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bits and bobs unmolded from the London notebook

I'm testing my banality.

Do you see this moon tissue?

Snail shells were once used as an allegory for both grave and resurrection.

The bright green and orange parrots are outside my window. They are beautifully lost.

There are more things in a closed box than an open one.

Make haste yea gentlemen who ride across the seas. My housemate awakens furniture that once slept.

Every morning I give a thought to saint Robinson Crusoe. Waterbugs floated on the china plate.

Q: Was I in yr tummy when you were dancing?
A: No!
Q: Where was I?
A: No where.
Q: Where is no where?


If you want to see the mirror then say please. The banality of the situation requires attention. A small lint free cloth, two pound coins, a small twig, and unresolved scum clogged the washing machine. I cannot proper myself completely. I imagine a forest life surrounded by friends in plaid shirts and muddy boots. That lady told me I lack male role models. I'm still forever spelling my selves. Every poem wants a freedom. Give me back my bones. What hides you? Who is giving you a hiding? How do you hide? Being starts with well-being. Lithocardites are heart shells. Images set verbs in motion. The French proverb says if you steal an egg you steal an ox. Houses are made from liquor and saliva. What is the dreamlife of language? The wing is near the engine. Every land a jigsaw. Etwas schnell. Eat the snail. Listen to me. I need a goading. Will you goad me? A tight squeeze of the lid doth not drive away wrath. Behold my face how it bores me. More and more went in and more and more came out. Folks pay a fortune for their lives.


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This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)

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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…