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It is very hard to imagine not existing.
To imagine nothingness.

Today is Jan 6th 2008.
Two days of snow shut down London.

Every time I roll up the blinds they roll back down.
I'm looking for new ways to bring in the warmth.

Fog headed and crawling among rocks.
A rewiring is always on the horizon.

I want to work with language.
I'm eager to get back into Wonderland.

I like thinking of all the small bones that make a bird fly
all the small books that make a life.

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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…