Tag Archive | Poetry

NY Literary Magazine Awards




I’ve been on a bit of a Blog holiday over the past few weeks. Summer was terrific with family members back home, from all over the world, New Zealand; Abu Dhabi; Italy; and Poland. It was magic with the feeling that everyone was back where they should be, for a little while at least. (Or back where I think they should be . . . which is a whole different story.) Anyway it was all fun. And then as I was getting back on track and putting a new blog post together on Wednesday I received  a lovely email to say that one of my poems would be published in the NY Literary Magazine and a further email yesterday to say it had been awarded the gold medal in the N Y Literary Magazine poetry competition.  So so Happy.

And  if you would like to read my poem its here.  check it out on page 32




My House in the Country

Anyone who knows me, knows I would love to live in the country. On days when my longing to live away from the city overwhelms me I write my characters into their country lives. I set them in the house of my dreams and let them loose in the grounds of their estate to breathe in the country air. I let them walk long driveways, flanked with trees where they are suddenly surprised by pheasant walking nonchalantly in their path, or peacock tails fanning the air. They go indoors then and sit watching the sway of the trees or the busyness of the bees in the honeysuckle. It’s what gives my writing days their fun and spirit. A day away in the country. Below is my poem of my dream country house. Someday.

My House

The house would be made of

Battered walls and green moss

Beneath its eaves the Swifts would nest

And rest in solitude among the broken tiles and,

Just outside, a foot or two beyond the rustic fence—

Wild meadows with Blue-bells,Teasel and Forget-Me-Nots

So dense I could barely see the sea.

And me?

I’d sit and watch it stretch out before me

All day long. Then rise

And walk and rest and write

And just Be.


Photo: Courtesy of Irish Wild Flowers site.

Identity Crisis

On my blog today my poem is ‘just a little bit of silliness really’ as Peter Llewlyn says in that beautiful film Finding Neverland.

Oxford English Dictionary

Oxford English Dictionary (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Why is a chilli, called a chilli

Especially when it’s hot?

Why are things called things

That perhaps they are not?

Maybe a banana really is a pear

And what about a circle

Maybe it’s a square.

Who gets to think up all the

Two hundred and twenty-eight thousand,

One hundred, and thirty two words

In the Oxford  Dictionary?

I really think it’s quite unfair

That not one belongs to me.

Eithne Reynolds ©

Change in the Wind


It’s funny when you join a Writer’s Circle, people who you have known for only a short while become like friends you have known all your life. I think it’s because one shares the common passion of writing. Writers freely share feelings, emotions, successes and rejections. Lifetime experiences are also laid bare between the lines of the page.

The Writer’s Circle I have been part of for the past few years is a great source of inspiration and encouragement to me. A few weeks ago Niall O’Connor’s poetry collection Change in the Wind was published. I now see the great joy of achievement, and feel the pressure (which is good) to finish my own marathon piece of writing.

I wanted to write a review of Niall’s Change in the Wind, and that made me question and wonder if you can review the work of a friend. Can you approach a collection of poetry with an unbiased, critical eye?

What I discovered is that sometimes knowing the poet/writer, their trials and tribulation, joys and delights in bringing a collection to life makes the enjoyment even better. I had a sense of “Wow! You did it, and you did it wonderfully well.”

Of course I only know the poet for three years. What I read in the collection is the strong voice of the poet and the journey from youth, young man, to the practised poet of today.

If you have never visited Dublin or if you are not familiar with the much loved and ancient crossing point, O’Connor’s poem Halfpenny Bridge paints a picture, gives a history, that many Dubliners themselves do not know.
Halfpenny Bridge is simply beautiful . . .

The royal barge
The chieftains byre
Bananas from Bolivia,
They all have passed
Beneath this throne
This crown of Anna Livia

His poem Important Historical Events, records familiar episodes in history, but the unveiling in the final lines, is what makes the poem superb.

And a bee dips into a flower
So the last seed
Can be born.

The title poem Change in the Wind is a beautiful narrative of youth and survival, intense, and filled with expectation and tension. A personal tale of two brothers caught out at sea in a boat and the change in the wind that has the power to change destinies. In this first collection O’Connor is a compelling commentator on many aspects of life.

Copies of Change in the Wind can be obtained by contacting Niall O’Connor at


How I started to write poetry

Hubby has a special talent. He’s a great juggler. Juggles everything. He’s been doing it for years. It started shortly after we got married with oranges in the kitchen. They landed everywhere, in pots, pans, basins of sudsy water. But eventually he mastered the art. He tried to include me as a double act. We were using the kid’s tennis balls, but I kept dropping them. I couldn’t keep them all in the air . . . what with potatoes boiling over and chicken fillets burning and hubby throwing things here, there, and yonder. He muttered something one day about how I lacked co-ordination and how if I couldn’t take the heat  (of our new career), I should stay in the kitchen.  He continued to practise. He was the star of every party. The invites poured in.  He juggled everything in sight, apples, oranges, empty wine glasses. I was so proud of him, until the night a six foot leggy coordinated brunette offered to be his partner.  She smiled, ducked, dived and managed to catch everything that needed catching.  Except hubby. I managed to hold onto him. But I think that night hailed the beginning of my poetry writing career. Poetry is all about emotion really. It’s about telling the story that needs to be told, with the best words.  Writing from that scared, bad, sad, fearful or fun place at a single moment in time. My poem The Juggler was born that night.

The Juggler

I watch you from the edge of the crowd

That gathers ‘round

To gaze in wonder.

Your smile delights

As much as your performance,

Your eyes search for reaction

Nervous until the applause.

Clubs, balls

Cascading, revolving

Rising, falling

Abandoned in the air,

Then dropping back

To the security of strong hands.

I watch you juggle

I hear the gasps

I know your act, your routine.

I watch you manipulate

Clubs, rings, even


You juggle with my heart

As if it is one of your colourful props,

To be held,

Flipped, balanced,

Thrown, dropped,


(c) Eithne Reynolds