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The owl ate my pussycat. A new form is just around the corner. I am typing on my powerbook with an open robe. I lie in shame before my father's face. Hotcold I am always leaving somewhere. In shame I sit on some yellow swings. In shame I color my clothes with white paint. I left my father's house with a towel around my neck. What I know I know IN shame. Shame is guilt. A gilded frame. The real trouble is always somewhere else. I'm in someone else's mouth. Mice eat through the wall and my solace is returning. I cannot find my name. Kafka's book of rules is the flem in my throat. My narrator hides behind the curtain and my Grannie's mask is hidden under the stairs. This Korean wind snaps my black flag. I had it all in strident bliss. Beginnings and endings without a middle. The upshot is I am in shambles. But I want to touch you. All image is sham. My solace is neither wise nor methodical. This is a comedy and I carry my guilt with every rapture. I've not going anywhere. My father hurts my head and the air hangs heavy with pollution. I am scared of the slide. I taste hot chocolate beside the ping pong table. I am a ping pong table. All this salt sticks to my ribs. I'm missing something I cannot find. Whose eyes are in the mirror? Whose nappies do I smell? Whose beer in the babies bottle? I ought to know the history of my image. In shame I left my father's house.

Toy cars are hidden under the loveseat. I am ashamed of begging. Ich hore and in the interim I enter fear and trembling. In the middle of the creek without a waiver. This is not personal and is therefore true. Bevor es passiert ich hore im Boot auf dem See. Swollen bevor es passiert.

Crossing over into a self collaboration. Word by word, sitting on top of it. Kneeling in my open gown. Aber meine Auge ist my little horse. Damp socks dry on my floor. I do not know the ratio of speaking to writing. Never mind thinking. But when I speak too much I forget to think.


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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…