#micro literature

[mariamcmanus]

I was going to Dublin for the day. In the aftermath of the US election, I was still reflecting on a response. I left labels at Bus Aras in Dublin and at the Europa Bus Station in Belfast.

I was asked for my passport by a Garda, who got on the bus between Newry and Dundalk. He said he was from immigration.

Art Can Save the World -10th November 2016 I was going to Dublin for the day. In the aftermath of the US election, I was still reflecting on a response.

[mariamcmanus]

Fires for the cold....John O'Connor Writing School, Armagh

Fires for the cold….John O’Connor Writing School, Armagh

I was facilitating the series of workshops for this inaugural John O’Connor Writing School – I had the same group of 12 participants over the three days of the festival.

We worked from a series of small phrases of a single Mary Oliver quote.

“For poems are not all words after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.’

Th…

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[mariamcmanus]

Culture Night 2016

I have an affliction – and it is that much of my work is long form poems – it means I rarely write anything that meets the criteria for competitions or publication in journals – most things are simply too long.

Aill na Searrach/ The Leap of the Foals which was published in my second collection, We Are Bone (Lagan Press, 2013) is one such poem. It has a very special place in my heart – it is a…

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[mariamcmanus]

Taxi for McManus, 14th August 2016

Taxi for McManus, 14th August 2016

I was going out with Martin and a friend for dinner. We called a taxi to take us in to town. This was hanging in the front of the cab.

It was the same taxi man who’d brought me from Central Library to the NICRAS on National Poetry day. It was the same taxi man who was quoting Horatius At The Bridge, to me…………./

O Tiber! Father Tiber,

To whom the Romans pray,

A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,

take…

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[aimee-wood-blog]

Homeless

In his disenchanted circumstances there kindled some juvenile happiness around the corners of his rough face . A secret the passersby were not privy to. This guy was gilded in the city dirt, balding in his maturity and carrying experience under the weight of his wrinkles. The smell of exhaust fumes trapped in his clothes and the duvet covering his legs. He lay toes to elbow on the pavement, comfortably stretched along his sofa. His calloused hands texting on his phone to the person in his endearing grin. 

[shewritesdarkness-blog]

the reject pile

#nycmidnight my three 100 character stories have been submitted. Here is the reject pile. The three best are on their journey through cyber-space! My word was stamp, hence the over-usage of the word for those unfamiliar with the challenge!

“You want me!” He watched her foot stamp into the ancient shag carpet. He loved when she acted like a child.

We had little in common. I took up stamp collecting to have something to talk about other than Mom.

He loved how her mouth tastes of stamp glue & Nicorette. She is why men get secretaries, he thought.

He wondered if it would arrive in time. The stamp still stuck to his tongue as he enabled the bomb.

The revolver clicked. She braced for impact. The word deceased in rubber stamp across her heart.

There was no stamp on the envelope, no return address, just her name and a bloodstained goodbye.

He loved the smell of an old stamp. It reminded him of Grandpa & the unopened letters from France.

She adored that he refused to email. He was determined to help unemployment one stamp at the time.

Staring at his corpse thru the stamp shop window she wondered if her father knew that she hated him.

She wore the handprint like a stamp across her face. She said that she fell, mostly hating the pity.