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Spring 2008


- A. Bodhràn
For Valentino Lo Bianco “In Memoriam” July 2007
- L. Calio
Elbow Grease
- M. Carroll
Sacred Sod
- G. Fagiani
The Name He Did Not Want
- V. Fazio
La Visita (The Visit)
- M. Frasca
Finn McCool Crosses the Line
- J. Hart
After the Glanconer
- J. Knight
- M. Lisella
Dun Arann
- J. Machan
Karaoke Swan Song
- P. Many
Sestina Terrona
- N. Matros
The Roofs of Siena
- J. McCann
- S. Moorhead
- P. Nichloas
Marriage Ellis Island Style
- F. Polizzi
The Years of Our Lord
- K. Scambray
The Girl with Botticelli Hair
- G. Tabasso
On a Dismal Night, in Dim Light Pondering a Tattered Map of Ireland
- H. Youtt

Susan Moorhead


I was English once, and proper,

my vein’s inheritance.

I hear it in my voice, in the phrasing

I use when correcting my child.

The plumped pillows, the tidy urges, the dutiful attempts

to order the errant hours into a kind

of sense, all know I was English.

I was Celtic once, seeking the pulse

of stories, earth and water. I feel it in the stir

of blood when wind keens through the bones

of midnight trees, the sound telling of a far

light past heathered moors, strange tea brewing

in a kettle on my hearth while the elders

in the village plotted a solution.

Better to live English in these unruly days. Preferable

to take chaos to task, line it up, give calming,

reasonable answers. Pay no heed to the smell

of something starting to burn.