BOYNE BERRIES A literary magazine

The third issue of the magazine was published in April 2008.
Here are some of the contributions which appear in that issue.

Studio For Geordie It draws the breath this room I know. The gloriousness of it, the ragged reek of Linseed oil and must. Sculpted walls that shout and tout rosé, ruddiness, ochre and rust: framed cacophonies of tone and tincture, stirred empyrean. The palette, riotous in mute amalgam of tinge, hue and scumble with brushes, knives and spatula remains unmoved. Easel and stool stand humbled, waiting, still, but speaking in still life. Drawers, benches, boards and canvass flow with pieces started, works unfinished, some done, some doodled, others not begun: a life in pictures, lived, unlived yet eager in vignette. Your Cows at Pasture, brushed so mellow allows the poet Ledwidge might lament instead, for you - and so dreams, hopes, desires and memories lie open to imagination; to the eye. And in this galleried sanctuary where love sounds from every tint and etching; fury and cold passion is pronounced from your sketched glottis. Brendan Carey Kinane	The Darkness and One One, within the darkness, Depthless, timeless, late, A void between the ethers, Out of life, out of space. But lo! Motion . . . something there! A ripple carries on the air, The black abyss begins to scream, As light invades its shadow seams. Then there amid a blazing sea, A mirage or a memory? A dazzling form in robes of gold, Her ruby smile, so bright and bold. Her diamond eyes, so dead and cold The peaceful black broken, The oily shroud torn, Anathema token, From light and life thrown. A blinding flash, then the image retreats Back to beneath the ebony sheets. The silence unbroken, the memory gone, Calm in the darkness, the darkness and one. Rory O’Sullivan
Feeding the Calves I have my yellow boots on to walk beside your greater, green ones. Our feet squidge, splodge across the mud mouth of the shed gate where the calves tread their own muck and the straw into an earthen brown pocked with their cloven prints. Even the rain has given up this winter, the insistent chill invading my red anorak. We have wind from the North, you mutter. That means snow and more blessed misery. You pour the calf nuts into the clang of the metal feeder. The smell of warm tea oozes as their breath steaming, and the calves nudge their heads through the bars, warm in themselves. Barbara Smith	A Question What does 'Spargel' mean, asks my fourteen year old niece, studying for the Junior Cert and mindful of difficult words, labelled 'linguistic', which almost scared the pluperfect out of her. God, do I know this one. In a kiosk (no mobiles then) in Hamburg, raw as any twenty-four year old can be, I say, stupidly, I'm here with work, maybe we can meet. Ich werde hier bekocht*, he says: Spargel. Asparagus, sweetheart, masculine. Ich werde hier bekocht* : somebody's cooking for me. Anne O’Connor
Number 32 Syl saw the figure at the upstairs window in the house across the road when he was taking the dog for a walk. The old lady with black-shawled shoulders looked up from her knitting but made no attempt at acknowledgement. “Good boy,” he hurried after the straining dog. Next time, he held the distant gaze for a moment or two, then looked quickly away when there was no response. The following day he chanced a slight bow, but she looked away. He wondered what she saw through her lonely window. He looked around: nothing but long rows of houses, no sign of life, and more being built in the next field. “Lithuanians,” was the curt response when he enquired around about the tenants in Number 32. As it turned out, they were Polish. And Poland was one of the very few words he and Alexis had in common during a futile conversation walking from the bus. Patient persistence the following week drew a veritable speech from Alexis. “Work on farm. Dairy farm.” “Mama?” Syl ventured one evening, pointing at the upstairs window. The vigorous nod and the smile said it all: “Mama!” Weeks later, Alexis had an announcement. “Home,” he said. “In five day.” “Ah!” Syl’s smile and nods helped the tiny word to convey a world of good wishes. “You stay home? Or you come back again?” But Syl’s enquiry drew a blank look. “Five day.” The repetition emphasised the incomprehension. That was late October. In the middle of November, Syl looked up at the window and saw a young couple repainting the room to the blare of a radio, too busy to look out. At home, a pair of eyes met Syl’s. “Time for our walk, boy.” The ecstatic yelp was all the answer he needed. Paddy Smith