Ciarán O’Rourke, a poet hailing from Dublin, is widely recognised for his thoughtful and lyrical work. His second poetry collection, Phantom Gang, demonstrated his distinctive voice and thematic depth, earning a place on the longlist for the Dylan Thomas Prize in 2023, a notable achievement highlighting his growing presence in contemporary literature. Engaging with themes both intimate and expansive, O’Rourke’s writing weaves personal experience with broader social and historical concerns. His craft reflects a keen attention to rhythm, imagery, and the emotional resonance of language. Continuing his creative journey, his third collection, Prophetstown, will be published by The Irish Pages Press, promising further exploration of his poetic vision and cementing his reputation as one of the noteworthy voices in modern Irish poetry.

Heart that Fed

For Mary O’Malley

Condemned to nothingness,
our misbegotten, ancient saints,

no longer loved or prayed to
down below, forget the star-

born earth, and all who suffer it.
The stars themselves are satellites,

surveilling the abyss – a machinating
darkness, near to home. So cleft,

afloat, our no-go souls and bodies
growing colder, we masses

lurk alone, at last, with our devices:
obsolescent miracles, tickering

our lives. The signs are unpropitious.
The wilting swallow begs for breath,

the fishing-nets are frayed.
The legend lost, a daughter

disappears forever, never to be saved.
An algorithm, blazing white,

necrotic Ozymandias
is plotting resurrection –

the minotaur rampaging
in the maze.

Can poetry repair the wreck,
music light the gap?

I read your writing like a map,
a vision broken free –

each pacified Sahara
a human prophecy.

Semper Fidelis

For J. J. O’Connor, d. 22 Sept 2023

A big-limbed herd of perspiration,
twice a week we filed below the beam –

for pastoral instruction! Strategically
adept, you eyed our Spartan arrogance,

belligerent self-reverence
our sempiternal creed, and tore

the Pope’s encyclical
benignly to a shred. The church,

you sang, is spiteful, the deity demised.
The steamy-eared Messiah

spat the merchants from the square;
your fingers rapped the wooden board

in resolute assent. You draped
a Walmart banner

from a disembodied hook. Behold
your God! Stolidly, we offered

our bewilderment and faith. Learn
to think, you said – and think again.

Alert too late, I missed your final date
with death, resolving the conundrum.

Sanctified, unsaintly, John,
the egotistical is half at least

of epiphanic grace: I thought myself
the son you never wanted.

Afloat in light no longer yours,
a slow-mo, falling man,

today I think of you alone –
your eyes, I see, were sadder

than I ever knew to notice.

Old Walls

Jack B. Yeats, 1945

Rather than re-live
the endless, smothered minutes
of your dying, your fevered body

bristling and thin
beneath the sheets, your hand
too weak to hold, a twitching,

weathered listlessness,
immune to touch, unhearing,
I would find you here, yourself again,

alert, up-standing, fresh,
an overcoat you used to wear
returned like easy armour

to shield you from the chill,
in the room where love
is possible, and sure, its light

begun to waken,
the shadowings to flow,
as you meet your own

in darkness like a sun –
all the spectra falling
as I whisper you safe passage

and the breath departs your frame.