Poetry 1

    Poetry 1
    Iter Sapientis
    by Jack Morris
    So, the wise men leave the shore

    into the ocean, old and far

    as first of wood boats row and heave

    blindly t’ward Madagascar

    a finer journey, one could say

    than Aldrin or Columbus knew

    the struggle of primeval hands

    now hands of me, and thus, of you

    at last, we found first foreign soil

    & fast we killed the angry ape

    in early egos killing spree

    then rowed on south t’ward the cape


    Jack Morris is a writer, musician & poet from South Dublin. His first poetry collection is due for publication in  late 2017.




    The five senses of Elie

    by Andrew Lawson

    His young eyes
    the low ebb
    of humanity
    babies in flames
    a thousand

    His ears
    the rattling of the box car
    an older woman’s vision
    look look
    that fire
    it is a furnace
    women to the left
    men to the right
    His nose
    fear and feces
    skin and bone
    cremation and ash
    a scent of oblivion
    His throat
    thick soup
    His feet
    felt numbness
    running on the cold
    harsh earth
    his hands
    formed into a fist
    felt rage
    Andrew Lawson hails from Connecticut USA he pens song lyrics, poetry, children stories and ghost and an eclectic mishmash



    the miss of sisyphus

    by Martin McKenna 

    i have asked

    rich women and men;

    do the dead mourn us?

    i have asked

    the drunk and dosed;

    when we are dead,

    will we mourn the living?

    i have asked

    fathers of women,

    brides and their sons;

    what can the dead see?

    in their tired confusion

    they rise up, high

    in thorned anger; attack,

    bleed me cold, but

    fail to break

    what i know to be

    unbreakable truth

    only sullied love might touch.

    and of you, perfection,

    i asked nothing.



    from cave hill

    by Martin McKenna


    i carve you out

    of already alive

    and lavish landscapes; build silent

    lived horizons about you, still do.

    i paint the offing of you,

    still raise with care

    some infant dreams.

    write lines, fill books

    foaming toward a ceiling;

    no wheres and not heres,

    form rock crop parts

    of this place, hold all and none

    as room for this

    static sketch of breath.



    Marty McKenna is an independent Irish poet, born in Tyrone, now living and writing in Belfast. Marty works for the Belfast Trust and has poems published in both online and print journals. He is currently submitting work for publication which will inform his first collection.





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