With simple interest

                                                you zero in,

                                                the square root home.

                                                She offers pi

                                                a fraction of her heart,

​​​​                                                   you desire​​​​

                                                the sine of her curves  

                                                – infinity reclining –

                                                the joy of sets.

 

                                                Prime attraction multiplies

                                                2+2=5

                                                an upward graph

                                                future = XTC

                                                with high probability of success.

                                                A new addition

                                                plan n=3,

                                                normal distribution

                                                for t+7.

 

                                                A discontinuity,

                                                commitment ¬ =

                                                no proof of love.

                                                She speaks

                                                complex codes

                                                calculates different solutions.

                                                You are discreet

                                                she is discrete, weaves

                                                a matrix of deceit.

 

                                                The triangle with Pascal

                                                a key factor,

                                                she offers an imaginary number

                                                chaos with  

                                                fractals of love.

                                                   ​​​​ The result

                                                a division of friends and CDs.

                                                When she said forever

                                                how could you know

 

                                                   she meant forever minus 1.   
Bio –Maurice Devitt
 
Runner-up in The Interpreter’s House Poetry Competition in 2017, he was winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland Competition in 2015 and has been placed or shortlisted in many competitions including the Patrick Kavanagh Award, Listowel Collection Competition, Over the Edge New Writer Competition, Cuirt New Writing Award, Cork Literary Review and the Doire Press International Chapbook Competition. He has had poems published in Ireland, England, Scotland, the US, Mexico, Romania, India and Australia, runs the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site and is a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group.

Sausage Warning

For Holly

The Sausage-Dangling Championships
take place in Venezuela.
The contest starts when someone farts
into a big loud-hailer.

They dangle them from balconies,
they dangle them from towers
and if the wind blows violently
they suffer sausage showers.

The sausages get sick of it;
the constant, wobbly dangling.
In fact, the very thought of it
will set their nerves all jangling.

So come the revolution, it may
pay you to remember
a very angry sausage always
has its own agenda.

Louisa Campbell hangs around English spa towns. She has realised that life is silly, but important, and she is very happy about that. Published here and there, her first pamphlet will soon be out with Picaroon Poetry.

A while back she had the cartridge

removed from her knee. They put her

on stereo to reduce the information.

Then she had to have the cactuses

taken out of her eyes. Sadly her friend

contracted M & S and her husband

had trouble with his prostrate gland.

It made him incontinental, but his new diet

did wonders for him – polyurethane margarine.

But when she started going to Weight Lifters

that finished all of them. They had no-one

to turn to for consolidation.

Susan Jordan writes both poetry and prose. She has had poems published in a number of print and online magazines including Acumen, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Obsessed with Pipework and Snakeskin, and in Spilling Cocoa. Her first collection, A House of Empty Rooms, is coming out later this year.

 

Clog 

In search of worthy epithet to praise the lovely clog,

The poet’s mind went AWOL in a thick prosaic fog.

And though he searched as would the most creative pedagogue,

The words remained elusive like Idukki’s Purple Frog.

 

So he gave up …
Jonathan Humble is a deputy head teacher. He is the Poet Laureate for the Tripe Marketing Board and Rossendale’s Sunday Clog Market. Other than writing poetry and short stories, his hobbies include beard growing, pointing at poppies and keeping the international coffee industry afloat with his patronage.

The Rules of Salsa

1. Warm up beforehand.
2. Let the man lead.
3. Stay relaxed.
4. Let the man lead.
5. Take small steps.
6. Let the man lead.
7. Maintain your balance.
8. Let the man lead.
9. Tie your hair up.
10. Let the man lead.
11. Keep a straight torso.
12. Let the man lead.
13. Swing those hips!
14. Let the man lead.
15. Shoulders down.
16. Let the man lead.
17. Turn on a dime.
18. Let the man lead.
19. Never refuse a dance.
20. LET THE MAN LEAD!

Maeve O’Sullivan has published her poems and haiku widely over the last twenty years. She is the author of three collections of haiku / poetry from Alba Publishing. When not engaged in writing poetry or performing her work with the Poetry Divas (wearing boas), she works in education in Dublin.

Vinyl #1

It’s my latest middle class obsession:
I’ve got into collecting vinyl records.
Yeah, I know it’s such a clichéd thing
To do, but there it is. And now it’s in
This poem I wrote, for which nobody asked.
Christ, I must be such an insufferable arse.

Vinyl #2

About two years ago I stopped abusing
Torrent sites to download all my music.
I got into the habit of travelling in
To town a couple of times a month to get
The things I wanted – CDs, books – and bringing
Them back, stuffed into plastic bags. And it
Was strangely satisfying. I had a routine.
About six months ago I changed it up.
I bought a record player – a pretty machine –
And started getting 33s. I stopped
At 78s. That seemed a step too far.
But I did come to love the faintly hissing
Needle in the groove. I took the car
To town at first, but much preferred the pissing
Rain to hit me straight. It seemed more pure
Somehow, the faintly hissing sound. I heard
The voice of angels in the noise, endured
The wetness and the din. I felt a certain
Calm. I sold the CDs and the books
And then the car. I didn’t want distractions
Anymore. And though I got some looks
From strangers, who considered it an infraction
When I gave my clothes away, it didn’t
Bother me. To friends, I bid good riddance,
Left my home, and ditched my family.
I ditched the record player. I was free.

Consommé Soup

The hardest winter since forty-seven,
they said, builders moved
indoors to the factory,
made soup,
pushed trolleys, hauled loads,
chatted up the girls.

Boring though –
till Eddy Lynch
strayed to the roof,
found the sherry,
(industrial grade),
secret ingredient
of Crosse and Blackwell’s
consommé soup.

Ah, sixty-three,
the coldest year,
the warmest year,
since freezing forty-seven.

Mike Gallagher, an Irish poet and editor, has been published and translated worldwide. He won the Michael Hartnett Viva Voce award in 2010 and 2016, the Desmond O’Grady International award in 2012 and was shortlisted for the Hennessy award in 2011.
His collection, Stick on Stone, is published by Revival Press.

The Battle Hymn of the Bowling Green Massacre

No eyes have seen a massacre occur at Bowling Green
As non-existent soldiers met with students never seen
Where Kellyanne’s imagination lit her silver screen
Her lies go marching on.

Dilatory allegory
Predatory oratory
Don’t believe her lying story
Her lies go marching on.

Her fictional protesters faced her fancied fascist troops
Her tragic death-toll changed into a legendary ‘Oops’
As all they did was wave their well-spelled signs in peaceful groups
Her lies go marching on.

Dilatory allegory
Predatory oratory
Don’t believe her lying story
Her lies go marching on.

She said it went uncovered by reporters of the news
That stations pulled their on-air talent with their camera-crews
But worse, she’s acting pouty that there’s no deaths she can use.
Her lies go marching on.

Dilatory allegory
Predatory oratory
Don’t believe her lying story
Her lies go marching on.

She has offered up her bullshit as if lying were a sport;
Each time she moves her lips she tells a tale that lacks support.
Is there no fact she won’t traduce, no truth she won’t distort?
Her lies go marching on.

Dilatory allegory
Predatory oratory
Don’t believe her lying story
Her lies go marching on.

In the mists of ghostly silence such a massacre occurred,
It’s meaninglessness celebrated by no deed nor word —
And to find that shes not fired for this kind of shit’s absurd.
Her lies go marching on.

Dilatory allegory
Predatory oratory
Don’t believe her lying story
Her lies go marching on.