A long time since the last scream cut short — Then an unnatural silence; and then A natural silence slowly broken By the shearwater, by the sporadic Conversation of crickets, the bleak Reminder of a metaphysical wind. Ages of this, till the report Of an outboard motor at the pier Fractures the dream-time, and we…
We part the leaves: Jim Toorish stood, small, squat, naked in the churning middle of the dark turnhole. Black hair on his poll, a roll of black hair over his stomach, that strange tussock below. With a rib of black fur along his back from tight neckbone to simian buttocks. From which — inescapable —…
It must have been a lucrative deal with CARE, the Red Cross, U.N.R.A., or was it the Marshall Plan? by which Uncle Jimmis, remembering the old country, sailed from New York with a shipload of flour for the hungry. The occupation had been over for more than two years, but the civil war still regard….
Derek Mahon, Poems 1962-1978, O.U.P., London, 1979; £5.75. In `Tradition and the Individual Talent,' T. S. Eliot warns against the tendency to single out and praise those aspects of a writer's work `in which he least resembles anyone else', adding that `the most individual parts of his work may be those in which the dead…
After Gerard Dillon Across the black lake Two figures row their boat With slow, leaning strokes. The grind of their rowlocks Is rhythmic as a heartbeat. Seven stooks stand In a moonwashed field — Seven pillars of gold — While beyond, two haystacks Are tied down to the earth. Three lean cattle munch The heavy…
MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue James Randall Associate Editor Joanne Randall CONTRIBUTORS SHARI BERKOWITZ is an editor of the Emerson Review. ANNE BERNAYS is finishing her latest novel, The School Book, and living in Cambridge, Massachusetts. HAROLD BOND, author of Dancing on Water (Cummington Press), teaches poetry workshops in…
I Everybody knows what the year 1966 meant to Irish people. It was the fiftieth anniversary of the military adventure which gave modern Irish society its present shape. But it was also a year of some importance in the history of modern Irish fiction, for during it, on March 10, Frank O'Connor died. It may…
Dying, the salmon heaves up its head in the millstream. Great sores ring its gills, its eyes, a burning rust slowly corrodes the redgold skin. Great river king, nearby the Nore pours over foaming weirs its light & music, endlessly dissolving walls into webs of water that drift away among slow meadows. But you are…
Mrs. Endsley was paid to keep everyone happy. Her latest project involved composing a Conwoody Convalescent song, something on the order of a school song, but with some of the parts left out. And it was in her line of duty that, on a Wednesday in early May, just before supper, she smacked her little…
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