Evie's poetry and short stories appear in literary journals, magazines and anthologies including Beatdom Literary Journal, Decanto Magazine, CUT UP! (Oneiros Books - Paraphilia Magazine), O Ecuador das Coisas, Network Ireland Magazine, Eat my Words (Gumbo Press), Scraps : A Collection of Flash Fictions (Gumbo Press) and Elsewhere Literary Journal. Her poem, 'The Elephant is Contagious' is now a short film.

Evie lives at works at Cullenagh Stables in County Waterford.


Thursday, 22 June 2017

to my childhood sweetheart

One of my earliest memories of you is when, as a nine year old girl, I was arranging a 'pop up' shop at the farm gate, carefully laying out the old dinkies, storybooks and toys just as your parents' car drove by.

I remember your blond head peering through the back window. You didn't giggle in the face of my sudden burning self consciousness. Instead, you made me feel proud, because your face was curious, and most importantly, kind.

I started to love you that day, and even more when I spotted your artwork at the country show, each child's masterpiece carefully taped to the galvanised barn door in preparation for the art competition.

Mine was of a girl standing under cotton wool clouds and amongst the glued on leaves and twigs. She was watering the flowers on her bookshelf-turned-flowerpot stand (an image inspired by my mother's garden art). Yours was of a farmyard surrounded by green fields, wooden fences, black and white cattle and a tractor. I remember your large signature in brown marker in the bottom right hand corner, and I knew in my ten year old heart that you had put love into that picture.

I wanted to talk to you and tell you that I understood, to say it through a smile or side glance, but I was too shy, as I was to talk to you on your Confirmation day, when you were dressed to the nines in your wine coloured suit and black tie (and of course, you had to pick the most unique third name - Carthage).

I was feeling courageous one Sunday evening when my father went to visit yours. I tagged along and followed my father into your kitchen. Your sister was sitting by the aga doing her homework (and sporting the most stylish bob), while your effortlessly elegant mother, her blond hair flowing down her back, was making tea. I heard you rummaging around in a neighbouring room, but you never came into the kitchen, and my heart sank just a bit.

I remember with such fondness talking to your father on the phone, carefully emulating his ever so refined accent while my Grandmother yelled across the yard for my father, who was most likely moving cattle or perhaps 'spreading dung'.

Now your father sits in the next world with Grandma and my precious son, whom you first got to meet when he was a toddler poddling about in the garden, most likely catching bugs or chasing butterflies. He shared that same love for art and nature and was able to see us start to build wooden fences and flower boxes together.

We have been through the wars, you and I. We've witnessed loss and heartbreak, but we're also cut from the same cloth. We know what love is and what it means to finally 'come home'. I love you and thank you for all you have given me and shown me, even before we ever shared a word.

© 2017 Cartophiles Log

Thursday, 8 June 2017

the ancient urge of scavenging

rubies, emeralds and saphires at Rhineshark Bay

~ That ancient urge of scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war ~

Loren Eiseley

© 2017 Cartophiles Log

Tuesday, 6 June 2017

make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came

The following is an excerpt from a poem by novelist, poet, environmental activist, cultural critic and farmer, Wendell Berry. It's titled, 'How To Be a Poet', but it could just as well be titled, "How To Be a Human Being'.

Ironically, I am sharing it through social media, so reading it depends on electric wire and screens - the very things Berry suggests we shun. The poem is so affecting, I think it escapes the irony.

  © 2017 Cartophiles Log 

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came