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fucking great

I am writing on my flatmates laptop. He has a big screen. He is hooked up to the internet wirelessly at school. His laptop is not directly connected to the school. So I can write without someone over my shoulder. There is one computer at the school and everyone wants to use it.

I must reserve my spot at the table in the teacher's room in July. I want my flatmates spot. I want to connect wirelessly to the school's computer. Wouldn't it be fantastic if my new job allowed me a bit of time to write and send out work and read poetry?

It would be fucking great.

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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.

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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…