly think it worth my time to rise’. Not even the love of friends can quite appease the vertigo, sore ears and inner voices; the isle is full of intolerable noises. Go with the flow; no, going against the grain he sits in his rocking chair with a migraine, a light in the church all day till evensong, the sort of day in which a man might hang.
At the Window | The New Yorker
The bird flying up at the windowpane aspired to the blue sky reflected in it but learned the hard truth and flew off again. Was it a finch, a blue tit or a linnet? I couldn’t quite identify the strain. Checking a pocket guide to get it right— “The Birds of Ireland,” illustrated text— I note the precise graphic work and definite descriptions there, and yet I’m still perplexed.
A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford by Derek Mahon
Even now there are places where a thought might grow — An echo trapped for ever, and a flutter Of wildflowers in the lift-shaft, And in a disused shed in Co. Wexford, Deep in the grounds of a burnt-out hotel, Among the bathtubs and the washbasins This is the one star in their firmament What should they do there but desire? So many days beyond the rhododendrons With the world waltzing in its bowl of cloud, They have learnt patience and silence Listening to the rooks querulous in the high wood.
Contemporary Irish Poets
Clearances 3 & 5 By Seamus Heaney From Seamus Heaney – New Selected Poems 1966-1987 Published by Faber and Faber Dipper By Michael Longley From Snow Water Published by Cape Poetry The Wren By Michael Longley From Michael Longley - Collected Poems Published by Cape Poetry Swineheard By Eilean ni Chuilleanain From Contemporary Irish Poetry – An Anthology Published by University of California Press A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford By Derek Mahon From Derek Mahon – Selected Poems Published by...
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