13 · 2010



2 Poems


  by Anne Fitzgerald








Did you hear the latest, all the rage apparently,

this pyramid selling lark, grows like dandelions.


Aunt Hanna’s great granddaughter sent some twenty

dollar bills from Illinois no less, sporting a brick family


of pyramids, with visionary Masonic eyes, and an army

of George Washington’s, to keep us honest, her copper


plated words says: not for bets or booze, so here’s a soft

pack of them Lucky Strikes, wrapped in a Good Sheppard


novena, to be read thrice daily for seven whole sunsets

Lets indulgences sought hover as if them same-said low


slung clouds that looms, as bamboo shoots are stripped

clean by Pandas in Dublin’s a Zoological Gardens. Droves


head for d’Hudson; or dream of rivers roaming different lands,

say like the Nile flowing into Edfu, Kom Ombo and the Aswan,


paralleling the Red Sea, up above Luxor towards Hurghada

with Suez in sight. Where the Mediterranean flows into d’basins


of Bitter Lakes, opens sea route between Europe and Asia

Minor, Minor, echoes of history pages: Sultans ‘n sultanas,


golden turmeric ’n cayenne, rough silken Ottomans colour

the Sinai as if a caravan of rainbows arcing desert sands;


all mounds form little triangles; angling as aspiring pyramids

mirrors the divinity of ancient Egyptians and distant cousins. 








Mrs. Arty Magoo



For the love of money, terrible things

Prudence did do, to rid herself of Arty


Magoo.  You see she had such notions. 

Not Casey’s of avariciousness though


more, she deserved a place in the light. 

In light of the fact that she’d won seven


long jumps and two or three cross country

hurdles thingamajigs, or such like yokes


she has a verve for the edge of real things

imagined in unimaginable conditions,


favourable for sunny spells and scattered

showers as a low line depression fogs her


perspective of what passes before her eyes. 

Buys time for her to process limbs at odd


angles, shadows wrestle darkness as moon-

light plays tricks, as if sequences on Come


Dancing caught in the spin of a foxtrot sashay. 

Says she’d swim the channel faster than a canoe,


knows her own mind, is what’s mostly

said.  Lead she was, like an innocent abroad


who’d lost her way down Venetian alleys

whose puddles wobble spires when stepped upon.


On account of her state of fairly graphic play

on Tiddley winks, and winking at young Ludo Lill,


chess was to find no home nor three card trick,

as Prudence turns d’odd trick, ménage á trios usually


le fresco, she has a weak spot for the bark of oaks

says it’s the rough surface she’s after, not the fall


of dappled sunlight clothing her body in after glow,

as glow worms come up for air, as if stowaways.





Anne Fitzgerald’s collections are The Map of Everything (Dublin, Forty Foot Press, 2006), and Swimming Lessons (Wales, Stonebridge, 2001).  She is a recipient of The Ireland Fund of Monaco Writer-in-Residence at The Princess Grace Irish Library in Monaco.


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