Issue 4: Connor O'Callaghan
I believe in the classifieds’ sepia first thing.
houses a northern flicker. I believe in wind-chimes,
I believe in lakeshore overviews mid-afternoon,
pylons, shadow puppets, the gravitational pull
I believe in upping sticks and losing touch,
even meteor showers thrown from a truck ahead
and ghosts. Snow’s coming. Asheville’s up to its neck.
the stationwagon, chanting Tenebrae factae sunt
to disc as “Darkness enveloped the lot.”
I could buy that.
The Peaks were so beautiful,
out loud. A moustache opposite
that night. A Russian in a VW
dropped me at the airport hotel.
I left a bar half-full on the table.
It started about there.
The stars out even looked made up.
Between every boom a gap
until watery black fell, or rose
more like, like a name told once
and wished away on a month’s
or some open mouth
bubbling its last of loads of ‘I am’s
or the pair of flooded arms
that still can’t catch my breath.
That arts & crafts still for sale,
is the safest place to park.
Who’d have thought a year
while neighbors wheel their trash
and try to memorize the reg
Mostly I mark papers
Though lately I’ve been praying, lady,
is a street we owned a place on
and ran screaming from mid-stream
and it’s evening over and over again.
is dismantling the last bar of sun
In the yard each lost wish still chimes
There is a barometer stalled on ‘Fair’,
The sea, gone miles out of its way, is there
And our heirs are there in the ping-pong
And I, in some shape or form,
am there as well. And you are there.
Conor O'Callaghan was born in Newry, Northern Ireland, in 1968 and grew up thirteen miles away in Dundalk in the Republic of Ireland. he has published three original collections of poems. The most recent, Fiction (2005), was a PBS recommendation. A comic prose memoir, Red Mist, appeared from Bloomsbury in 2004. He teaches creative writing both in Sheffield Hallam University and on the distance learning MA at Lancaster University. He lives in Manchester.