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early morning dream (scribbled in haste in the notebook)

a mother and her daughter came to visit. It was a university campus. We went to a building called Cunning linguist. The mother pointed to a ski lift. We rode the ski lift and a sufi said welcome to BFI. We rode the ski lift through a jungle a sign read NEW TURKEY. We fell into a river. A shrunken river. A mini Thames full of mud. We crashed into the river and I lost the mother and her daughter. Men with thick torches waded in the river and I was suddenly seized by child sized frogs. I couldn't shake them. The frogs wouldn't budge. I had no torch. Just groping in the river and feeling the frogs on my body.


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Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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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…