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New Irish Voices
Poetry chapbooks by
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Liberty Walks Naked
by Maram al-Masri, trans. Theo Dorgan



Chapbooks by Fool for Poetry
Competition Winners 2018

Not in Heaven by Molly Minturn
Bog Arabic by Bernadette McCarthy




Richesses: Francophone Songwriter Poets
Edited and translated by Aidan Hayes





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James O'SullivanJames O’Sullivan has been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including The SHOp, Cyphers, Southword, and Revival. He has previously received commendations in both the Munster Literature Centre’s Fool for Poetry International Chapbook Competition and the Charles Macklin Poetry Prize. James has also been shortlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize. His third collection of poetry, Courting Katie, is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry in 2017. James, who holds a Ph.D. from University College Cork, is the Founding Editor of New Binary Press.





Different Kinds of Life



They’re like your mother calling, the overzealous street traders,

sat on corners, under murals, flogging exalted local rags.

Crumbs from spiced beef sandwiches—laced with relish—

perch atop ragged heirlooms wrapped about bulbous frames.

It’s all there, the different kinds of life scattered along the narrow,

twisting alleys, where four-faced liars hide from the technicoloured

rows; the future idols beating out their undiscovered anthems.

Shorthaired sirens ring bicycle bells as they float by, causing bearded

hipsters in factory-aged boots to collide with Victorian sandstone,

interrupting strangers as they argue the suitability of meals—

I’d ate stew any time of the day, mornin’, noon, or night.

Old friends, bound on account of their schooldays, trade the sca—

I’m sorta in-between things at the moment, I was down in Pfizer’s.

Restlessness pours from these streets, where lovers scream obscenities

more frequently than they walk hand-in-hand, and teenagers rebel

by sitting on skateboards while drinking coffee, the grown-up drink.


It’s fierce crack, leaping against the pulled shutters, listening

to their bellow as your numb carcass drives against the steel—

it’s a story that should be fondly regaled on the Courthouse steps;

some will listen, others will squat around the musician, adoring

their new idol, begging for jukebox mode, clutching their coins

as tightly as their cans of Dutch Gold and Tuborg, wishing

they’d poured it all into bottles adorned with hand-sketched labels.

The shoes are off now, it’s barefoot on the smooth cobbles

put down to match sleek blue Christmas lights, imported no doubt,

more suited to European guests than the gaudy tinsel predecessors.

C’mon we’ll go to Hillbilly’s, I’d fuckin’ murder a breast-in-a-bun.

It’ll be easily swallowed once those two fingers reach deep enough

to account for the night’s work—this place has not burned in decades.


A dozen gathered upon the bench overlooking the Lough,

quietly hassling the young lads walking past, disgusted they hadn’t hurls

tucked under each arm—in their day, you were never seen without ash.

They spoke of the better days gone by, as well as more exotic things—

Man United, grandchildren in London and other faraway lands.

They strained to listen over the groaning artics, dissected

by the white line running down a road wide enough for one.

D’ya remember when that was all green?

He was excited to go home for his dinner, to see what she had made,

but was weary of the journey, teeming with steel and marauders.




©2016 James O'Sullivan



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