Oisín Breen

Spring Blooms as I lay in the Grass

It is of a slow beauty that I speak:
Yet I refuse to hold my eye to the steady mark of the greenest blades of grass.

For numb though the seedlings are, and lipless,
Their meanings fall from other mouths,
And theirs are sculpted words:

Fearful and beautiful spears,
loosed in song
guttural and choral
symphonies of glad-handed raggery
rent always from scarcity

Yet trailing in the white skeins of space,
on the rippling grasses,
A hollowing out aids this slow show of whispery adepts of motion,
And lengthy staves of green flesh clutch hungrily my face,
And the light
It breaks into me in sweltering threads of heavy memory,
And this is the reverie
Of recollection.


The Rafferty

Sean Rafferty felt the same about his birth
As he did about the universe,
God left the kettle on,
And he boiled over.

This made sense to him.
He was, he thought, very sensible.
For him there was no worry,
No doubt.

“Where you off to then?”
A taxi driver had asked,
His voice, rusted steel.

“And how are you going to live?”
Sean’s sister,
Her accent cuts mutton.

“I’m going to live in denial,”
He said.

© Oisín Breen

Oisín Breen is a 36 year-old poet, part-time academic in narratological complexity, and financial journalist. Dublin born Breen’s widely reviewed debut collection, Flowers, all sorts in blossom, figs, berries, and fruits, forgotten was released Mar. 2020 by Edinburgh’s Hybrid Press.

Primarily a proponent of long-form style-orientated poetry infused with the philosophical, Breen has published in 20 journals, including the Blue Nib, Books Ireland, the Seattle Star, Modern Literature, La Piccioletta Barca, the Bosphorus Review of Books, Mono, and Dreich magazine.

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