2025 Competition- Winners
Jer Lynch Poetry Prize sponsored by Con Lynch CFE
• First - After Banna by Margaret Rochford
• Second- My First Job by Brendan O Shea
• Third- Calella to Llafranc 2024 by Anna Horgan
After Banna by Margaret Rochford
I walk home alone,
from Timmy Connor’s bus stop,
the sky, exhausted, hangs heavy,
an ambassador to the dark side
land of fairies —
plagues and bewitchery.
Each syllable from a banshee’s throat,
each scurry, screech, or bark
makes me run — I run faster,
fast as my pink kitten heels carry me,
the bus glow dies at the first bend.
I smell greenness,
steam shudders from a dead calf,
dumped by the Donovans, smoke from quenched fires,
stagnant ditch water.
Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’—
my amulet against thoughts of murder, rats, and rape.
I pass Billy Laide’s hay shed,
the same road every Saturday night.
Nocturnal geography on a country road.
No moonlight rolls on the high acre,
only Ballybunion’s lights across The Cashen,
a welcome bracelet of mismatched jewels,
my compass for the final stretch
guiding me home on a country road at night.
Dúais Phádraig Liath Ó Conchubhair Urraithe ag Ciste Turasóireachta na Gaeilge, CCC. • First- Dioltas Gerard Neville • Second- Steip san Aer Gormfhlaith Ni Shiochain Ni Bheolain • Third- Isle Bri David Butler Díoltas by Gerard Neville Lá breá, brothallach i ndeireadh an earraigh abea é, ró-the bfhéidir don am sin bliana. Bhí a aghaidh tugtha ag Johnny ar an bportach, áit a mbeadh sé ag baint an bharrfhóid de bhruach na móna. Ba nós leis – agus le muintir an dúthaigh sin i gcoitinne – formhór dá gcuid móna a fhágáil i gcoirceoga móra sa phortach thar gheimhreadh agus gan é thabhairt abhaile ach nuair ba ghá. Bhí sluasaid agus buicéad aige. Bheadh an áit báite le huisce. A leithéid d’áit! Ach b’fhiú é. Ní raibh fód móna in aon áit eile a bheadh in aon ghaor a bheith leath chomh maith leis maidir le teas. Dá mbeadh stráca amháin de bainte aige d’fhéadfaí an t-uisce a ligint siar isteach sa pholl nua mar a dhéanfaidís fadó leis na bualghlasanna ar na canálacha. Neartaigh leoithne boga na heachréidhe ar a theacht dó ar an bportach. B’shin mar a bhíodh sé i gcónaí. Fiú is nach mbeadh smid ghaoithe timpeall an tí bheadh feothán úr sa phortach. Ar a theacht níos gaire dó chonacthas dó go raibh néalta bána deataigh ag cuachadh in airde ar fud na spéire thiar. Ar m’anam ach go raibh an portach trí thine! An liúdramán sin thall, Seán Ó Coisdealbha, faoi ndear é gan dabht. Eisean agus a chuid bó! Fear nach raibh ach cúpla acra aige agus leathscór bó aige! Ach dheineadh sé a chuid féin den phortach. Nach raibh ar Johnny féin sreangán a chur timpeall a chuid móna féin anuraidh lena stoc úd a choimeád uaithi. Faoin am san féin bhí leath de satailte cheana féin acu. Ach a’ b’hfuair sé aon sásamh ón gCoisdealbhach? “N’fheadar cad a dhéanfaidh mé leo,” ar seisean. “B’fhéidir dá gcuirfeá sreangán timpeall air.....” Mo ********* gan mhaith! Tine agus loisceadh fraoigh an t-aon aoileach a bhí ag an gCoisdealbhach. Dhá bhliain roimhe sin bhí ar Johnny claíocha an ghoirt nua a ath-thógáil nuair a chuaigh na lasracha go smior iontu. É sin agus iad a mhúchadh ar dtúis. Seachtain a chaith sé mar sclábhaí ag teacht agus ag imeacht le bairillí agus buicéid uisce. Samhradh riabhach abea an samhradh ach bhí bun ar an aimsir le coicís anuas. Bhí na claíocha chomh tirim ..... agus an mhóin le sábhailt fós. Tháinig briseadh agus chuaigh sé dian air ábhar tine a sholáthar an geimhreadh úd. Oiread agus “Tá brón orm,” níor tháinig ón gCoisdealbhach ó shin i leith. Murach an deatach ní shílfeá go raibh aon rud as an ngnáth ag tarlú. Bhí na fuiseoga ag déanamh ciorcail síoraí, amhail daoine a bheadh ag dreapadh staighre neimhe, ag scaipeadh soiscéil iontaigh nár thuig éinne fós. Fiú amháin a ndeartháireacha níos faide siar, in áit an léirscriosta, bhíodar fós ag canadh. Ach ní raibh am ag Johnny aon rud mar seo a thabhairt faoi deara. Bhí a aire á díriú aige ar an tine. Chuaigh sé ina luí air láithreach nach raibh sí i bhfad óna chuid móna féin. Mo mhallacht ort mar dheatach. Ní fhéadfaí a bheith cinnte cá raibh na lasracha. Ar a theacht níos gaire dó chonaic se stráca dubh scriosta ar dheis na tine. Nárbh ait mar a dheachaigh an tine in aghaidh na gaoithe in ionad léi. B’aisteach an ní í, tine. Dhófadh sí rud anseo agus d’éalódh rud ansiúd. N’fheadar. Níor réitigh sé é riamh..... Deargadh tiaraí ortsa thall, a bhastairt...... Íosa Chríost .... tá sí dóite! Rith sé i dtreo a chuid móna. Sciorr sé ar thortóg agus nuair d’éirigh arís bhí smúit dubh an dóiteáin go trom air. Ach ba chuma leis. Bhí cruach amháin slán as leathscór! Ní raibh fágtha des na cinn eile ach dornáin luaithrí a bhí ag bogadh leis an ngaoth. Shuigh sé i gcoinne na cruaiche aonaire. Thainig dreach iontais air. Bhí a intinn folamh. Níor mhian leis an eachtra a thuiscint. Ní raibh cothrom na féinne á fháil aige. Sracfhéachaint neamhshuimiúil dár thug sé uaidh chonaic sé lasracha ar tí dul i dteangabháil le móin cúpla céad slat uaidh. Ba leis an gCoisdealbhach féin an mhóin sin! Lean na lasracha ar aghaidh tríd an bfhraoch tirim ag teacht níos congaraí agus níos cóngaraí don chéad chruach. Thosaigh siad á líorac. D’athraigh dath an deataigh beagán, níos éadroime anois. Bhí an feall ag filleadh ar an bfheallaire! Agus é ag triall ar a chuid bó féin um thráthnóna casadh comharsa ar Johnny. “Chuala,” ar seisean, “gur loisceadh do chuid móna ag an tine.” “Loisceadh.” “An Coisdealbhach faoi ndear é gan dabht,” arsa an chomharsa. Níor tháinig aon fhreagra. “Agus sábháladh a chuid móna féin agus an tine díreach ag dul i ngleic leis an gcéad chruach?” “Sábháladh,” arsa Johnny. “Nach ait an mac an saol é, Johnny.” “Is ait go deimhin.”
The James Award Sponsored by James McGrath, Santa Fe, New Mexico
First place only
Neil Bedford – In Your Own Time
In your own time
will you visit when I am dying
I doubt there will be a queue
or need for an appointment
hold my hand quietly
know that I know you are there
I will be thinking of Raymond Carver
Late Fragment
I do not know what you will think
wasn’t that always a problem
not knowing what was in your head
hold my hand gently
I love the feel of skin on skin
might be able to squeeze back
perhaps not - let your warmth
pass to me for a minute or two
then let me go and know
I love you and am sorry
for the things done clumsy
or not done at all
for the words spoken in haste
or not said at all
and grateful for the sharing
adventures projects
the time together
places visited
love
Maurice Walsh Short Story Award Sponsored by Lee Strand
• First Place- Exquisite Corpse by David Butler
• Second Place- The Maid's Counsel by Susan Browne
• Third Place- Free to a good home by Terry Kerins
Exquisite Corpse
They’d had to get a taxi because the DART wasn’t running. There’d been an incident at Sydney Parade. Then they had to abandon even that contingency in city gridlock, make their way on foot through neon drizzle. She left him behind to take care of the thirty euros. Duggan hurried a dozen strides back from the bobbing golf umbrella, wondering how exactly he was to blame.
By the time they reached the gallery his shirt was clammy, his hair plastered flat. The interior was abuzz with prattle, the windows fogged. The launch itself had evidently taken place, wine-glasses dispersed, canapé trays ransacked. He salvaged the final two cocktail sticks impaling olives onto cubes of potato-coloured cheese. Sorcha had gravitated at once to the planetary system orbiting the man of the moment; black polo-neck beneath a white flannel suit. Oleksandr Yarmolenko, Artist, the schedule of prices specified, though to Duggan’s way of thinking, photography counted for little more than a hobby.
He tongued his fingers, dabbed the orange debris in the bottom of a tortilla bowl. He sneaked a glance at his watch. Crazy, they’d have to wait for the benefit dinner before eating. He was famished, and hunger always made him jittery. He stifled a yawn. What had led him to come? Certainly, it hadn’t been to please Sorcha, who’d stared bemusedly when he’d suggested, then insisted, he too wished to show his support.
It had taken five minutes max to do the rounds of the monochrome prints. He looked about the animated cliques, the hair-dos, the babbling mouths. Just beyond the stairs, elegant as a high-end mannequin, a solitary figure in saffron sarong stood half a head above the crowd. Hair a tight box-braid. Feathered earrings from which dangled copper fish-lures. Out of context, it took him a moment to place the woman, who wouldn’t, he now considered, have looked out of place in the Rift Valley.
Should he approach, try to appear less conspicuously out of place? He dredged his memory, failed to come up with her first name - he felt sure there was something faintly exotic about it. Clumsily casual, he manoeuvred through the chattering forest of elbows and wine-glasses until he hovered at the adjacent monochrome print – both featured abandoned farm machinery in a field overrun with gorse. ‘Before you ask,’ she said without turning, ‘Coleraine.’
‘Ask what?’
‘Where I’m from, originally.’
A low voice, smoky. Unexpectedly, he felt the static of attraction. ‘I wasn’t about to ask that.’
‘No?’ Prominent, confident teeth. Pushy? ‘Just so we get it out of the way,’ her low voice continued – she still hadn’t looked at him, ‘my ma’s a doctor away up there in the Causeway. That’s a hospital so it is.’
‘Right.’
‘My da was this fling she had in Lagos during a VSO stint the same year she graduated. Whenever she came home, she was seven months carrying.’
Whenever. Ulster usage. ‘Your Lagos father,’ he nodded. ‘Igbo or Yoruba?’
At this she turned. Hooded, globular eyes. The iridescent eyeshadow put Duggan in mind of hummingbirds. ‘I’m impressed,’ she said.
‘I took a module in postcolonial literature as part of my arts degree. The King’s Horseman is Yoruba, if memory serves. Whereas Things Fall Apart is Igbo.’
‘So that’s your party piece, is it?’ Her eyeballs were languid.
‘Try this one. You see them fellas?’ He stubbed at the photograph with two fingers he now saw were dusted orange. ‘In this corner of the globe they’re known as gorse, though some prefer furze.’ He paused. ‘You people call it “whin”, I believe.’
Not unpleasantly, the edges of her lips twitched. ‘Who exactly are my people?’
‘Nordies.’
Her head shook lazily, the fish-lures oscillating either side of her elegant neck.
‘Though my strong hunch is, you’re now living in Dun Laoghaire and environs.’
She squinted, suspicious. ‘Why Dun Laoghaire?’
‘Because many a damp evening, I’ve sat in my Honda Civic directly across from your drive.’
Instantly her pupils glazed over. ‘Not funny,’ she declared.
Clumsy. Clumsy. ‘You really don’t know who I am, do you?’
Something like a shiver went through her. She addressed the photo, ‘Why would I want to?’
‘You have me all wrong, I’m only parked there to collect my daughter. Any wet night she’s over babysitting your twins.’
She evaluated this. ‘You’re Siobhán Duggan’s father?’ The glaze didn’t entirely lift.
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘So… is Sorcha here?’
Duggan indicated with a toss of his forehead. ‘Over yonder, hobnobbing with head-the-ball.’
‘Tell me, Siobhán’s father. Do you get off on trying to creep people out?’
‘Yeah, sorry about that. It was stoo-pid.’ It had been. ‘Start over?’
She nodded at the photo. ‘I take it you’re not a fan of Alek’s work.’
‘Oh God, don’t let him hear you call him that! It’s Lek. Or it’s Olek with a capital O. I once made the mistake of calling Kyiv “Kiev” in His Majesty’s presence. They’re pretty damn touchy about things like that right now.’
‘Same, where my people are concerned.’ Her pencilled eyebrows hoisted, the twitch flickered briefly at either side of her mouth. ‘Darry London-Darry,’ she sang, flattening the vowel.
‘I guess. But to answer your question, I don’t get photography. Not as fine art.’
‘Just point and click, yeah?’
‘Something like that. What gets me, though. See those.’ His two fingers hovered over a cluster of red dots on the wall beside the catalogue number. He flicked up the photocopied price list. ‘That’s five copies sold. Copies, mind. Five times three hundred a pop.’
‘It’s for a good cause.’
‘Ah! There you have it. Crowdfunding an ambulance to Odessa. Now who could possibly argue with that? I daresay one of those dots is my lady wife’s. Since her old man died she’s become quite the career philanthropist. Old Lek is just the latest protégé she’s taken under her wing. Tell me. You think he’s good looking?’
She peered over to the black polo-neck and white jacket. A quip or anecdote had just been rewarded by Sorcha’s public laugh.
’I suppose he is, aye.’
‘Can’t see it, personally. You do know he’s gay?’ She didn’t. ‘Oh yes. Sorcha let that one slip.’ Her hooded gaze seemed to mock: Sorcha told you he’s gay. But perhaps it was his imagination. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, jauntily, ‘that shape the dots make? Like on a dice? The technical term for that is a “quincunx”.’
‘Must come in handy.’
‘But don’t you just love the precision of it? We use words so lazily.’
‘You missed your vocation.’
‘Yeah?
‘You’re cut out to be a school-teacher.’
‘Bullseye! Leaving cert English, for my sins. I know, I know. Those who can… Yes?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You teach by day. But by night you’re secretly writing a novel.’
‘What marksmanship!’ He raised a correcting finger. ‘Wrote a novel.’
‘Uh-huh. How did that go for you?’
He shook his head, fought to keep at bay the surge of defensive irony. ‘Therein lies a tale. Though hardly more original than the waiter eternally waiting on the audition.’
‘Your book. It’s about an English teacher by day who’s writing a secret novel by night.’
‘You’re good! But in a word, no. Sorry to disappoint. The protagonist is a would-be musician. He happens to keep a diary, too. To keep the wolf from the door, he teaches piano lessons to the ungrateful brats of the well-to-do.’
She prepared to be impressed. ‘You play piano?’
‘No.’ He added, lamely, ‘as a teenager, I messed around on the guitar.’
‘O-kay.’
‘Are you interested in any of this, or…?’
Why not, her shoulders shrugged. A loud round of guffaws erupted from the circle where Oleksandr was holding court. The first people had begun to leave. Duggan took a breath. ‘So there’s a sort of game artists used to play. The surrealists, yeah? In French they called it “exquisite corpse”. You’ve heard of it?’ She shook her head, the irony never leaving her eyes. He was regretting he’d embarked on this. ‘So you get a sheet of paper and fold it up like an accordion. Or a ladies’ fan. The first artist starts off by drawing a part of something – a body, we’ll say – in the first segment. Then he folds it over and passes it on, for the next guy to continue. He can only see the two end points, not the actual sketch. When he’s added his bit, he passes it on to the next guy-’
‘They’re all guys, these artists?’
‘I guess they pretty much were. Historically. Anyway, that’s beside the point. The novel isn’t about them. It’s called “Exquisite Corpse”, is all. See, in his diary the guy – the musician – comes to the conclusion that that’s what his life amounts to. Every morning, a blank. He picks up the barest trace of what went down the day before, tries to continue where he left off, but never gets to see the bigger pattern. Next morning, same thing. No big picture. That’s as true of his day-to-day existence as it is of the sequence of piano pieces he’s been trying to write for years.’ He was furious with himself, filled with self-derision. He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Anyway, that’s the idea.’
‘O-kay. And, ahm…can I ask?’
‘Whether the sequence he’s writing is itself called “Exquisite Corpse”?’
‘No.’ The lip twitch. ‘Is it? ’
‘Actually, it’s not. In that case… was it published? Look, I’m boring you here.’
‘Not at all.’
A deep breath, then it came in a rush. ‘In point of fact, it was all set to be published. We even had a date pencilled in, subject to the usual line edits. I kid you not.’ He felt the hammer-pulse in his throat, the stir of old resentment. ‘Yeah,’ he snorted.
‘Then they… changed their mind?’
‘Then they changed their commissioning editor. Problem was I’d nothing in writing. Nothing definitive. I had a string of emails. Which I showed them. But no actual contract. So once they brought in this hot-shot editor who was all about diversity…hasta la vista, baby!’ One side of his nether lip was clamped between his teeth. ‘That was seven years ago.’
‘You haven’t tried elsewhere?’
‘Of course! Hey, you try being a middle-aged white guy who just happens to be straight.’
Twitch of a smirk. ‘Think I’ll pass. Sorry.’ He felt, before he heard, his wife’s approach, the waft of her perfume. ’Fia! You, here?’ She leaned across him, exchanged air-kisses. ’I didn’t know you knew Lek.’ Fia. The name suited her. In Irish wasn’t it some wild animal? He began to say it, but ‘Isn’t the exhibition something?’ Sorcha gushed, in full flow. ‘Such restraint. Such a sense of….abandon, wouldn’t you say? Though Olek always manages to imbue the commonplace with such a sense of menace, don’t you think? You’re coming to the meal.’ A statement.
‘I can’t. The twins?’
‘Of course. Of course.’ He watched Sorcha’s brow corrugate in empathy. A hand clamped his elbow. ‘Ready, Tim? We’ll be the last ones there.’ Then, as he hesitated, Sorcha actually came out with, ‘you can tell Fia all about your book another time.’
‘Fia,’ he tried, proffering a hand. ‘Is that Igbo or Yoruba?’
*
He once again glanced at his watch. 22:08. And still the starters didn’t arrive.
The jitters had by this juncture morphed into full-blown angst. It wasn’t helped by his neighbour’s interminable blather about her time on a yurt, when she’d had some epiphany about where the West had gone askew. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Sorcha had insinuated herself to the head of the table, leaving him down here among the also rans.
When he looked back on what happened next, Duggan could not say what impulse had driven him. He’d been humiliated, that much was undeniable. Sorcha had the unerring knack of making him feel small. This Fia had asked about the book, he hadn’t brought it up. Then, as they left, as though he were a child, and still within earshot, Sorcha had snorted, ‘Fia, my dear, is the short for Sofia.’
He looked to the head of the table. Hand on heart, could Oleksandr be considered good looking? Coarse lips. Eyes set far apart. He hadn’t been lying when he said he couldn’t see it. And yet… ‘Alex!’ he called, interrupting them. The chatter died, all about the table. The photographer peered down at him, interrogative. ‘Can I ask you something?’ His wife was staring mascara-eyed; Oleksandr, as though he were a specimen of interest. ‘This ambulance. For Odessa, yes?’
’Odessa,’ Olek affirmed, including half the table in the nod.
‘I expect that’s where you’re from?’
‘I’m from Mykolaiv.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s maybe a hundred-fifty kilometres nearer the front line?’ That American twang. Unaccountably, it grated.
‘Ok. So, when the war is over. You plan to go back there?’
An open gesture with his palms. ‘Of course.’
Sorcha’s stare had increased its wattage, not trusting where this might be going. He himself couldn’t have said, still less how he might stop himself. ‘See, that’s what I don’t get. All these wounded soldiers you’re so keen to help. All these guys in the trenches under relentless artillery fire. Drones. Minefields. What was your estimate. again? Maybe fifty thousand, what the French term mutilés de guerre…? Amputees, a lot of them multiple. That’s a whole lot of prosthetics right there.’
The same open gesture, though the stony, unblinking eyes appeared to ask ‘what’s your point?’ His heart was hammering, his hands fidgety, but his voice remained preternaturally calm. ‘See, what I don’t get… All those guys, stuck up like scarecrows on prosthetic limbs. How are they going to feel about that?’
‘Leave it go, Timothy,’ Sorcha threatened, her mouth ugly. ‘You’re way out of line mister.’
‘Really. I’m curious. Women and children, coming here. Ok. That I get. That was part of the larger strategy. But the rest of you?’
‘Don’t pay any attention. He’s drunk.’ Which was ironic. He hadn’t had a drink all evening. ‘Come on, Alex! Are all these mutilated young lives really going to be cool about you guys who skipped the country waltzing back home once the fighting is over?’ He looked down at his fingers, which were trembling. ‘Or what’s the plan?’
The table was frozen in silence. Sorcha’s words were precise. ‘You’d better go.’
‘When I’ve eaten,’ he muttered, not unreasonably. The benefit dinner had cost two-hundred a place.
‘Just …go.’
But of course he hadn’t gone. In fits and starts, more muted, the conversations resumed. Only Duggan remained excluded, sealed as if inside a bell-jar. All eyes avoided his. His requests for salt or bread were met promptly, but in silence. His smile was rigid as a grimace.
After the meal was finished, after the crowd had moved on to a boutique bar on Leeson St and the waitresses began clearing plates and cutlery, Duggan sat on. For the life of him, he couldn’t have said where precisely that outburst had come from.
The Chrissie Nolan Award Sponsored by Nancy and Mary Nolan
Children’s Writing in Irish
• First - Bia Le- Saoirse Ni Chiardha Gaelscoil Lios Tuathail
• Second - An T-Earrach Le- Katie Brosnan Lyrecrompane CNS
• Third - Samhradh Samhradh Le- Ruby Ni Shiligh Gaelscoil LiosTuathail
Bia Le Saoirse Ní Chiardha
Is aoibhinn liom píotsa,
Ithim é gach lá.
Peperoni nó cáis,
Gach ceann go Breá.
An bia is fear liom,
Tá sé yum, yum!
Seachleáid nó milseáin,
Níl said maith do do shláin.
Ach uair nó dhó,
Beidh tú breá go deo.
Is breá liom milseáin,
Tá said ana deas,
Ach má ithim an t-iomláin
Beidh mé ana fat!
Cáca deas ar an bpláta,
Féachann sé go hálainn.
Mo bhreithlá nó Nollaig,
Aon am sa t-seachain.
Cáca, cáca, cáca,
Ithim é neamhsplácha.
Bia, bia, bia,
Ithim é gach lá.
Cáca, seachláid, milseáin.
Tá said ana deas.
Ach níl aon rud níos fear
Ná píotsa iomláin
The Chrissie Nolan Award Sponsored by Nancy and Mary Nolan
Children’s Writing in English
• First - My Darling Tumbling, Stumbling Hound By Balvenie Devine O Brien
Scoil Iosagain, Ballybunion
• Second - What Lies Beneath the Lake By Ayla Yaxley
Lyrecrompane CNS
• Third - The Abandoned Nightmare By Hazel Mulvihill
Lisselton N.S.
First - My Darling Tumbling, Stumbling Hound
By Balvenie Devine O Brien
He runs and runs and runs around.
I think of taking him to the pound.
He jumps up in the morning and never comes down.
He is my darling, tumbling, stumbling hound.
He eats and eats all through the days.
He gets aggressive when he plays.
He gets so hyper when I take him out.,
But I know he’ll calm down, no doubt.
He gets more energetic every year.
Mostly when we go on walks to the pier,
But I love him to bits because he is my hound.
My darling, tumbling, stumbling hound.
Children and dogs always fear him.
My own neighbour will never go near him.
He barks, he bites, he snarls, he growls.
If there were a dogfight club, he would get all the fouls.
My darling, tumbling, stumbling hound.
Ballydonoghue Bardic Festival 