New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

Poetry – 8 poems

Circle Logo

Fi Smith is a Dublin poet, previously published in The Incubator, Pear Drop Journal and The Molotov Cocktail, working on her first collection.  She is blog editor for firstfortnight.ie, annual festival of mental health awareness through the arts. @fifilebon






Forest of Anchors

I made a slip
tied at the back with my fingers
a knot prepared to hold no longer than
a sweet Sufjan that took the breeze
and came back only to the ear in sleep.

Away on a ship, needing wave upon wave to escape,
a wraith with a camel’s back
tracing homeward to settle in the breaking
slaking the blade with a song.






Colm Ó Ciarnáin is a cultural worker originally from Ireland but now living in Sweden. He likes to use his emotions to paint pictures with words. He realised early in life that no matter how much he talked around a subject words didn’t have the power to convey his feelings, being hampered by logical structures. He finds though that words, when used in poetry, for him paint between the lines. Flowing beyond the confines of realism and logic to bare self in ways only desirable or possible through love making. A nudity of the soul inconceivable except in the hop of a poem. His poetry defines his inner self.




I wish to be buried
in a plain wooden box,
with a plain woolen cloth
under a plain wooden cross.
By the wee murky river
that flows as if below the sea.
Near that crock old house
and the large devils tree
Down some old gravel lane
with the big iron gates.
In the middle of the field,
Where the graves are old and all,
lie and wait.





Zebra Black – My education spanned the geographical locations from New York to San Francisco where I studied fine arts and obtained a Master of Fine Arts . I live in North Western Massachusetts in an old stone mill where I with my lovely wife run a small art publishing company. I love astrology, occultism, art, literature, music, working quietly to incubate poems and visual art.  Many of my poems remain explorations rooted in the experience of super consciousness as the anima descends through the world soul into the subconscious labyrinths of innerness. Where lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness radiate out creating the nature of our reality and shape our lives







i am much younger then i am
my hair is dark and thick
instead of pruned bald
i am lean and meek
feeling hollow
as if weightless

we are at an airport
with no memory of getting there
i had left my hotel room urgently
in a strangers jacket that is mine
i can’t find my Swedish wife
whom i miss like a panicked child
and my Asian wife whom i’ve never met before
and know all to well
is angry
and could care less if i got lost forever

i am going home to my parents house
and i remember that they are dead
but we had just spoken
there will be soup and hors d’oeuvres
and they are waiting for me

on my way
the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar
yet old hat
and no matter how long i walk
i can never find their house
it’s located somewhere in Brooklyn
on Haze street in San Francisco
between shadows and smoke
at a numberless address
in a neighborhood unlike i have ever known
in a place i’ve been to countless times before

there are no keys in my pocket
i must have left them at the hotel i cant get back to
no doors to knock on
mouths animated voiceless

i have a business
and retain no idea of what i do
i left my cloths somewhere
and i don’t know why
in a locality i cant remember
for a reason that doesn’t exist

late and expected
i’m desperate to get somewhere
and i know where im going
and nothing awaits me

a beautiful woman smiling  offers me pot
she is friends with a girlfriend whom i’m committed too
but do not know and never met
and i want to cheat
but it will ruin everything
so i turn away
killing passion
in an already anchor-less miasma

i remember a past
my life a continuum
of disjointed vague-res

i fear myself a figment
a bodiless revenant
stranded in a fog
of incandescence and shrouds
a dis-junctured soul
that holds life so dear
discovering all an illusion
and that i am really nothing
in a labyrinth of shades
lit by the sun of cognizance
a  wretched phantom
living a dark fiction





Melissa writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is a self-identified dystopian junkie. She was recently published in the June 2017 issue of Poet’s Haven’s, Strange Land. She lives in Ohio with her husband, two sons, and labradoodle, Luna(tic). She detests writing in third person about herself more than having to eat beets AND really bad pizza.







 Swiftly Flying Shadow Bands


what sky is this
with dragons winged
wolves with mouths
for gulping suns

where Orion went to hunt
the grounds
held bright by Rigel, Betelgeuse

where Aquila arched, swooped
winging the summer sky
for Altair afire

where banished to northern horizons
Callisto and Arcas
patrol Polaris, Cassiopeia hovering near

entreating Vega bid Lyra play
who could sooth anger raging
lull jaded souls serene

where Jovian moons bejeweled by Galileo
join Kepler’s Laws, Huygen’s rings
blazing open our skies for Hubble to view the beginning

where doomed stars ghost into dust
coalescing into sentience
while Voyager wanders heavens

when Luna devours our star
the wrath of gods unknown
casting darkness on earth

and violet seas of shade
tsunami the last utterances of light
consuming and calming

flitting silently over our home
dancing in the grey
a visible wind evanescent

in the terrestrial atmosphere
only a visitor among
constellations ancient

swiftly flying shadow bands
hanging poised in path of totality
rippling a refraction portending cosmic omens bad

when the sun abandoned the earth
eaten by the moon, eclipsed
to cries of, “What sky is this?”







Mike Gallagher is an Irish writer, poet and editor. His prose, poetry, haiku and songs have been published throughout Europe, America, Australia, Nepal, India, Pakistan,Thailand, Mexico, The Philippines, Japan and Canada. His writing has been translated into Irish, Croatian, Japanese, Dutch, German, Italian and Chinese.
He won the Michael Hartnett Viva Voce competition in 2010 and 2016, was shortlisted for the Hennessy Award in 2011 and won the Desmond O’Grady International Poetry Contest in 2012.
His poetry collection Stick on Stone was published by Revival Press in 2013.




The Juggler
(for Louis Mulcahy)

A scaffold tube,
Twenty foot long,
heavy gauge, galvanised;
grasp one end, trap the other,
strides three, four, five,
palms glide along cold steel.
slide to vertical; stop;
hand over hand, lift, stop:
torso’s slow swivel;stop;
a forever between tick
and tock
while the pole skirrs away –
a testing of the tyro wrist –
(nerve’s wobbly plates awry);
wrested back
to hover
the spigot.
Twenty floors below
ants swarm, scramble, surge
through Piccadilly Circus,
oblivious of the fuss
teetering above.
His sole focus, the spigot –
sleeve that six inch pin –
lower…, lower…, drop.
with one hand, curb the sway,
With other, reach for podger;
engage, tighten, secure.

You ask, my friend,
about achievements,
accolades, applause;
the taking of a prize.
Let me tell you then,
that poets – dabblers or laureates –
are mere jugglers of words;
we make nothing happen,
will never reach the heady heights,
feel the raw, real-life elation
of that stripling scaffolder
as he tackled and tamed
his very first twenty.






Sarah Marie York: I am 25 years old and currently living in Knoxville, TN. I’ve been writing since I was 13, but have only started exploring poetry this year. I love going on adventures and learning life lessons. It only makes the writing better.







i’m a magician, a master of illusion
i’ve gotten so good at hiding in plain sight
that no one questions the little cracks that show in the sun light
the dark clouds that scatter through the sky threatening rain
they by pass the shadows they cast on the ground
they just blame the trees

you could never see me for what i was
all you saw was the surface, the easy waves
you couldn’t feel the strong current since you never went into the water
you never dove deep enough to see underneath
to see what lives and breathes at rock bottom
the secrets that couldn’t survive if they met the air

i can’t see the way you look at me, like i’m the sun
that i hold the power to light your world, to keep you warm
when i don’t even have the power to do that for myself
and when i try to tell you that i will leave you with frostbite in a second ice age
trying to build a fire all you will see are endless miles of snow
and the foot prints of those who came before

i wish you could understand that i am the moon
only bright because i’m taking the light of others
and you’re just lucky enough to only see me when i am full
if you could only see me when i’m at half or a sliver of what you know me as
maybe then you would understand
maybe then you’d see me

i’m a magician, a master of illusion
and i want to hang up my hat and take off my cape
but the crowd keeps screaming my name asking for an encore
and i’m just standing in the in between, being pulled in in both directions
and you’re sitting front row, willing to toss me roses if I perform
threatening to leave if i don’t





 Mick Corrigan has been writing poems since Moses was a boy and has been published in a range of periodicals, anthologies, magazines and on-line journals. He is in his fifties (at least he thinks they’re his fifties, they could be someone else’s). He divides his time equally between Ireland, Crete and the vast open space in the back of his head. His first collection, “Deep Fried Unicorn”, was released in to the wild in 2014 by Rebel Poetry Ireland.




Roadkill Concerto with Darkling Overture




Roadkill red, a princeling foxragged ruin beneath dark squabbling birds,


wild once, wild no more.


Raining today, face to the glass,

singing jewels to a quiet earth,


silver drifting from the blue like sleep.


Diving deep on days like these

we sometimes dream new versions of ourselves,


a little bit us, a little bit not,


a whole lot better than the real,

glossy bright, fledging new.


Bats at dusk tell tales to the air

of flashing wings and derring-do,


squeak and flicker through the gloom,

they do not fear the dying of this light,


whispering dark  brings numinous things.






Andrew Lawson hails from Connecticut USA
He pens song lyrics, poetry, children stories and ghost and an eclectic mishmash









when alone was a distant novel

They cut down our tree, Mother
the one we stood under
one spring day
when the house still possessed
some dignity
the grass
was still life green
was a distant novel
being written for me
and many others
left behind
it is a peculiar place
where they bulldoze memories
scorch the earth
carve muddy trenches
place padlocks
on the back door
so your youngest son
can only stare into a spare window
at pieces of happiness
dancing like the flirtatious sunlight
in a corner spot
I wanted so badly
to retrieve that childhood album
fake brown leather
my shroud of Turin
but I failed
I walked twelve miles on weary feet
past the maddening crowd
with that haunting song
beside me

You might also like

6 poems from Tom Paine

TOM PAINE’s poetry is upcoming or published in The Nation, Glasgow Review of Books, The Moth Magazine, Blackbox Manifold, Volt, Fence, Forklift, Ohio, Epiphany, The

Read More »

Share this post with your friends

You may also enjoy
Polly Richardson (Munnelly) is a Dublin born poet now living…