The Ogham Stone’s Poem of the Week is ‘Original Poetry’ by Christine Valters Paintner from our 2020 edition.
The Ogham Stone’s Poem of the Week is ‘Untitled’ by Ian McArthur from our 2020 edition.
The Ogham Stone’s Poem of the Week is ‘I Found it in the Moment’ by John Paul Crisman from our 2020 edition.
Keep your eyes here and on our social media for future weekly poems and our forthcoming 2021 edition!
We are delighted to share the Ogham Stone ebook with you. To download, the click on the image of preferred eBook format below.
He lay on the ground, panting and shaking, like a distressed athlete after a marathon run.
Some welcome, some homecoming, he thought.
A returning emigrant, he had been looking forward to this visit to his old home, the land of his birth, after so many years abroad.
They had been waiting for him. They knew he was coming, these cruel deceitful people who had lured him to his death which now came swiftly with a sharp rap of the priest to the base of his skull, severing his spinal cord.
His obituary was written the following day.
“A gourmet’s delight
The first wild salmon of the season, hollandaise on the side”.
Tom Muldoon (August 4 1938-April 26 2020) was born in Castleblayney Co Monaghan. He received scholarships to attend St Macartin’s secondary school and later University College Dublin where he obtained a degree in engineering. He spent his career in the ESB involved in the development of the service nationwide. In the later stages of his career he worked with ESB International in Ghana for many years again developing their electrical infrastructure. Tom died after a short illness at the height of the COVID19 restrictions. We didn’t know our father as a writer. Alone with our loss, without the usual family and friends, it was a treasure to find this as it epitomizes much about him. His sense of fun, and fair play and his connection to Ireland and Irish culture. He would be delighted to see it published and we hope others enjoy it.
The Muldoon Family
By Kayla Latta
I lie on the sand, and I think of my mother
brushing my hair. Each stroke through my curls coincides
with the crashing waves around my body. My scalp aches at the memory
while my skin prickles from the rush of cold water and salt. I wish she were here,
so she could wipe away the bits of seaweed and sand, the way she used to clear
the sleep from the corners of my eyes. With each new wave, my body
is coated in another layer of salt until I am encrusted. Crystallized.
When the tide comes in, I am carried out to the open sea.
I float into the night like driftwood, or shipwrecks, or a heavy sigh
released from heavy lips. Perhaps I will be taken to the edge of the world
and fall right off. Hic sunt dracones. Here be dragons. I pray to the cold-water
moon to bring me home. Push, pull, mother of tides, be my guide. Be my guide.
I hear her with the dawn. Quiet at first. Now louder. When she calls my name,
my shell breaks into pieces that fall into the darkness below. There she is,
tiny on the distant shore, still calling for me. I swim to her.
By Eve Taft
Little blue-green terrarium spins
Goldilocks distant from atom-smashing ball of heat
Which whirls through the void, carrying with it the eight
Who depend on its life-giving brilliance
It carries them through the suburb of a starry city
Build around a hole in the universe
Insatiable, tiny bipeds explore
Little blue-green terrarium
And then tilt their heads upwards
They go flying through the dark matter
Searching for new stars and new life
They play capture the flag with their moon
And send out glass eyes to find light
From the beginning of everything
Infinite universe keeps getting bigger
Tiny bipeds magnify its building blocks
And map its edges
They write stories about the shapes of the stars
And study them, writing libraries worth of knowledge
Blue-green terrarium spins on
And tiny bipeds boldly go
Where no one has gone before
by Matt Fitzgerald
He remembered when they first met—
And how her eyes jumped over to him.
And when he saw beyond them,
And she beyond his,
He slipped his arm into hers.
Then one day she closed her eyes and left time in the dark.
Left him alone again.
Veiled undertakers scanned for the fine edges of grief.
Their eyes engaged with his
And clung to him like spores and were away again
As half-formed thoughts.
He saw them to the door.
They lifted her, close-eyed and steady, into the hearse.
No traffic, no after-traffic smell, no cramped streets, no …
Her coffin was framed by the kitchen window.
Then, in the quiet place, he heard what he always missed:
A fat hairy-bellied bee dancing and dithering on the pane.
He cupped it in his hands and felt its wings, its life, beat against his skin,
Felt its legs—plump with pollen—slip into his old lifelines.
He put it back and it slept for a while and died.
He thumbed his palms and said he was sorry.
The summer stars careened above him
As he made his way to the cemetery,
Sloshing through the cratered mudholes.
A flock of birds rose up before him and down again.
He squatted to her in the early morning gloom.
Then he stretched out and propped one heel over the other
And he thanked her for loving him.
By Catherine Deegan
Busily awaiting the blackbirds, black rooks and rainy days:
expecting an epiphany would come with them.
I had taken my muse to the cave and glued her eyes with sleep,
promising I’d be back in an instant.
Five decades and seven lives she lay there,
I, on the other hand, had a tryst with Hypnos,
and that lasted just as long.
Until, in that dream she told me the wave was on its way,
Hypnos’ brother would not be far behind.
I’m sinking not sleeping, she sighed.
Rattled, I desperately reached for the laptop
trying to tap her eyes open.
All the birds and all the rain will fly and fall again,
But we, she beseeched me, must not wait for what is eternal.
We have work to do and crafts to hone,
and all we have is now.
By Catherine Deegan
The syzygy of betrayal and kiss.
Coins: minted in silver, bathed in blood,
The infamous event of treachery.
Mother of Jesus, mother of Judas:
The syzygy of motherhood and death.
How could he do it?
But we are as innocent as Judas
Cash: minted in plastic, thrown in the sea.
Unfaithful to all flora and fauna:
mothers of humans are mothers of greed.
The syzygy of motherhood and death
What have we done?
Betraying all Earth’s creatures: great and small.
With shards-of-glass hearts and sun- kissed faces
We mute lilting voices and devour trees.
The mother of you, and mother of me:
The syzygy of Mother Earth and death.
What must we do?