Posts tagged Irish Author
Excerpt | Dill

Summer was our best season:
it was sleeping on the back screened porch in cots,
or trying to sleep in the treehouse;
summer was everything good to eat;
it was a thousand colours in a parched landscape;
but most of all, summer was Dill.

Lee, H. (1960) To Kill A Mockingbird

Excerpt | A Suit

'i'll make you one, ' he said, 'and balance it
perfectly on you.' so i could almost feel
the plumb line of the creased tweed hit my heel,

my shoulders like a spar or arms of a scale
under the jacket, my whole shape realigned
in ways that suited me down to the ground.

so although a suit was the last thing that i needed
i weighed his words and wore them and decided
there and then it was going for a song.

heaney, s. (1939-2013)

Fundamentals | Love

Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.

C.S. Lewis

Excerpt | Expatriate

you are an expatriate, you've lost touch with the soil. you get precious. fake european standards have ruined you. you drink yourself to death. you become obsessed with sex. you spend all your time talking, not working. you are an expatriate, see? you hang around cafes.


hemingway, e. (1926) the sun also rises

Excerpt | Tea And Honey

"i don't feel very much like pooh today," said pooh.

"there there," said piglet. "i'll bring you tea and honey until you do."


milne, a.a. (1926) winnie-the-pooh

Excerpt | Polary Bear

There's a Polar Bear
In our Frigidaire -
He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He's nibbling the noodles,
And munching the rice,
He's slurping the soda,
He's licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he's in there -
That Polary Bear
In our Fridgitydaire.

silverstein, s. (1981) a light in the attic

Excerpt | AS I AM.

as i am. all or not at all. 

joyce, j. (1922) ulysses

Excerpt | When You Are Old

and grey and full of sleep,
and nodding by the fire, take down this book,
and slowly read, and dream of the soft look
your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

how many loved your moments of glad grace,
and loved your beauty with love false or true,
but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
and loved the sorrows of your changing face;

and bending down beside glowing bars,
murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
and paced upon the mountains overhead
and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


yeats, w.b. (1891) 

Excerpt | If The Others

heard me talking out loud they would think that i am crazy. but since i am not, i do not care.

 

hemingway, e. (1996) the old man and the sea.

Excerpt | Sleep

when a man sleeps, he is steeped and lost in a limp toneless happiness: awake he is restless, tortured by his body and the illusion of existence. why have men spent the centuries seeking to overcome the awakened body? put it to sleep, that is a better way. let it serve only to turn the sleeping soul over, to change the blood-stream and thus make possible a deeper and more refined sleep. we must invert our conception of repose and activity... we should not sleep to recover the energy expended when awake but rather wake occasionally to defecate the unwanted energy that sleep engenders. this might be done quickly - a five-mile race at full tilt around the town and then back to bed and the kingdom of the shadows.

 

o'brien, f. (1939) at swim two birds.

Excerpt | The Thing About December

a few girls acting like they were disgusted with the cool lads but you could tell they weren't, really,
and a couple of nervous-looking spastics standing to the side,
like bits of auld watery broccoli beside a plate of steak and chips


ryan, d. (2013) the thing about december.

Excerpt | On Quiet Love

there was a sunlit absence.
the helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed

in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall

of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove

sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.

now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails

and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.

and here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.


heaney, s. (1975) mossbawn, sunlight