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"On the Shoals" by James Matthew Wilson

I stood atop Slane Hill Where Patrick’s fire burned And chapel floors now fill With cold rain.  Each cracked grave About has risen with The dead.  And tourists, turned On knotted, brazen lists Of all the “weak or brave,” In any case, those lost Beneath the winning...

American Beauty Exhibition, National Gallery, Dublin I The wounded anger in your eyes, last night, Seemed for the first time and, perhaps, the last, To cut through every screen of charm, and sight In me the innards of a sordid past. “For too long...