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from The Grand Tour (in progress)

This is an apology for the Quakers. I have mounted my horse. This is a beautiful picture of a wail. The fire door says keep shut. My interest is to ungain a name. I leave the house to walk the public streets where animals and children disappear. Forced into blocks with blankly confident boys. To display unconsciousness like the lunch hour crowd. To learn the push of age in the crowd’s unconcern. An easy sided gate. I like a dog alone near which I creep.  

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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…