Volume 67, Issue 3
‘You know there is no other poet on earth like me. I know there is no other poet on earth like you. We need to be read. This is the theme of poetry, now.’
— Frank Stanford
Some lovely and well-meaning people, many of whom are good friends of ours, have referred to this erstwhile-present volume of Icarus as “experimental”. There is, of course, some truth in this, if the precondition of experimentation is not knowing what one is doing. If I were to write out the entirety of Yeats’s “The Lake Isle” from memory, it would probably be an experiment, although I don’t suppose this sort of experiment would be particularly worth my time.
Reflecting on the year, we are happy to have published a number of writers “outside” Trinity who, through their work as editors, organizers, and critics, have helped poetry to be read. Thanks as well to our contributors, whose work, as time forks off into innumerable and increasingly perilous futures, has served continually to remind us that the potentialities for human expression will persist in excess of that with which we are expected to be satisfied.
Thanks to Gill and best of luck to Sean and Sophie with the next volume. Thanks to our friends, who made this the wonderful fiscal year it was and who showed up to Cave Writings (almost) every time. We also owe a great deal to Maurice Scully, without whose help very little of this would have been possible. Thanks to Ed for his unwavering support. Thanks to Paul Muldoon for dinner, if he’s reading this, and to Furry Lewis. Hi, Nath.
— Leo Dunsker & Will Fleming
Icarus 67.3 (Trinity 2017) is proud to present work from Randolph Healy, Kit Fryatt, Billy Mills, and Sarah Hayden, alongside work from within the College.
Click on the contents to discover the work.
To return to the contents, click on the piece's title.
To read the contributor's bio, click on their name.
Nathanaël Roman, Cover: The Belle and the Bones
Featured: Randolph Healy
What Are You At?
Dalek Not Included
Morning Came Early Except When The Night Was Long
Gisèle Scanlon, I,I
Colette Bryce, In the time-lapse / footage
Alden Mathieu, Anadromous
Ed Salley & Leo Dunsker
Ed Salley, It was still bright at 7
Sophie Fitzpatrick, Lil' Totient's Locus Solus
Featured: Kit Fryatt, Pros of the Transsiberian & little Flint of the Ronson
Molly-May O'Leary, xoxo
Sean Pierson, Something called negative out of the dead and the new
Gerald Dawe, The Corpus Clock
Ciar McCormick, One thing of 'last things'
Imaan Bari, why am i so sensitive
Benjamin Keatinge, Molloy and the Knife-Rest
Jay Mulhall, Landscape
Ciarán O'Rourke, The Revolutionist
Michelle Nicolaou, Entries of a non-lucid
Featured: Billy Mills, from Uncertain Songs
Featured: Sarah Hayden, from <sitevisit>
Well, you tell me. I suppose that anything can be a poem, though not if it doesn’t want to. Or a poem should be at least as interesting as a good conversation. That said, I’ve been informed that what I write isn’t poetry. Which is fine. I’ve also read several statements which have been incorrectly attributed to me. For example, that I am part of a neo-avant-garde (No, but thanks anyway.), or that I don’t consider myself to be an Irish poet (Who wouldn’t want to be an Irish poet?), or that, poor, ticketless item in poetry’s lost-and-found, I fruitlessly seek recognition (Nonsense. My wife knows who I am, and so do I quite often). There is a unique line between any two points. Though this only works if the points have neither length nor breadth. And the line has no width. Not so easy to draw. Some hypothesise that poetry should be simple. That’s the sort of thinking that could, paradoxically, lead to texts aimed at imagined beings who never read or to works of effortless brilliance. Others swear that poetry should be rebarbative, politicised, subversive. Here, the gamut runs from the dull but innovative to the exhilaratingly engaged. Anyway, thanks to the first hominid who proto-linguistically gargled to achieve ecstasy or to instruct and delight his or her mates. In less than five billion years an expansive sun will lose some of its gravity and what’s left of the earth will be on the inside. Who could do with a lift?
“Dead is dead”
going for mirth,
remorse, or toddler’s tondo.
you so little choose
what enters you.
A pole is a pole.
Wax is wax.
Ken is Dodd.
used to be smaller
and floppier then.
You could say a lot
about Désiré’s sword
and I got the en pointe
but not the other connection.
But who’s to tell
if you can’t return from afters?
Winklepickers were big then
and ducks such magical animals,
lords and ladies of water, earth and air.
But not so much the walking.
Sean got really short
when I said that I thought we were animals.
The first craw
The world being an egg,
it was much harder
to get in or out
without causing damage.
Those at the edge
had less hold
and less to hold them
those at the centre
Then after a change of tense
equality’s victory was complete
Why did I risk this milk
ranker than if the herd had smoked forty a day
while snacking on salmon?
Talk as in task
the l bowing out
the a changing shape
for its new Platonic vessel
or round two with a virus.
Twenty four hours on a train
and they didn’t get my jokes
the silence getting thicker and thicker.
It didn’t help when I leaned
on my fork and bent it
they having put out the silver.
Shouting in the kitchen.
I like that talk
ends in a k.
Otherwise it would be talc.
Crossing the bridge I tensed
seeing a man thump a woman.
“I think it’s wrong,” I offered.
“You’re a traveller,” he replied,
“You know how it stands.”
I’d no idea why he was
dragging in Ozymandias.
Yonks later I realised what he meant.
“Where’s the real stuff in life
to cling to?” sings Tony
not really interrogatively,
prepositions concerning themselves
with charm rather than logic.
I can still smell the sacks
in the post-office bag room
and those men three quarters dust
moving as if stuck in Zeno’s paradox.
It’s amazing what can work.
The woman who invented
magic knickers is now a billionaire.
When my sisters didn’t want to wash
their hair they would douse it
with talc then brush it out.
Teenage-I tried it once
but got the dose wrong
aging a decade per minute
only increasing oil production.
People laughed in the street.
Happiness is closer than you think.
A tribe in the South have a dance
that encodes a recipe
for a particularly delicious soup.
It’s not something they do at weddings
but it’s a good dance for a cold winter’s night.
Spiderman, in his best costume,
went over to the Fantastic Four
and asked if he could join.
“There’d still be as much alliteration,” he explained.
“We’re good with four,” they said.
He lost a lot of weight after that.
In the end, his dead uncle appeared and pleaded,
“Look, Pete, do it
because it’s the right thing to do.
Forget about that floozy and the bad reviews.
And for Christ’s sake stop whining.”
How we loved our old volcano.
Even after it became extinct
we still went to visit it.
Harrowing, of course. But respect.
Then a risible tide shaved all goats.
And we didn’t even have a snorkel.
In the world’s most inflated democracy, the Placeholder’s new scrotum experienced mechanical failure. Cameras were deep-fried and the building wrapped in alufoil. Officials applied an emergency amalgam of parental ashes and a relic of the probable cross while facing east. Nevertheless, his unknowable onions continued to fill all available space. A new commander could not be appointed until the old one had passed through a cetacean digestive system. “All in a flayed dork,” he quipped, ambergris glistening in the artificial moonlight.
We placed magnets in the pattern of the Cayman islands so that only attractive females would enter. However, they smelled slightly of seaweed or rubber and their species could not be guaranteed.
Members of the International Space Mushroom evacuated when its stalk was hit by junk bonds moving at a rate of over fifty thousand dollars a second. Replacement spores had to be germinated on the pseudopodia of a foster caterpillar.
At the end of the day, it was simple as adding the square of the sum of the components of the unit circle to the square of their difference to get the sum of squares of the sine and cosine of theta plus twice their product plus the sum of their squares minus twice their product.
(After Hayden Carruth)
Now, I come down to exactness. Before
too long I am going to have to observe.
And I want to say the starting point,
the place where I begin, is where my blood
is, or is it my mind and where it begins?
Next my grandfather and his only son and
My mother, an attempt to understand now
what I struggled with as a young girl. For
I know I watched myself - the self, watching
another self because I was the eldest – a girl.
And I want to mention the neighbours,
or maybe that is a meaning I don’t want,
these others watching the watcher, where
are they? The self that watches in glass
the face of the self on the hill, then another
self, my own face looking back at me at night.
Father brought me to the nearby town,
my first time, to watch the watchers, watching.
I was dispatched into a back room to meet the
watchers who gave me food, and I was alone,
no other woman would venture in there. It was
me and the watchers. Was it my first time seeing?
Perhaps. My comfortable body let my mind go
freely to its gathering of soup and sandwiches.
The room had a huge mirrored wall, so that I
saw a watcher watching me, considering me,
another beyond another, and I tried then
to gaze farther than them into the distance
To see the me in succession, to consider
Me in the shadows of the watchers. I stood rigid
And peered at myself. The soup man waggled paper
change and piled my arms with Styrofoam cups
of brown oxtail and I stepped down from the counter
and ran from the hall of mirrors to find my father.
Five miles to home, to my own room with no mirror.
I had myself now, diminutive in the shadows.
In the time-lapse
footage of the
of a pear,
a light lace crust
in on itself
like a beast
by a pack.
magic on all
litter I’ve just
from your grave,
of the earth,
these days are small, filled with
Stygian sunsets and drowsy
late-night mornings followed by toast and beans
and silence, three times to Dublin, striding
east and west and
coffee in the arcade, and tea in the house, and baklava
smearing honeysweet lips
houses standing foursquare all upright
in a row, for miles, for years
& my nights are wilder now, quieter but
incandescent, the billion stars, a million breaths,
a thousand roads I might have taken, a single word
here, whitewashed, humming with small songs,
articulate hands with insect-leg bows
broad-leafed pages and plants
my hands ache with speech, my mouth aches with thought,
my waking and sleeping and waking again so small, my needs so small,
like an infant reborn into old age, books and bread and beer,
hungry for thoughts and sex and argument, hungry to be drunk and alive,
hungry to stay awhile and grow
like a tree, instead of rough-handled potted,
my viridescent leaves all straining and falling away
soon these pale days will ripen, white blossoms budding
into fruit, like strawberries bleeding into sweetness,
but until then
I have my own sour fruits to savor
my small wounds to nurse, half-remembered lyrics and broken cups,
an artefact of a man both myself and dead, building an idea
so noble even children know it false, giving myself away
like the receding tide: these lost years
I gave up, my heart locked in a chest, my head aflame,
the woman I killed, the corpse I ate, the tears,
bruises brilliant like blackcurrants
the river running through it, the water under the words, red-bellied past
which I chased through alleys as it hid, around corners, piscine;
i laid down in channels, in beds, in streams:
it was me I am alive I speak I grow
here in the west isle where I
with two suitcases set up shop and sold insanity,
my own hysteria sweet as corn
the gold blazon of sun
rimed in a silver corona of mist, erasing
the links, the road, the valley
until my days are short as mayflies, tracing
the lines of your back, soft, invisible
Bent like pieces of steel
My lucid wet dream a drink w/ Isaac Hayes
I am tearing myself apart onscreen.
Hi Nath, had to drop off the vitamins
everyone is suffering crime.
I can stay in your basement, just
don’t tell me it’s raining. You can
lead a horse to water but
you can’t tell him it’s raining.
Learning the lessons of “the poems”
my dream I fucked a 6’4" woman
in her early forties who worked
in a retirement home on her lunch break.
That one will stay with me;
The only horse I have in this race
is the dead one I've been beating for years
Kill me like teen lit
Try not to account for the continuity errors,
Sorry Nath, 6:15am I know I haven’t
been "in touch" lately. I can hear
the choices in my head:
consider this intimidate gesture
a clear standout
the act of transcription like soundtracking dreams –
how to cut out the middleman. How Beefheart
fucked like a political statement. Me and Bobby
are going to party forever, if it isn’t broke
don’t fix it. We could chill
to some hardcore
like a cold hand in the ear. We could
pass Bill Gates, etc. etc.
Nothing chosen can be unbearable, nothing
unbearable can be chosen.
Tomorrow I wake and write again
and would bury you out back given half a chance.
I said you were spiced nicely.
Wall in my body somewhere
Continuous self that paused
the burnt bush
Need to buy this cloak and look
Worms with teeth in them and on the
beach they have anaesthetic in their saliva so you never feel them eating your flesh a flashback
I’m sorry I didn’t
tell you If they had been real then
you would have been screwed fleshwise
but was terrified I hope you wear it well
What does present itself ?
Voices blurring each other
that’s just what i needed.
“cavailles was a resistance fighter for reasons of logic.”
Not to be looked up
when i get upset i hug who i am with so that they cannot use my face then i use their shoulder as
a sort of prop to stabilise my cheek muscles that go all droopy at those times and the stitching on
their clothes usually works a treat
i made a menu
it’s really me how bothered people stand
i stood like that too
the difference is in thought
how do you think you stand
i find myself standing more and more and look at the chair i thought i was (sitting?) on
i keep standing on chairs
pressure and dampness
pulling and tightness of the jaw in bed
warm need to stretch
smooth plastic and a running tongue
two far reaching hands longer than a piece of string
chuckling and doing the dishes five pieces
of paper folded the same
by different hands all copying each other but it worked out just fine
so shoes on newspaper
“im not hiding anything
im just asking you personal questions.”
this is not my hybrid place-escape
google search result;
get a job there
Pinpoint what is gold encrusted.
I want real diamonds that smell like real pussy.
i am a lonely lady
not to be looked at
8.02 winter break begins
feminist flow: spoken word
tie me to an anchor
You’re criticisms are bad.
i feel a piece of shit lurking in my spine.
growing? a good spurt.
what if i am never forgotten ? my sweet centenary.
we all imagine minds
and wait out? fringing of face surprised.
when i die there are no sinners left
tell on me again and i sewer your brains
6. wants to die in the wild because his hands are too soft. He wants to feel Mother Earth with
his hard hands. we
have female orgasm so that we
can explode. guitar is your first language; a hero w ten thousand faeces.
Ruckus. My phone says you’ve fucked up your life enough.
you have to admire someone
practice makes perfect
i have a problem that needs to be solved right away.
we should hang out some time
lots lots lots
there is no fine literature
without all my friends
I am so glad I tell the truth
Stare in filthy mirrors
say what looks good
I will be honoured
(practice makes perfect)
It’s a date.
First idealised house
Then idealised passion
Fishing and thinking
Thinking and fishing
This time you won’t look bored.
pain in my ear (oscar wilde)
get out out of bed
you have to admire someone
I have stopped looking for or caring about any
I want to pinpoint what is gold encrusted.
Do not look that up.
someone said hi and i went home crying
ran myself over
my best single life
This is where boiled water began
Sinusoidial day Monday
Could not make out distinct
words people were saying today.
Every year one million art students do their final year project on tea.
Vibrations work and the earth shakes. Exceptional! This is where
boiled water began.
if they need you they keep you. i keep you tucked tight
ticketed forever my memory.
go away. (i can remember forever.
i am a lonely lady)
let’s not take responsibility for this.
now I'm reading like I'm running
let’s get married
now you cry until I go to sleep
i spent the night when you was sleeping thinking about attending your funeral and the friends i would make there.
(lots lots lots)
(get out of bed?)
I’m so glad to mean what I say.
I’m so glad
Prose du Transsibérien et da la petite Jeanne de France, Blaise Cendrars' hallucinatory account of a railway journey from Moscow to Harbin, set against the violent backdrop of the Russo-Japanese war, was written in 1913 in collaboration with the artist Sonya Delauney and produced as a limited-edition artists' book. Since then it has been translated into English many times. With this version, I've tried to do something slightly different: to represent Cendrars' tale from the point of view of his 'companion', Jeanne (or Jehanne, as the name is spelled in the first edition). Jeanne is a part of Cendrars' own consciousness, so much of the translation is quite literal. But in places the points change, the narratives diverge and then re-encounter one another.
K.F., Dublin 2017
for the unsung
Back then I was in my teens (nor am I out of them)
barely 500 years dead and I wouldn’t remember my childhood
if you paid me, and though (pace little Flint) I don’t think
you can be 16.000 leagues from anywhere on the face of the earth
I was a tidy steppe from my birthplace
I was in Moscow,
city of one thousand and three campaniles and 7 railway stations
and I hadn’t got enough already of the 1003 campaniles and seven railway stations
because my flaming adolescence was such a drag
that my heart was burning, turn and turnabout, like the Temple of Artemis
with a herostratic love, or like Red Square in Moscow
when the sun goes down.
My eyes were lighting out down those old roads
and I was such a crappy muse
I didn’t even know how to get myself there.
The Kremlin was like a huge cake with royal icing
crusted with gold hundreds and thousands,
with the blanched almonds of cathedrals
and the honey gold of bells.
An old nun was telling me tales of Baba Yaga,
I was dry and decrypting Linear A
when the Pentecostal pigeons flocked over the square
and my hands flew up alongside, with the bruising whizz
of an albatross
and these are my last memories of the last day
of the very last journey
and of the sea.
Nonetheless, I was such a shitty muse
I didn’t even know how to get myself there.
I was hollow
and all the days and all the fellows in the cafés and glass upon glass
I wanted to take them and break them
and the shopfronts and the streets
and all the houses and the lives
and the wheels of the hackneys raising tornadoes over the potholes
I wanted to shovel them into a blacksmith’s forge
I wanted to grind their bones
and rip out their tongues
liquidate their sublime bodies, strange & naked under maddening clothes…
I have seen the coming of the terrible red Christ of the Russian Revolution
and the sun was a hideous lesion
spitting and splitting like firesteel.
Back then I was in my teens (nor am I out of them)
and I still didn’t remember nothing about my birthplace already
I was in Moscow, wanting to be a fire-eater
and I couldn’t get enough of the towers and the stations, rubbing against a flinty substance
that formed a constellation of sparks in my eyes
sufficient to light an acetylene lamp in the wildest wind.
In Siberia the artillery hammered – it was war.
Hunger cold disease cholera
And the turbid water of Heilong Jiang was bearing its freight of human carrion
In the stations I saw the last trains leave,
no-one could leave because there were no more tickets for sale
and the soldiers who were leaving would rather have stayed.
An old nun sang to me: I smell the blood of Russia, the Russian smell.
And I, the worst muse, who didn’t want to go anywhere specially, could’ve gone anywhere.
And of course the entrepreneurs still had plenty of cash
to make their fortunes with.
Their train left every Friday morning.
There was talk of a lot of deaths.
Someone brought a hundred cases of alarm-clocks and Black Forest cuckoo clocks
someone else, hatboxes and stovepipes and corkscrews of Sheffield steel
someone else, coffins from Malmö full of jam and sardines
Then there were a lot of women
touting their thigh-gaps
which (said Flint) would also service
or serve as, I didn’t quite catch it,
but they all had license to trade
there was talk of a lot of deaths out there
they rode concession rate
and even had current accounts.
Now, one morning it was little Flint’s turn
It was in December
I left too, keeping company with a traveller in jewellery on his way to Harbin
We had two coupes in the express and 34 caskets of jewellery from Pforzheim
German carbuncles, made in Germany
He’d got Flint all togged out in new clobber but getting on the train he lost a button
I remember I remember but I think sometimes Flint forgets
that we were just a pair of catamites to a travelling tatmonger
and if anything it was me who got him the gig.
We slept on the caskets and I was on top of the world, playing with the Ronson Pist-o-Liter
the old fruit had given me
(Flint had a nickel-plated Browning)
We were happy and carefree
We made believe we were bandits
We had stolen the treasure of Golkonda
and by the grace of God and the Transsiberian railway, were going to hide it on the other side of
Flint defended the loot while
I was the robbers coming down from the Urals to attack the mountebanks in Jules Verne
I was the Honghuzi, the Chinese Boxers
and furious Mongolian horsemen
and the Forty Thieves
and the henchmen of the terrible Old Man of the Mountain
and, most modern of all
Raffles and Bunny
and all those international men of mystery.
And yet, and yet
Flint was sad, crying like a baby
The rhythms of the train
The American headshrinkers, they have this thing they call railroad neurasthenia:
the doors banging, voices and axle-grinding on the frozen track
the golden filament of futurity
his Browning and the piano and the oaths of the oafs playing cards next door
the underwhelming presence of Little Flint
the man in the tinted spectacles who nervously prowled the corridor and looked in at him
missing a trick
ladies zhooshing about
the steam whistle
and the perpetual din of the wheels tumbling along a wild and groovy sky
windows iced up
Behind, the Siberian plains, the low sky and the massive umbrage of silence, up and down.
Little Flint in his plaid
parti-coloured like his life
which has kept him no warmer than that Caledonian rug
(I’ll shelter thee, I’ll shelter thee)
the whole of Europe seen through the windcheater
that is an express going full steam ahead
is no richer than my life
my poor life
raveling out on these caskets full of gold
we roll along with them
as we dream
as we smoke
and the only glimmer in the universe
is a poor thought…
I just about laugh myself to mortal tears
if I think, oh Lord of Love, of my mate
he’s just a kid, who I found
pale, virginal and spotty, out back of the knocking-shop
where I, assistant deputy bottlewasher-in-chief
was stacking crates
and he came cooling his cold feet.
I had a couple of chits in my arse pocket,
messages to buy and deliver
and I said come along for the ride.
He’s only a ginger kid, never laughs,
is sad, smiles, cries way too much.
There’s something in his eyes, though,
the poignant heraldic spike of the fleur de lys
call it the yellow flag of his disposition,
or of France.
He’s rude and noisy and full of complaint
he’d tempt the tried patience of a goddamn saint
any road along
we wore out a lot of shoeleather that evening
and somehow wound up in the Metropol
courtesy of our patron,
the seller of kickshaws,
I fucked Flint up the arse
he gave me head
and the merchant turned on
us a glittering currant-black eye.
It was Flint he really wanted
he bought him a new suit and a revolver
and all I got was a novelty lighter
but I said we came as a pair
because we did
because what harm can come to two of you?
because despite it all, he’s my darling
all other guys seem to come wrapped in leopardskin
my poor imp is so lonely, so naked
that when I grip his hips and give it to him
his midriff melts
it’s like he has no body at all, he can’t afford one.
He’s just a spark in charcloth,
the fleur de lys, with its poignant heraldic spike
cold and lonely, the bloom already going off
I could laugh myself to tears thinking of his heart.
Anyway, I just wanted to set that straight
because when Flint tells it it gets maudlin.
And this night is just like a thousand others, a train weaving through it
big star falling
and a pair of lost boys, even if one of them is a girl, love to make love.
The sky is like the tattered canvas of a twopenny ha’penny big top in a fishing village
the sun is a smoky lamp
and up on the flying trapeze, in the shape of a moon, is a woman.
The hautboy, sackbut, the reedy flute and broken tabor
and here is my cradle
it was always by the pianola, when my mother, like Clive Durham, feed Tchaikovsky into it
I spent my childhood in the Temple of Artemis
and the School of Life, behind the trains pulling out of the station
now I pull the trains behind me
I’ve had a flutter at Ascot and Longchamps
Now the trains run in harness with my life
and I’ve lost all those Super Yankees
There’s nothing for it but Patagonia, Patagonia can ease my vast melancholy, Patagonia
and a South Sea voyage
I am on my way
I am always on my way
I’m on my way with little Flint of the Ronson.
The train takes one gigantic bound and lands on its treads.
The train lands on its treads.
The train always lands on its treads.
‘I say, Flint,’ I say (it’s our little joke) ‘are we there yet?’
‘You’re a long way from Montmartre,’ he says, ‘you’ve been trundling along for seven days,
‘far from the Butte, that brought you up by hand, from the bosom of Sacre Coeur
‘that you nuzzled
‘Paris has gone up in a huge conflagration
‘there are just flinders falling back
‘the rain falling
‘the turf bulging
‘Siberia turning, turning,
‘heavy snowdrifts piling,
‘the chimes of madness trembling like one last desire in the grey-blue air
‘the train pounding in the heart of the leaden horizon
‘and your misery chuckles…’
‘I say, Flint,’ I say (it’s our little joke) ‘are we there yet?’
‘forget your worries
‘all the peeling, carious stations along the way,
‘the telegraph wires they dangle from,
‘the poles that gesture as if to strangle them
‘the world stretches out, elongates like a concertina
‘like the lonesome whistle of a blues harp
‘tormented by a sadistic hand,
‘through rents in the sky, fierce engines
‘the whirling wheels the mouths the voices
‘hellhounds on our trail
‘the demons are let slip
‘any old iron
‘everything’s a false accord
‘the yaketty-yak of the wheels
‘we’re a tempest in a deaf skull…’
‘I say, Flint,’ I say (it’s our little joke) ‘are we there yet?’
‘Yeah right, you’re wearing me down and out, you know full well we’re far out and in deep
‘sweltering madness brangling in the engine
‘plague and cholera rise like burning brands around us
‘we’re heading into war like it’s a tunnel, uh-huh, going through the tunnel of war
‘Famine, that bitch, snatches at routed clouds
‘and shits rotting corpses on the battlefield
‘do as she does, get to it…’
(I love him when he talks smack like that, he thinks it’s smart, OK?)
‘I say, Flint,’ I say (it’s our little joke) ‘are we there yet?’
‘Yes we are we fucking are
‘all the scapegoats have crashed out in the desert
‘can you hear the bells on this scabby lot, more cowbell
‘Tomsk, Chelyabinsk, Kainsk, river Obi, Taïchet, Verkné-Oudinsk, a lych-barrow, Samara,
the dreaming cloudcapped spires of K’un Lun…
‘Death in Manchuria
‘is our destination and last resort
‘this is a bad trip
‘Lucky’s hair turned white, (most simple and most ordinary and therefore most terrible)
‘and Kolya Nicolaï Ivanovitch has been biting his nails to the quick for a fortnight
‘do as Death and Famine do, get to it
‘if it costs a tanner, on the Transiberian it costs a tenner
‘set the seats on fire and hide your blush under a bushel
‘Old Nick’s on the old joanna,
‘his gnarly fingering gets the old dears going
‘get to it
till we get to Harbin…’
‘I say, Flint,’ I say (it’s our little joke) ‘are we there yet?’
‘No, give me rest, leave me alone…
‘Your hipbones jut
‘your stomach’s upset and you’re gone with the gonny
‘that’s what Paris dropped into your lap
‘you got a bit of soul, because you’re unhappy
‘I’m sorry, sorry for you, come here to me, let me clasp you to my heart
‘the wheels are windmills in the land of makebelieve
‘and the windmills are a beggar’s whirling crutches
‘we’re legless in space
‘we trundle on our four stumps
‘our wings have been clipped
‘the wings of our cardinal sins
‘and all trains are the devil’s playthings
‘the modern world
‘speed gets you nowhere
‘the modern world
‘distances are all too distant
‘at the end of the road it’s terrible to be a man with a woman.’
(Lucky he’s not, then, isn’t it?)
‘I say, Flint,’ I say for the last time (it’s our little joke) ‘are we far from Montmartre?’
‘I’m sorry, sorry for you, come here close to me I’m going to tell you a story
‘Come into my bed,
‘let me clasp you to my heart
‘I’m going to tell you a story
Oh come, come!’
‘In Fiji spring springs eternally,
‘lovers swoon in the tall grass and burning pox lurks among the banana trees
‘come to the lost isles of the Pacific
‘they have names like Phoenix, the Marquesas
‘Borneo and Java
‘and Celebes, shaped like an elephant.’
‘We can’t go to Japan
‘Come to Mexico
‘on the high plateaux tulips bloom
‘the creeping lianas are the sun’s elaborate coiffure
‘it’s like a painter’s palette and brushes
‘colours as noisy as a gong
‘Rousseau was here,’ (he wasn’t)
‘and it marked him for life
‘it is a land of birds
‘the bird of paradise, the lyre bird
‘the toucan, the mocking bird
‘and the hummingbird nesting in the heart of a black lily
‘we’ll make love in the magnificent ruins of an Aztec temple
‘you’ll be my idol
‘a gaudy, infantile idol, a bit ugly and bizarrely strange
‘If you like we’ll get in an aeroplane and fly over the land of a thousand lakes
‘nights there are long beyond measure
‘our prehistoric ancestors will be scared of the engine noise
‘and I’ll build a hangar for my plane with mammoth fossils
‘the pristine fire will rekindle our poor love
‘and we’ll make fine suburban love at the Pole,
‘Jeanne Jeannette Ninette ninny baby-blanky booby
‘me oh my mama namby-pamby my Newfoundland
(He’s an embarrassment. I pretend to be asleep.)
I pretend to be asleep (and dream)
all this time, I’ve had to accept so much without question
all those faces glimpsed in stations
all the clocks
Paris time, Berlin time, Saint Petersburg time, railway time
and at Ufa the gunner’s face running blood
and the ridiculously bright clockface at Grodno
and the perpetual motion of the train
every morning you put your watch forward
the train advances and the sun retreats
nothing to be done, I hear the bells
the great tocsin of Notre Dame
the shrill bell at the Louvre that rang on St Bartholomew’s Day
the rusty bell of Bruges, Life-in-Death
the electric alarums of the the New York Public Library
the campaniles of Venice
and the bells of Moscow, the clock at Red Gate that I clockwatched
when I was in the office
And my memories
the train rumbles over points
the train trundles on
and the gramophone stutters over a Zingari march
and the world, like the clock in the Jewish Quarter of Prague, runs crazily backwards…
Fling love-me-nots to the wind
here, the storm unloosed
trains roar like cyclones down tortuous tracks
there are trains that never meet
some just get lost along the way
the stationmasters play chess
putting English on the ball
the railroad is a new branch of geometry
and the soldier who gutted him
and the galleys
and the destroyers
and the amazing machines he invented
and all that carnage
like the Titanic that I read about in the paper
so many associations of ideas that I can’t make anything of
because I’m a really shitty muse
because I forgot to take out travel insurance
I don’t even know how to get myself there
and I’m scared.
I don’t even know how to get myself there
I should do a series of deranged paintings, like Flint’s mate Chagall
But I didn’t take notes as we went along
“Excuse my ignorance
excuse me for not knowing how to play up and play the poetry game”
as Flint’s pal Guillaume Apollinaire says
you can learn you need to know about war from Kropotin’s Memoirs
or in the bloodthirsty Japanese illustrated papers
but why should I footnote it all?
I give myself up
to the acrobatics of memory…
Around Irkutsk things got slow
started to drag
we were the first to negotiate Lake Baikal
and the train was decked with flags and lanterns
and we’d departed the station to the strains of God Save the Tsar
or Glinka’s ‘Glory’, I didn’t know which and Flint said both were melancholic
though I couldn’t see it myself. If I were a painter I’d
slap on loads of red and yellow because I think we were all a bit mental
and a vast giddiness put blood into the passengers’ pinched cheeks.
As we got nearer to Mongolia
that burned like a housefire
the train’s allure had gone into definite rallentando
and I sensed in the constant grinding of the wheels
the bloody uncontrolled sobbing
of an eternal liturgy.
I saw the dark trains the silent trains the ghost trains coming back from the Far East
and my eyes are the lights they had on behind
at Talga 100.000 casualties agonised and none to help
I went to the hospitals in Krasnoyarsk
and near Khilok our paths crossed a line of mad soldiers
and in the quarantine wards I saw oozing sores and gashy wounds and exposed organs
and the amputated limbs did a jig or took flight in the savage air
every face was a furnace, and every heart
imbecile fingers thrumming on the windows
and fear lances every face, like a boil.
In all the stations all the carriages had been set on fire
I saw convoys of 60 engines racing at top speed, the horizon in heat pursuing, and flocks of
crows flying after
in the direction of Port Arthur
At Chita we had a few days respite
a break of five days, ‘something on the line’
we stayed with Mr. Iankelevitch who wanted Flint to marry his only daughter
then the train set off again
now he’d taken over at the piano and he had toothache
and I daresay he can look back on the father’s shop and the eyes of the girl who spent
every night in his bed
and the afternoons in mine.
Hugo Wolf lieder
and the Gobi sands
And at Khailar there was a caravan of white camels
I think I was seeing pink elephants for about 500 km
but Flint was at the piano and he saw them too
you’ve got to close your eyes on a trip
I was desperate for a kip
I recognised all the places with my eyes closed, by their smell
and learned to tell the trains by their rhythm
European trains keep common measure, and Asian ones quintuple or septuple time
some, pianissimo, are lullabies
and there are some whose monotonous wheels remind me of the heavy prose of Marie
I decoded all the muddled messages of the wheels and rearranged the fragments into a
which I own
which pushes me on.
Qiqihar and Harbin
I’m not going further
It’s the end of the line.
I got off at Harbin as the Red Cross offices were put to the torch.
Great glowing hearth with streets crossing like charred sticks and old houses huddled over
them for warmth
like a bunch of old grannies
and here are the posters, red and green—all the colours, like my little yellow life
yellow, the lofty colour of French novels abroad.
Flint says, he likes rubbing up against great cities on the bus and on foot
he’s a pervert for cities
we take the Saint Germaine-Monmartre line to lay siege to the old butte
the motor-cars bawl like golden bulls
the cows of twilight graze on the Sacre Coeur
Central disembarkation station for desires, junction of disquiet
only the druggists who sell paint still have a little light above their doors
and Flint is absorbed in the International Pullman and Great European Express Company
rapt, he says ‘It’s the loveliest church in the world!’
I have friends that I can lean on like banisters
but they don’t think of me when I’m not there
all the people I’ve ever known range themselves on the horizon
with gestures I can’t make out and blurred faces, semaphoring something under the rain
Claire, Rob, Felicity, Nicola, Priya, Jonathan, and one or two more
the lover I still hope to meet
when finally I come into possession of my true body
oh, how that lonesome whistle blows
so many places racked with birthpangs
but China maybe isn’t one of them right now
I wish I’d never gone anywhere
Tonight a fatal passion torments me
and despite myself I think of little Flint of the Ronson
over many lonely nights I wrote this poem in his honour
the little bit of rent
I’m sad so sad
I’ll go to that plastic Paddy joint to remember my lost youth again
get a few pints in
and go home alone
like every other old roué
City of the Only Tower, the Gallows High, and the Wheel
(a smaller scraper is suitable for older children and smaller tongues while a wider-angled scraper is ideal
cleaning the tongue does improve the taste within your mouth.
the house i own empty of kentucky
coffeetree saplings attracts no black witch
awake the mouth is less of a maw
i was born a bull in the shade in heavy armour
i am now on sabbatical can’t trust the whistle
miracles inhabit all these cars we drive
a passage from river to end
I am pummelled
no bats or benches
this river I drink
an errand on time
slugs waiting for me
chased by unopened red wolves
not looking to burn anything
this fire is not a proof
at these parties reveals the virtue of the madrigal
taught to hound under the shape of the bird
that devours the ants
living larger than tancred's skull
no dust on the mantle
reading judicious books off a list
judicial readings of lists
justice for what can’t burn
scratches on the desk become repairs
searching for a tense to use or talk to
never eaten a single moth
please kill for me the king his men
I think I am
we can eat our picnic
we celebrate in the water
so there is no night no day
and the whole of creation is there
in the swallowed eye
the out-popped home
cold as moon
these vaunted shattered waters
I am only here
to be suspended
an ascetic deferral
the legalist in the boughs
everyone looks for a gaze
to tell the truth-song into
Someone’s rehearsing Chopin
in Free School Lane;
a cyclist swings by
lit up like a miner;
the rooms lean
to roadside – museum,
chapel, the darkening hall
of nooks and crannies, all
await the next revelation,
like the Corpus Clock
snaffling each golden
moment, the tourists take
their selfies and move
in file to Christ’s Pieces.
we prefer to understand the subject like lava on the moon
When I open your skull,
and lick your brain
I won't taste what you taste.
The body not as, I
Becoming in dissolution
It's hard to say I fought against it
Looking out for minimal cuts
You gotta have taste
Get away from me with your mythologies
Fake life and death
There are no good ideas, and yet
Very bold declarative statement, citation needed
i sit outside
dizzy and head spinning
smoking still makes me feel light headed
why do i wake up at 5am
self sabotaging and disorienting
wearing all black
i want to scare people away
angry and emotionally fragile
on the verge of tears and wanting to
why is it so difficult to focus
i should be more disciplined
i am so unstable
get a hold of yourself you idiot
maintain that cool exterior
exercise your fingers and type words
all of them
and then finish it efficiently
there will be satisfaction don’t you
you are despicable
energy everywhere it shouldn’t be
restlessness and exhaustion
i see you and i smile
i pretend not to see you
what do you think
you are infuriating
i am unstable
i am so demanding
i require so much time
i am selfish and demanding
leave me alone
i don’t want u near me
no i am upset come back
let me be a nuisance
i know i can get away with it
Many are the objects of our discontent:
Footstool, fish-knife, fountain pen
And all that has to be explained to us
In cribbing parlance and crabbed restraint,
Old books and lampshades in each room,
Sofas and preferments, the codes and uses
Knowing the ways of the inanimate
Which strike us edgeways, like a pointed doom.
Starkness of figures stains this landscape. Who runs
knows sights of brusque rain, of fields, of cities kept in snow
and strange men doing things with fire. The provinces
are recognised again, their claims seen to. Light lances
the blubbery dark, morning oozes over towns
that stink a high domestic stink. Protesting moans
have flourished; new worships burgeon, claim the land.
Prophetic, not oracular. The dragon has a human hand.
( Variations on Poems by Roque Dalton, 1935-75)
And so I say the earth
like poetry or bread
to all of us,
who despite love’s
are believers still
in the pungent roots
that smell like tears,
in the streaming grain
of tomorrow’s skies,
in the billowing verb
of the blood we share,
we who have faced
the hungry future singing:
the earth belongs to all of us,
like poetry, like bread.
My sweat has the soil and the dew
and the labour and dust
and the stink of everything I own in it;
it has the vapid grey heat
of midnight grief, thick on the tongue;
it has the taste of a village dead by drought
in a month of promised rains;
it has the mist a man turns into slowly
when his body rots in the muck;
it has the sweet breeze of my country,
riffling he log-books
of silence and catastrophe;
and I’m like some weightless animal
that stalks abandoned streets and towns,
with the sound of massing voices
ringing round me as I roam.
I’ll die of this sweat the world invents
to keep those voices down.
the dead are speaking up.
They ask us questions
that we can’t forget,
as if we filled their mouths
with marble once,
but now the marble’s
or as if the beat
of dancing rifle butts
was never all there was,
and now the dead
are clamouring – no longer
happy to remain
and growing majority.
Call me a Communist
and you’ll know my nature:
the urge and ache (perennial)
of permanent revolution
that permeates my mind. It’s great!
And never dies, this pain
a-flutter in the gut and brain,
history’s living scar.
If you ask me: capitalism sits
like a belching toad
on the drowning leaf
we call the world.
If you ask me: the world
we have’s an engine,
dumping bodies in the dark.
If you ask me: paradise
on earth’s no dream, but lurks
in every pulse
of breath our arms and lips
were born to learn.
Call it Communism – a natural
pain-killer, the size of the sky.
Who built the fleet of blazing cities,
who left, who stayed, who brought
the perfect walls of parliaments to life
by hand and sinew-song,
who bartered their bodies continually
in Happyland and Cave of Dreams,
who begged for more, who ran away,
who crossed the fence en masse, subtle as a fox,
whose faces scorched the wind, who burned,
who crumpled in the dirt when bullets groaned,
who grew grey-lipped and bevel-brained in cells
for thieves and murderers, in butcher-chambers
glistening every night through all
the marching nations of the land,
who walked the seething hills for work,
who conquered daylight’s spinning map
by dreaming every breath, who staggered
pissed or half-malarial down death’s unbroken alley,
the fuckwits, dropouts, retchers
of the bitter earth, whose mouths
were beautiful but always empty,
whose laughter split the skies, and will,
the saddest people in the world – I mean you,
my friends, my fellow citizens, children of the sun.
I : An economy of love
fuck the fingers for choosing;
fiddling in wallet
pulling out a flaky note
looking like a trampled flower.
fuck the numbers
and their weight
in my pocket and
in my head.
I want it back, every cent.
II: The hide of Douglas
Step onto carpeted floor,
let the sole reverberate
through the fibers.
Let me lean over
the concrete banister
and steal looks at your privacy;
the words and illustrations,
but mostly the words.
The other two sit
in front of a screen
projecting pappou’s job.
Containers, corrugated and crass
stacked by a tepid sea.
Pappou, his carved hands
and jugular sound;
Το λιμανι το παλιο, το λιμανι το τζενουρκο.
The minaret opposite the cross,
that crossroad I’ve grown out of.
Let me see the Croquis,
the psychedelic tiles
of melting colour and line.
I decorate my house in my head.
I lay down many tiles and they make me dizzy.
I read descriptions:
Those tiles were also ties,
somehow sometime in New York for fancy men.
Fancy men tend to be a problem, sometimes.
I read more:
a marine orgasm.
but I’m already imagining the depth and how I’d float,
the explosion of liquid fast and then slow
to diffuse in water
orbiting little things, everywhere.
The lightness of the bodies,
the added dimension,
and the drowning.
III: The prick
I cremated my relationship
into a cactus.
Contained in brittle soil
it will last long.
It endures, this cactus.
The bud has since unraveled
into a gentle existence.
The taking up of space, the breathing;
its own photosynthesis.
The thin and bare branches,
from which the pink drips,
choke the dark bark.
The sonorous falling of dew,
petal to petal
leaf to leaf
stem to soil
ticks the time away.
I lay like a flower on my bed;
blossoming against the sheets
growing and growing into larger,
more voluptuous shapes
I writhe as the outside rain
spills into the room
and soaks the walls.
Even now that my stem has weakened,
I can grow again.
V: Wear and tear
I want to wear everything.
I’m told I dress like
a high end escort
but that my boots
make me look
like a lesbian.
I puzzle myself
thinking of lesbian shoes.
They must be nice if
I like to wear them.
Perhaps, the only item
I wear out of
Bodycon, he says,
that’s what you wear.
Immediately my entire wardrobe tightens,
shrinking smaller until it vanishes
leaving nothing to contain me.
That girl on the Paris metro
with her clear face and dark hood,
I turned around and told you
how much I wanted to be her.
You said someday
unwilling to face my
skin tight binding
to the Darwinian ghost
of my upbringing.
Οσχιές, my grandmother
used to call them
and ugly things they were.
I tried to avoid
becoming the living dead.
I had to heal
my mother’s wounds
I hold the pain
of my women
in my womb,
and I will not
I will not conceive another bloody sun.
VI: When your flat mate feels uncomfortable around you because you’ve lost something
The pitch goes high, doesn’t undulate;
tuning to discomfort decibels.
I sit, barefaced
in just a robe,
brush violating the page.
She sees how much I uncover for her
in that small kitchen
but pretends to look outside
shuddering when she catches
a reflection of my eye in the glass.
She beats the eggs,
the faint tremble of her hands
click and clack with the cutlery.
The hiss of the oil.
Sitting, I burn
listening to the biscuit’s fibre
crack against her tooth.
Finally, a gulp.
My ochre paint water
in a glass
she feels uncomfortable
with me using.
I imagine spreading it
on the wall
like a chrism of rotten egg.
I stay still.
I wet and wash and stroke and
Create still shots of this loss.
She looks at my grief
as it becomes tangible
to wash her plate.
VII: The jolt of the mornings still belongs to you
Latching onto things of beauty and risk
The distanced belonging
The near detachment
His riddled fingers call me in his intoxication
I dream of speaking to him
I miss the call.
These texts are from a work in progress called, unsurprisingly enough, Uncertain Songs. In writing them, I have two things partly in mind. One is Thomas Wyatt’s Certain Psalms of David, written when that kind of certainty was more readily available. It is my view that uncertainty is a preferable condition. The other is the following quotation from the Postface to Charles Ives’ 114 Songs of 1922:
Some of the songs in this book, particularly among the latter ones, cannot be sung, and if they could, perhaps might prefer, if they had a say, to remain as they are; that is, “in the leaf” and that they will remain in this peaceful state is more than presumable.
the car in the street
is a car
is a street
the impression of motion
all things being equal
as they never are
what might be
making a sound making
a mark on a sheet
the sheet in a book
a book of sounds
listen: nothing happens
& it is good the line
bends here here breaks
& it is good what does
it mean not much
but everything onwards
can you see how it is
the green & grey a colony
living on air on water
on light itself radiant still
behind us the lichen is
a system of cooperation
the world is many & simple
in its complexity
& delicate oh so delicate
which is its strength & we
are not the thing itself
not what we think ourselves
these are the facts
& these are the facts
& the facts are
that we do not hold
the ice cracks & the water
which the future holds
over & the earth is
indifferent in the end
there is no end
only the facts
we do not hold
there are these things
& we live in them in this time
we cannot see it
will not see it
the water rises a slow weight
shifts the power of it
a robin in the mud
leaving no tracks
wind again night again
an absence of stillness
over the deep nothing moving
these walls groan no
make a sound like the sound
of groaning no more things can be
added no more away
a point of stasis achieved
on the car
a robin sings
this early spring
what might endure
the ice holds
the morning sings
there are whispers
in the air
which freezes over
a child starves
a mother holds
& we are lost
in this death
& this air
Kit Fryatt is a lecturer in English at Dublin City University, whose (now not so) recent poetry publications include The Co. Durham Miner’s Granddaughter’s Farewell to the Harlan County Miner’s Grandson (Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2013).
Sarah Hayden’s chapbooks are Exteroceptive (Wild Honey) and System Without Issue (Oystercatcher) and Turnpikes (Sad Press). Other poems have appeared in various magazines including, most recently, Tripwire, Golden Handcuffs Review, and a special issue of the Irish University Review on Irish experimental poetry. She lectures at the University of Southampton, where she teaches and writes on modernist and experimental literature and visual culture. Her first monograph, Curious Disciplines: Mina Loy and Avant-Garde Artisthood will appear from University of New Mexico Press in Spring 2018.
Randolph Healy was born in 1956. He has lived in Ireland since 1958. Having left school at the age of fourteen, he later studied mathematical sciences in Trinity College Dublin, going on to teach maths and physics for over thirty years. Healy’s publications include 25 Poems, Rana Rana, Arbor Vitae, Ludo, Envelopes, Scales, Daylight Saving Sex, Green 532, Rattling the Bars, and Hex. He runs Wild Honey Press from a bedroom on the Dublin-Wicklow border.
Billy Mills was born in Dublin in 1954. He has lived and worked in Spain and the UK, and is now living in Limerick. He’s the co-editor (with Catherine Walsh) of hardPressed poetry and the Journal. His books include Lares/Manes: Collected Poems (Shearsman, 2009), Imaginary Gardens (hardPressed poetry, 2012), Loop Walks (with David Bremner) (hardPressed poetry, 2013), from Pensato (Smithereens Press e-book, 2013), and The City Itself (Hesterglock Press, 2017).
In most arguments, Imaan plays thoughtful party. Empathy and feeling are no game to her. Not anymore.
Colette Bryce, a poet from Derry, is the current TCD/Arts Council Writer Fellow at the Oscar Wilde Centre. Her Selected Poems, drawing on four previous collections of poetry, is just out from Picador.
Gerald Dawe has published eight poetry collections with The Gallery Press including Selected Poems (2012) and Mickey Finn’s Air (2014). He was Visiting Scholar at Pembroke College Cambridge (2016-17) and editor of the forthcoming Cambridge Companion to Irish Poets.
Sophie is a third year student reading mathematics and philosophy. She is looking into feminist statistics. If you have any leads, you can find her at @ikvetch_.
Benjamin Keatinge is a graduate of the School of English, Trinity College Dublin. He has co-edited France and Ireland in the Public Imagination with Mary Pierse (Peter Lang, 2014) and Other Edens: The Life and Work of Brian Coffey with Aengus Woods (Irish Academic Press, 2010) and he has published several articles and reviews on Samuel Beckett on whom he wrote his Ph.D thesis at TCD. His poetry has previously appeared in Icarus, College Green, and Kore Broadsheets.
Alden Mathieu is a first year mathematics student and the online editor of TN2 Magazine.
Ciar is a student of philosophy in his final undergraduate year at Trinity College Dublin. He plans to continue his studies.
Jay Mulhall is a provincial youth who has found himself in third-year English. This is his first published metrical grumble.
Molly-May O’Leary is a fourth year Philosophy student at TCD.
Ciarán is a solitary, bumbling creature; he writes whenever he can, which is rarely. He is also a Ph.D student in the School of English.
Michelle Nicolaou is a first-year student in English at Trinity College Dublin. She was born and raised in Cyprus. She is an undisciplined poet whose random and sporadic word arrangements pop up in the occasional publication.
Close accounts of Nathanaël Roman tell us that he first made a name for himself buying and selling miscellaneous wares at questionable mark-ups online. Music and illustration were a natural next step.
Ed Salley is a final year student of English. One third of Twitter handle @jakelatent on Twitter dot com.
Gisèle Scanlon is an Irish writer and visual artist originally from Listowel, Co. Kerry. Her writing includes essays, poetry and several titles published by Harper Collins (UK and Ireland) and William Morrow (United States). Her mixedmedia books—which she illustrates and writes—are categorised as cultural dictionaries, featuring essays, art and photography, and have won her an Irish Book Award and two British Awards from the International Academy of Digital Arts and Sciences. Forthcoming publications include a short study of the relationship between Speranza, Isola and, Oscar Wilde in the journal The Wildean. She lives and works in Dublin where she is currently studying for the M.Phil. in Creative Writing at the Oscar Wilde Centre, Trinity College, Dublin.
Editor: Will Fleming
Will Fleming is a fourth-year student of English and philosophy. His poetry has appeared in Icarus, Trinity Journal of Literary Translation, and The Quill. He is from Wicklow. Next year he will be pursuing an M.A. in English at UCL
Leo Dunsker is a fourth-year student in the School of English at Trinity. He is also a Chair of the DU Metaphysical Society and the rector of Cave Writings. He was born and raised in upstate New York. Next year he will begin his Ph.D in English at UC Berkeley.
Public Relations Officer: Gillian Murtagh
Gillian Murtagh is a fourth-year student of English. She is also editor of Radius in The University Times. She is from Dublin.
Sean Pierson is a first-year student of English and philosophy. He once worked as a marketing intern at a medical device company and his work has appeared in Icarus, The Battering Ram, and the short-lived Pocketknife. He is from Massachusetts.
Icarus is a fully participating member of the Press Council of Ireland. Serious complaints should be made to: The Editors, Icarus, Trinity Publications, Mandela House, Dublin 2. Appeals may be directed to the Press Council of Ireland.
Copyright remains with the author of each piece. Authors grant Trinity Publications an irrevocable licence to publish their work both online and in print.
Chief Editors: Leo Dunsker and Will Fleming
Public Relations Officer: Gillian Murtagh
Editorial Assistant: Sean Pierson