Cathy Galvin, "Ethnology: A Love Song for Connemara"

Congratulations to Cathy Galvin, University of Leicester PhD Creative Writing student, whose poetry collection Ethnology has just been published by Bloodaxe Books!

Cathy Galvin's debut poetry collection, Ethnology: A Love Song for Connemara, is published by Bloodaxe Books in the UK and Ireland. She has published three previous pamphlets of poetry, Black & Blue (2014), Rough Translation (2016) and Walking the Coventry Ring Road With Lady Godiva (2019). She is widely published as a poet and short story writer and is the recipient of a Hawthornden Fellowship, a Heinrich Böll residency and an Arts Council England DYCP award. As a journalist she has worked as a senior editor for Newsweek and the Sunday Times. She founded the Sunday Times Short Story Award and the short story organisation, the Word Factory. She is the editor of Red, an anthology of new writing published by Waterstones. She is a PhD candidate at the University of Leicester and lives near Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. 

About Ethnology: A Love Song for Connemara, by Cathy Galvin
Ethnology draws on the mystical cry for the dead of Cathy Galvin's Irish-speaking ancestors. Within an epic narrative she reclaims place, people and language and creates a dialogue with the poets, folklorists and ethnologists who have written about the West of Ireland for their own agenda. Loss, and loss of a mother tongue, are carefully explored. 

You can read more about Ethnology on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection. 

From Ethnology

Walls

There’s no anvil, brooch, harrow-pin.

The currach’s broken, walls stand without a roof.

All that’s left: a bureau containing bills,

cards, scarves, a Will.

You’re not in view but I can hear a breath

– the well-made dress and phrase.

My made things broke long ago.

They had little purchase on this world.

The creed, letters I do not read.

Solid seem the things that slip away.

Leaving us bone.

We stake a claim, lay foundations,

build and watch it fall.

Within, the comforts that ease survival.

We cut back wilderness, tame, contain

sycamore, birch, bramble, willow, grass.

All return.

Our walls come down, consolations go.

We do not come back. Take away it all

and what is left is who we are.

Our homes are built to go. 

Coventry Carol

You did not sing in Irish or in English.

Never told me what the English did to your people,

were clear you did not want an Irish husband,

someone who might sing sweetly and leave his wife behind,

become a father like yours who did not feed his own children.

When the Irish began bombing Birmingham,

and a shopkeeper refused to serve me in my Catholic

school uniform, your silence filled my mouth.

Laura McKee, "Take Care of Your Hooves Darling"

 

Laura McKee’s poems have been published widely including in The Rialto, Stand Magazine, Under the Radar, The North, Prole, Butcher’s Dog, The Interpreter’s House, Crannog, The Poetry Review. Online publications include the recent first issue of Propel Magazine edited by Mary Jean Chan, Ink Sweat and Tears, And Other Poems. Anthologised work appears in Mildly Erotic Verse (The Emma Press), and The Result Is What You See Today (Smith|Doorstop). She is currently in the second year of an MA in Writing Poetry with The Poetry School and Newcastle University.

About Take Care of Your Hooves Darling

Laura McKee's first pamphlet Take Care of Your Hooves Darling is published by Against the Grain Press, and examines, in part, issues of identity in terms of sexuality, gender, class background, mental and physical health. It includes biscuits, and has been recommended by Andrew McMillan.

You can read more about Take Care of Your Hooves Darling on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection. 

From Take Care of Your Hooves Darling

good morning

today’s plan is this that
I want to lift up
one of those metal plates
on the pavement that have
names on them like Tom
Selleck and climb in
and slip down into some
pipe or other that leads
to a sewer and hold
my nose until I get
to the river until I
get in the sea and no-one
will have to pretend
to listen to me except
starfish and where are their

ears

Walls

It was hard to get through to you
and later I didn’t answer
the door or the phone
We were each other’s brick wall
with the writing on it
Like that wall where someone
well Dave I suppose
has written Dave
above Jesus no name higher
I look up to you now
and want to talk
You always told me
rise above, rise above it all
have some sort of loftiness
but holy Mary mother of god
mortal Daphne mother of me
loneliness is harder than walls