The Cafe Review

by John MacKenna Suddenly there is sky where no sky was before, the branches form these unexpected scratches, their leaves gouged overnight. And

by John MacKenna My mother was sitting on the cemetery wall, reciting an old poem, not loudly but with the carefulness of one who knows her

by Thomas McCarthy Fallen martyrs of Antioch, time’s unrecoverable flora — It’s not me, it’s the garden itself that becomes nostalgic At this

by Thomas McCarthy The howling November wind, that chill Taxing Master, stiffens Entire buildings in the Castle yard. As we grow older We also

by Paul Casey for John W. Sexton the slop migrant vortex of turf muck near swallowed him whole one grey farm day he said, but for a bubble of air

by Paul Casey for Rosie I scaled the cliffs of Moher to write about the tourists trekked south till there were no more barriers, signs of stick

by Jessica Traynor We are living now in the era of lost things. Can you feel the bee’s wingbeat as it dodges into the slipstream of the

by Jessica Traynor November slips into December like cold air down my throat. I catch my crow’s feet in the mirror and swallow the shock of years

by Doireann Ní Ghríofa Three weeks after her birth I wrap my tiny daughter in a rainbow blanket and wheel her to the forest. There, I see poems

by Dónall Dempsey for D.B. The blackbird leaves me a note pinned to the sky that blue beyond blue the tide of the moment turning turning. Time