The Bass Player: Surviving The Miami Showband Massacre A blind man shows me how he changed the lives of thousands on the other side of the world through his own life-changing experience in an impoverished, working-class area of Derry. In 2008, following the success of the 2005 anniversary concert and the 2007 publication of the book, we agreed to do a series of Miami Showband concerts. Des McAlea (also known by his stage name of Des Lee) fronted the band on lead vocals and saxophone, and it was great to have our original drummer, Ray Miller, with us too. I was on bass guitar and, as the band leader, I…

Sacrament, 1968. I wake up to a rare, blue, Irish August day.          I am alone in the front bedroom. My pyjama jacket is open. My arms and chest have itchy bumps called hives. Mom covered them in calamine lotion last night. This morning the lotion is dry and cracked, like chalky make up. It looks like snow on the moon. P.J. has the hives worse than me. It’s the change of air, Dad says. I swing my legs out of the bed and my feet touch cold lino over concrete. The sun is high in the window frame, and I feel guilty. They will be sitting…

Elevenish Over the road,a dog barks rounding up the tipper truck – again. Over the roof, martins chasescolding each other. Beyond the hedge,a car door thumps,tyres grip on gravel. At the front of the house,letters – smackon the hallway floor. Along the road,a tractor splutters,leaving a tell-tale trail of turf. Two fields away,a lonesome rooster gets it wrong – again;still doesn’t know midday from dawn. Coffee is stirred,quiet rain arrives,the tipper driver takes his dog in;the martins swoop away to their nests;the old rooster – hurries off to his coop. Mick McGann-Jones is a former orchestral viola player with the BBC in UK, whose varied musical career took him through a diversity of…

Feast at The Empty Nest In the absence of care and children I’m making homemade chicken goujons  as distractedly as I make love  as diligently as I rotate bedsheets. I’ve saved stale bread in the freezer  and blitzed it. The egg that would rather  be poached and a knob of soft butter  will moisten the flesh. I’m adding  a pinch of salt, although I’m not sure why  and now crumbs are ready  to coat two plump & sticky breasts.  I cut them into equally imagined pieces,  drop them in the mix, and leave them there. Maeve McKenna lives in Sligo, Ireland. Her work has appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, Southward,…

Drift And what is joyif not a field of wildflowers in a meadow by the creek.An old man is fishing; he has made a fire pit ringed with river rocks and has a small fire burning. And what is peaceif not a meadow by a creek                                                                             and the pale drift of smoke                                                               from a fire ringed with river rocks.A coffee pot simmers on the heat.    And what is smoke if not the drift of time in the hours before twilight by a fireby the creekwhere an old man is fishingfrom the sandy bank. And what is time if not the drift of hours before twilightbeside a fire by the creekwhere a coffee pot simmers and pale smoke disperses above a field of wildflowers,their heads…

Mac Tíre Deireanach na hÉireann Aimsíonn na cúnna é gar d’fhuil na gcaorach ag péinteáil an fhéir. Tá sé ag siúl go mall i gcruth ocht agus taispeánann sé a chuid fiacla agus ní chaitheann sé ach drisíní agus níl aon chiontacht aige. Siúlann sé roimh a scáth.Taobh le haolchloch agus driseacha a línealann na cuibhrinn.Aithníonn trí bholadha chríoch. Tá sé ag breathnú i súil raidhfilin am geansaithe agus uain,ar thalamh atá chomh lom go bhfeiceann sé anois an fharraige níos faide uaidh.Siúlann sé ar luaithreach casarnachagus diúltaíonn sé, cosúil le ceo, an fál seo. The Last Wolf of Ireland The hounds find him by the sheep’s blood painting the grass. He paces in figure eights and bares…

Answering The Call (In 1987 the Irish High Court ruled pregnancy counselling services which included any information about abortion were illegal and they were closed.  The formation of the  Women’s Information Network helpline was one response) We shouted out the slogan of our illegal helpline – Oh – one – six – seven – nine – four-  seven – double-oh – Women have the Right to Know!  We proclaimed it on banners and stickers on toilet doors. On tv or radio we would say it slowly… twice if we could so women could remember or jot it down. Swapping the megaphone for a stationary landline in a windowless room on…

1985 The worst Irish winter I remember  And it’s not even my memory.  So often has my mother recounted the tale,  I can see the blinding white, hear the crunch of snow under welly boot.  The pair of them climbing into the tractor  to take my elder brother to the doctor in town.  The silent porcelain countryside, the engine turning over,  the gush of black smoke, the rattle of the tractor. Stephen Carragher grew up in Monaghan. His work has appeared in Ragaire, Drawn to the Light and the Berkeley Poetry Review among others. He lives in Austria.