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Made it

Must cut nails. They click too much when I type. Must get a sim unlock. Must get my nose into this climate. Must find toilet trees. Must get groove. Must get back my rusty Polish phrases. Must ask for a Reklamoofka or bring my own. Must find a table and chair to write on. I have a sofa and bed and mini-man stool.

The air is dusty. There are two other natives in the three flat building. That's what we call ourselves. Natives. But we are not natives here. They are natives.

I'm back on the instant coffee looking for waking visions. I am still getting my bearings. My compass is spinning, still. I should be dancing. Was fur ein Beat hast du?


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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.

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…