THE GOLDEN DREAM
Astronomers say that gold appeared from outer space,
from supernovas, magnetars, neutron stars,
starquakes and asteroids bombarding the molten core
of earth as it came into existence; thirty billion tons
seeping to the surface through slender seams,
pounded into thin leaves to cover buddha statues and
golden roofed pagodas; a world away on a holy mountain,
moses descended to curse the worship of a
golden calf, a lesson echoed for a thousand years in
moral remonstrations; but such metaphysics little
concerned miners’ quests as they sought the mother-lode
a mile below the surface, or sluiced for grains of the
noble metal along the Yukon River, among them my great-
uncles, placer mining along the banks and burning wood
to melt the frozen water and heat their cabins, persevering
through arctic winters, and after twenty
years returning to the mother-land to marry young women
and father large families, thus fulfilling ambitions
to re-possess ancestral lands from the nation that conquered
them; having returned from hard-scrabble
lives, they no longer needed to bow the knee to landlords
or big house machinations.
Aedh Seosamh is the Irish name for Hugh Joseph (Curran) who was born in Killybegs, Donegal and raised in Glenties and Canada. He teaches Peace Studies at the University of Maine.
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THE RAIN BRINGERS
by Patrick O’Sullivan
I am the rain bringer,
my plumage black as the dark and shining flanks
of the finest Kerry cow;
my bill orange as the sun
on the homely marigolds in some little cottage garden.
You don’t always see me, but you hear me,
lost in the dome of the old sycamore,
or veiled by the blossom of your fine orchard trees.
My throaty notes, my mellow flutes,
sung with a slowness and content,
long since meant to tempt the raindrops from above.
Down and down they drop, blissfully descending,
the tiny, shiny spheres creating galaxies of light, myriads and myriads,
dancing pitter patter upon the grateful leaves,
until at last they gleam, as though the fairies casting spells,
have made the woods their own.
I am the rain bringer,
my plumage mottled brown, my long bill curving down;
somewhere on the estuary, or by the rolling sea, that’s where you’re sure to find me,
still wading through the brine of the lucky long-legged pools.
Some say my whistle’s fine,
clear and crystalline as any ever known,
but more hear in it a haunting melancholy,
plaintive as the grey winds that pine in winter skies.
My whistle calls the drops,
till they tumble down in torrents,
pounding on the rocks and on the craggy shore.
Then the flood runs swirling brown through every creek and channel,
as though it cannot wait to fill them to the brim,
and the grey waves dance a dance for things lost and far away.
Blackbird and curlew,
we bring you the rain,
the trees and the seas to sustain;
as we whistle both early and late,
it’s the rain that we celebrate,
and the promise in every drop!
Patrick O Sullivan lives in County Kerry. I heard the Wild Birds Sing; A Kerry Childhood, and A Country Diary: The Year in Kerry are books of his published by Anvil Books. His children’s Books include A Girl and a Dolphin by Wolfhound Press. His Poetry has appeared in Stony Thursday Book, The Caterpillar, Chasing Shadows, Trasna, Stripes (America) etc. and also in the limited-edition art book The Little Book of Brigid.
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The River of Gift
Upon this river and this wooden craft,
The rising moon cast a cool, thoughtful light
And while holding back shadows of the night
At their protestations softly laughed.
Before departing on its lunar way
On my beloveds face that light lingered
And while river breezes her hair fingered
Intrigued it paused in curious delay.
In that instant I glimpsed the girl that was
Behind the eyes of the woman I love,
One constant on waters that move and shift
Giving all behind and ahead its cause,
Below that ancient mariner above
Love matters most on this river of gift.
Michael Boyle is a native of Lavey, Derry, Ireland. His poems have appeared in the The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, Tinteán and New Ulster Writing. He was awarded ‘The Arts and Letters’ prize for poetry in 2014 by the government of Newfoundland and Labrador. Currently Michael is living in St John’s, Newfoundland.
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An Geimhreadh Deireanach
le Kevin McClung
Clois an t-ulchabhán ag gol,
Clois a chaoineadh géar san aer,
Feic an phéarla fhuar sa spéir;
Tá an geimhreadh ann.
Feicim fear an tsneachta ag leá,
Is é ag gol gan dóchas,
Is é ag caoineadh tús an earraigh déanaí;
Tá ár n-óige thart.
An mbolaionn tú an deatach dubh,
Mothaigh pian na tine te,
Leag do mhéar ar ghrian mhór;
Tá an Domhan marbh.
Cá bhfuil an bheatha bhinn anois?
Cá bhfuil na pláinéid scriosta?
Och, cá bhfuil solas saor na réaltaí?
Tá an chruinne folamh.
The Last Winter
by Kevin McClung
Hear the hungry owl weep,
Hear its sharp cry in the sky,
The moon a cold pearl, watch it fly;
Now is winter time.
I see the snowman as it melts,
And it a pool of tears,
And it a mournful welcome to the final spring;
Our youth is past.
Can you smell the black smoke now,
Feel the pain of a hot fire,
With your finger touch the sun;
Earth will die at last.
Where have the days of life gone now?
Where have the scorched worlds gone?
Where has the light gone from the stars?
The sky lies black forever.
Is múinteoir as Nua Shasana é Caoimhín Mac Luinge. Tá an-suim aige i dteangacha a shinsear. Tá dánta foilsithe i nGaeilge aige san iris An Gael. Bhain a dhánta i nGaeilge na hAlban agus i mBéarla Gallda Sealtainnis, an gearrliosta amach don Wigtown Poetry Prizes sa bhliain 2025. Scríobhann sé go minic faoi théamaí an chreidimh agus na polaitíochta.
Kevin McClung is a teacher from New England. He is very interested in the languages of his ancestors. He has published poems in Irish in the magazine An Gael. In 2025, he made the Wigtown shortlist in the Scottish Gaelic and Scots categories. He often writes on the themes of religion and politics.
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Tinteán 