An energetic and inventive new presence in the poetry world,
Ailbhe Darcy debuts with poems which itch and pluck at the pelt of what
we feel sure of. Her poems are often driven less by metaphor than by wild conceits or comparisons tamed by charm. Set in her home city of Dublin,
or further afield, these pieces are full of semantic leaps and juxtapositions, sometimes graceful, sometimes intriguingly choppy. Ailbhe Darcy lives in
South Bend, Indiana. She has published her poetry in Ireland, Britain and the
US, and co-edits Moloch, an online magazine of new art and writing.
Ailbhe Darcy’s work has a precision and purpose rare in one so young.
Her poems turn up without a word out of place and are not content to decorate the page with metaphors, but determined to communicate Darcy’s vision of things as they are. Never self-absorbed, she is a poet consumed by what the world around her is doing; it is this quality above
all others which numbers her among the most promising new Irish poets. Kevin Higgins
a fictional dress
number 17 in the pilot series
£4 inc p&p
ISBN 978 1 904551 75 1
from Couplings (a fictional dress)
He bought happiness and slid it on my finger
and then my hands were patterned with ink.
Anacoluthia. The stone comes with a certificate,
congratulations arrive with advice,
flying a horse comes natural as swimming,
as wearing a dress or carrying a child:
my fists frigid about her reins,
the warmth of her sweat on my thighs.
She knows where she’s headed – she’s done
this before – all it takes is a pull or a nudge,
her wings are the sails of two mating ships,
lows croony, sawning to a domicile.
Albertine is the name of the priest,
I have a jar for best man,
a fuschia and fox give me away,
preserve me in honey, we kiss.
It goes without a hitch.