Boyne Writers Group

Issue 7 of Boyne Berries was launched in the Castle Arch Hotel, Trim on Thursday 25 March, 2010. A large group of contributors and friends attended. The magazine was officially launched by Meath County Librian, Ciaran Mangan. In his address he spoke about the involvement of the Library in publishing including the publication of audio book versions of books by local authors. The Library is also supporting a volume of poetry associated with County Meath or by poets associated with the county later this year. This is being edited or compiled by poet Tom French who works in Navan Library. Ciaran is also a writer being a member of Moylough Writers Group in north Meath.

Then came the readings by contributors who had come from near and far. The far included Longford, Dublin, Athy and Cork. We started with Peter Goulding who had just been shortlisted for one of the Strokestown Poetry Competitions and finished with Niamh Boyce who had been shortlisted for the WOW competition in Galway. In between the great variety of styles and themes made it a very enjoyable event.

Just before the tea, coffee and biscuits we presented our cover artist Greg Hastings with a small token of our appreciation for his impressive and distinctive cover art. He was suitably surprised!

Below: Ciaran Mangan centre with, left, Tommy Murray and, right, Matt Gilsenan.

Some Material from Boyne Berries 7

School Run

"You wouldn't break every bone, you wouldn't."
"Oh, I would, definitely. Methodically. Systematically. Cleanly and clinically. Every bone. Or at least every one I could reach with a steel pipe and an axe. Imagine, each solid bone snapped, each cavity bone caved in. Beautiful."
"You're all talk."
"You don't know me."

She gave me one of her I-know-you-better-than-you-know-yourself looks and pushed her trolley to the queue alongside mine. Such blind faith people have. Based on what? Our shared preference for Lenor over Comfort, for steaming fish over frying it, for real knickers over those modern bottom-cleavers?
"Well," she coaxed, "He'll never have cause to be near you, so we'll never know."
"Oh, we'll know all right. You know how he could never resist a good funeral."

She bit her bottom lip while unloading her trolley into the car boot. I was not yielding to her attempts to tame me. Unlike her hair, her body and her children, I was not within her control. She reached for her safety net:
"Have you seen your psychological whatchamacallit?"
"No."
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. Why not?"

Pure concentrations of murderous intentions are hard to sustain but I wasn't telling her that.
"I couldn't risk well-intended pollution of my plans."
"Oh, so I'm a person of no influence then?" She looked miffed.
"You could say that, alright." I buckled the baby into his car seat.
"I see. Well, don't count on me to show up at visiting time when you'e inside."
She had been watching too much telly.
"You've been watching too much telly."
"Lookit, I"ve kids to collect. Good luck you. Be good."

I watched her car pull out onto the dual carriageway and spoke to the space where she had stood.

"Pity battering yourself to death doesn't fall under suspected suicide. It'll be a pleasure all the same. I'll feign sadness afterwards with the best of them. It'll be grand. Come on young buck, let's go collect your sister from school."

Aideen Henry

Betty and Ed Come to Town

The smell of camphor,
Cows, earth and dung
Lingered within the fibres
Of their coming to town clothes.

This weather-beaten pair
A sister and her brother
Called to my Aunt's shop
Each Friday
For news and messages.

The three of them sat together
Whispering parish secrets
Like decades of the rosary.
Always the sorrowful mysteries
Relishing suffering and the vale of tears
Unable to take any notice of joy.

Gossip brought them to life
Warming their blood
The way a glass of whiskey does.
Maybe they took vicarious pleasure
In the misdemeanours of others.

Or maybe salacious details
Confirmed the wisdom
Of their no drinking,
No smoking, celibate state
And the greater satisfaction of not
Giving in to temptations
Of the flesh.
all the talking
The two would set out
With a lighter step
Their jute bags full of groceries
And their heads full of news
That would keep them
Busy for the rest of the week.

Anne O'Malley

Ledwidge's Country

Village once belonging to poet
Now cluttered by sounds
To the rhythm of rap.
Ledwidge's creation's viewed
Through chicklit eyes.

Yet passengers glide along
Towards Kavanagh's grave
In a bubble
Drowning motorcycles.

After "All Hallows Eve",
The flooding
And shower of holy water,
A local mounts her bike.
Her long fair hair blows in the
Easter breeze.
She cycles towards the
Cosmopolitan air,
A place of ancient books and
New births,
The home of saved lives and
Everlasting souls.
She travels towards
Her call
Finding her voice,
Resonating with
Forgotten gurus.

Sinead Mac Devitt