Cork Non-Fiction Writers Collective

  by Martin Rea-- Writing is not a type of fish battered and fried and sold and enjoyed of a Friday evening. Writing is not what a jockey does with a horse, be it on the flat or over hurdles, slow or speeding. Writing is not uncontrolled, involuntary, spasmodic movements of the body, alone or a deux . Writing is not the correcting of wrongs or injustices and two writes do not a wrong make. Writing is not levelling a ship in stormy waters, returning it to an even keel. No; writing is none of these things. Writing is the sculpting of spirit in ink on a page forever and ever. Quite a serious business, not to be trifled with. For without it nobody could read this thing I have thought, This thing I have set out in writing!

by Martin Rea-- Exercising regularly, we are told, is good for the body and mind, and though by nature I incline towards the phlegmatic, I am still enough of a pragmatist to appreciate that anything that might assuage the myriad discomforts a body and a mind may have to endure is certainly worth pursuing. And I am not alone in thinking this. Look to any footpath in the city or environs and you’re sure to see someone jogging, expending energy on an arduous, sweaty, needless journey. I can’t help but admire joggers, their grim determination and pulsating calf muscles: theirs is the most naked and reduced expression of the will to exercise, consisting as it does of only body and mind in space and time. Yes, I admire them to the point of envy but I know I am no jogger myself. I have tried it and found my body to be too heavy for my legs. I could never generate enough power to move as smoothly as I wanted to, and, to be honest, I found it all a little hard on my joints, ...

  by Sara O’Mahony-- Vaccination and a year in to a lifting of restrictions Sitting here in quay side, having a cup of tea. Hustle and bustle, city wheels turn all around on lanes and streets. I glance back at the city hall, in all its greatness and splendour today, climbing midday sun shines on me from south east and lots of voices surround me in the little cafe on the riverside. I feel nauseous in my stomach after having the second vaccination less than an hour ago. Yet soothing fresh sea air alleviates any anxiety for social distancing. I notice a really long slender skull racing rowing boat moored between my view and City Hall, the words "Tara Warrior Princess" on the front right hull of the boat. I pause and gasp at the positioning; "yes", I consider with butterflies in my stomach, as a nation we have pulled through huge waves, currents and drags as a seafaring island off Europe, over the last 18 months of a Covid battle. Maybe, its the fem...

by Maureen Cullinane-- We knew we were unstoppable To the bewilderment of all For older parents – more acceptable Because they had seen the war To see, not see the underarms Where motion makes an ivory arc Rhythm alone does overwhelm step, step back, turn, step back The music leads us to gaze With awe and love on Mac and drum All else is just a distant haze We hum, tum-ti-tum-ti-tum-tum-tum Utterly Mind-blowing primal sound Insistent beat to out our stillness We are floating above the ground A human mass of pulsating fitness 'Come closer' a clinger slow dance In the dark 'tis 'stranger on the shore' 'How're you getting' home I chance Will you take a crosser A stór  

by Maureen Cullinane-- I take Con to the Lough after soccer Tearing ahead he shouts Daithi Lacha A liquid curve they trace A gentle dream on his face Then looking down he shouts C úramac Ahhh !..  

HIDDEN STORIES-- These two poems, written by one of our NF members, were broadcasted on live radio in the summer of 2020 as part of the Hidden Stories writing contest . The contest, hosted by LifeFM, was open in March 2020 to all migrants living in Ireland at that time. LONELY                       by Christina Donaldson She stared out the window. Bustling streets, busy feet, voices lost in the wind. Busy feet of busy people. Moving cars, honking. She, alone. Her heart pounding, mind taking flight. It was as if this had all been created just for her. How could she be lonely? This window of light had granted her the world. WORDS                             by Christina Donaldson Words flowed from her mouth like ribbons. They had been wound in a ball of confus...

  by Cecily Lynch-- An ironic personal account ‘Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade’ from ‘The Garden’, by Andrew Marvel, a famous English 17 th century poet Before Covid struck I considered gardening to be the last resort of the elderly and infirm. Apres Covid, I am enchanted by the pleasures both mental and physical provided by the care of my garden. This conversion came about by the awareness that the garden needed me. Weeds were becoming waist-high and were smothering the roses. Tired, and out-of sorts after the tedium of cocooning, I set to with a will. I hacked and raked, bending and stretching, digging and planting. I felt just wonderful after all the exercise in the fresh air and enjoyed my dinner afterwards, my usual modest meal of salads tasting like a feast for a king. The very next day I noticed that my mind was calming as I chopped bushes, pruned roses and rolled the lawnmower. I had become reflective and thought...

by Dara McCarthy-- Intense foliage enfolds this mountain adding to it. It sure gets crowded when it snows. And blizzards are parties too crowded altogether. Sloes and pansies side by side push in, push over, move. The nettles seem to have invited their cousins, tight knit family. Even the sky is full. Of blue, and clouds overhead. Mingling. I guess they heard there is plenty of space where the mountain meets the sky. I shoulder in. One more.  

  by Dara McCarthy--   I appreciate the heavy duty coffee machine for what it achieves and for the skill involved. Countless delicious coffees are savoured daily because of the gentle synergy of barista and machine. However, I don’t take to home coffee machines, a lot of fuss for little gain. A barista’s machine is a powerful instrument. The barista is a glass blower blowing glass. She is a pilot maneuvering a biplane in the sky, elegantly circling. Its heavy complexity delivers results. The same does not hold true for home coffee machines: wires, a motor, excessive bulk. There are simpler and truer tools, reliable and home friendly. I had been wanting a moka pot; distinctively Italian. Somehow, I felt intimidated by it - that I wouldn’t know how to work it. But I knew that it has a reputation for simplicity. When I finally allowed myself get one, it proved to be easy and Zen. Simply add water to the base, then add coffee grinds. Rest it over a gas flame and wait ...

  by Cecily Lynch--   Ravings from a Restricted life - A personal report on unfolding worlds A new world has been opened to me during the social seclusion in the Time of Covid. Let me explain. There are high forbidding walls surrounding the old C olonial British H ouses in my district. Although I have lived here all my life, I have never entered these secluded mansions. Lodge gates have always been locked and formidable mastiffs guarded the orchards. But during the lockdown the big estates lay open. I ventured inside the elaborate iron gates, embossed with names such as Trafalgar Square, Windsor House, Adelaide Park. Wide avenues lined with trees opened before me. Fountains, and Grecian statues dotted the gardens. Marble steps led up to beautiful 18 th century Fanlight front doors. Who would have thought that behind the main road, bordered with unprepossessing mews houses, lock up garages, boarded up and rusty locked iron grills, there lay such beauty;...