Hello all,

We are very happy to announce the winner of our first ever Poetry Competition. We received 193 pieces of Poetry to be considered for the competition, and not a single one was unworthy of publication. Although we received work from so many talented poets, 71 to be exact, we had to pick a winner. All that being said, we would like to congratulate Cailyn Foschi and her poem (i wonder if foxes can melt): vulpes sanctus along with two runners up Seosamh Ó Seachnasaigh with his poem Was it worth less? and Lisa Harris with her poem Let Them Eat Spice Bag.

Please take the time to read these three Poets’ work below, and keep an eye out for our Issue III call for submissions some time in April.

(i wonder if foxes can melt): vulpes sanctus

he is dying in your garden
that little baby
curled up on your welcome mat

asphalt matted in his fur
teeth still bearing
he is a pelt of tarmac and fire
snuffing through the shrubs
searching for a casket in the dirt

beaten by a fist of rubber
and robbed of the victory
i watch his embers burn out
as he makes a slow crawl towards heaven
(the sunny part of your front garden)

he may be dying but he is still fighting
i know he refuses to freeze
i see him tremble in the sun
dragging his limp tail across the paved drive
mewling into the ground

i watch as his embers burn out
the amber sparkles twitch and rivet
the glittering bronze of his body
has stained your porch with blood

in the end they had to come up from kildare to save him
or bury him i mean

‘unfortunately there’s not much we can do in situations like these
thank you for emailing us regardless,
he’s in a better place now’

Cailyn Foschi

Was it worth less?

The boring man breeds for want of life
He bends his brother’s ear and talks of a wife
Not his own
The agate grapevine, deliverer of growths
Racing, impatient, hounds to the roast
And Sunday dinner is sacred and what accosts him the most
Is the breathy young saleswoman who shifts him his brew
He counters her teeth and slobbers her tongue
With every degree of ungated scum
Weeds of words
Layered in thick butter, melting at the rough
When the word comes back to him he’ll greedily slap it off
And grace his eyes with anything to guarantee the hots
The greenery is scenery
how speedily he’ll pay the fee to feel you
The knee, you know, goes up and up and up
And he knows too
The flour to make it a rue
The woman who sold him her shoes
The sated song that follows the hunt
The racing dogs that circle above
And every one of you are peeling back your scalps to relax when the prescient comes to orchestrate and dance
To pleasure the racers and feed the man
The grating ways his voice trickles down
To strip your ego
Or credit you with stealing your own dignity
The eyes, you see, were asked to be there
Soaking in it
Breathing it in through the pores
Salivating at the roars
Crowning great fingertips upon your door
Slipping in
Reaching for it
Relishing the grip and beating heart beneath that slithers in-between and whimpers “please”
You wanted this
You prepped the meal
Your hands lifted groceries in packed aisles and saw him through the crowd and rated the organic chemical-free produce he claimed to wield
“This world is easy!”
Great beasts run freely
Where’s the rarest pieces—what’s he lucky to be in—why does he have no seasonings
for the freshest greases
Forgot to relax
You’re being cut into pieces
You are delighted to meet him
You are serving your ears to him
Curling your toes when he asks to see them
Bearing your growths when the moment is reeling
Grieving
A mother’s bereavement that child is unfeeling
Not breathing
Not quiet but silent and she is weeping in heaven somewhere but
here it is semen that drips from the ceiling and colours the choir voices from high shrill drills to unfocused drinking
in volkswagens and rolls royces,
drowning in voices
Breathing in drags

I’m sorry for your loss
But at least it was painless

Seosamh Ó Seachnasaigh

Let Them Eat Spice Bag

Leave me to rule
And lick my fingers,
You can’t understand
Such a royal pursuit,
Deep fried bag, this queen’s right hand
Grounded in five spice,
A chickeny zen
My body, a temple someone ordered from Temu
Wednesday night Xian
Outside in the mad queue
Worshipping batter
Now this is my kingdom
No curry sauce,
Rain adds to the flavour as I fight off seagulls “ah feck off yiz bastards!”
Shuffling home from the Close shift,
Back in First Thing Tomorrow,
Minimum Wage War
But tonight, we’re at Peace.

Lisa Harris