Tag Archives: center

Jun 2 2020

Cover Art, by Craig Douglas

Craig runs a small organisation, Close To The Bone Publishing (http://www.close2thebone.co.uk), which is dedicated to helping authors into print and onto a viable sales platform’ sidestepping publishing agents and other such complexities.  You can contact him on close2thebone@hotmail.com with any queries regarding publishing and cover art.  He’s a former soldier and is now dedicated to promoting safety and health in the workplace as an occupation.  Craig currently live in Warwickshire, England with his wife and two children.  He has a personal blog at http://www.craigrobertdouglas.co.uk.

An Eye For An Eye, Date of Releas : 2017,  Author: Paul Heatley.
“1 of 3 books in a trilogy.  The most difficult part was trying to get an eye on all 3 spines to match up correctly.”

The Blood Red Experiment, Date of Release: 2018, Author: Anthology.

The Runner, Date of Release: 2018,  Author: Paul Heatley. 

A Time For Violence, Date of Release: 2019, Author: Anthology.

Violent By Design, Date of Release: 2018, Author: Paul Heatley.

Small Time Crimes, Date of Release:  2018, Author : Paul D. Brazill.

Ten Pints Of Blood, Date of Release: 2020, Author : Tom Leins.

 

The Mark, Date of Release: 2020, Author : Simon Maltman.

May 30 2020

Dear You

I remember the first time I saw you. The light haloed you. What do they call it? An aura? Yeah, you had something about you. Something that drew me in. I knew I wanted to …. not to question but know, know you. Not like an address book, no I wanted to understand what makes you tick, at a molecular level, (chuckles). I wanted to be close to you. Yes you were beautiful, different, easy to look at, fit, elegant, nothing overstated, something drew me. Maybe your taste, I’m sorry, is this too much? Curiosity killed the cat. Or maybe the Cat had nine lives?

So I surveyed you. I’m not one to leap in. I like to know my locale. I’d find a comfortable position in the middle of the class. Part of your inner circle. I start to know you, through them. The neat way you take in the world, your habitat, the community? You are a warm, reliable, person. Not one who needs to see themselves liked by social media; a people person, touchy feely, a hugger; people feel they can rely on you, and you smell good. Not cheaply floral, no, broad, sweetly herbal, maybe spice and a healthy scent of exercise. I wanted to be immediate to you. The thought of being confined with you tickled me; in a warm closet or airing cupboard, dry and warm, intimate, shared breath, I can still feel your heat, smell your hair, taste your constrained breath. Your body frames mine. Clasping together. Your brother searches having reached ten. I was still small, too small to be taken seriously. But I meant it. Even then I was feeling it and it would only get stronger. But I had to bottle it. I, in the …. past, well, I suppose I’ve been too obvious, wooden, gauche. To win you, it had to seem like your victory. Otherwise you might think I was a stalker.

I love you. I don’t mean in a half hearted flirtatiously attached sort of way. Not dalliance, not a teasing exchange. You make me complete. I no longer imagine going places without you. You’re long term. Not just a travelling companion. In you I’ve seen myself. I can see our potential. You embody it. I commit to you fully.

But what do I get in response? Fear, I can taste it. The way you distance yourself. Not just slyly relocating the table tent at the meeting so as to avoid being my neighbour. No, excusing yourself from events, soirees, involving our mutual friends, always a reason, not a school day, migraine, need to catch that train and look, they can all see it. They know we fit together. Complimentary flavours, primary colours in our social palette. But you don’t buy it. Anyone would think I was toxic, I just need to be close. I’m not asking for conscious commitment. Choice is irrelevant. Our willing compliance is unnecessary. Our connection is fundamental. It seems trite to say we’re made for each other.

An item; we have a future; potential to make something simply beautiful. So this change in your behaviour, this cruelty will not go unanswered. I’m afraid, or rather I’m not. To be brutal is a mark of my passion. It’s all or everything. You can’t just cut me. I know where you are. How you behave and how to exploit your instinct. Take a long hard look at yourself and reconsider. Because I’m resilient, persistent and patient.

C

May 30 2020

Pearly Moon, by Suzanne Ledwith

Described by Hot Press as having the voice of an angel, Suzanne Ledwith is a multimedia artist from Mullingar. She was introduced to the acoustic guitar in her youth. ” I remember Mary (Tynan) showing me how to play Romanza on the guitar, for which I am very grateful, as it was the first time I every played a guitar, and I discovered a life long passion. In her teenage years a chance meeting led to her being asked to join a band. Not seeing any reason to say no, she said yes, and Dreams of ID was formed with Patricia Raleigh (electric guitar) and subsequently Monica Raleigh (bass) and Paul Muligan (drums). Eventually this morphed into Suzanne performing solo.

For the past number of years she’s been developing a different style from the early pop/rock focus of the band. Her style reflects an interest in Irish music, world music, folk and classical music. She’s been working with Donal Lunny for a number of years on an album, which is finally coming to a not-too-hasty conclusion (Suzanne’s words). Suzanne says that working full-time as a teacher in the further education sector leaves little space to make her passion for composing, writing, singing and playing guitar more than a hobby. “I am grateful to Mary Tynan for contacting me and inviting me to contribute to her wonderful online space for artists. We are lucky to have you Mary.”

Here she performs her haunting composition “Pearly Moon.” Additional instruments played by Dónal Lunny. Notes From Xanadu is very lucky to have you, Suzanne!

May 19 2020

Nature in the Raw

In the world of nature, battles are fought daily that exceed in ferocity even those of our bloodiest, be it Waterloo, Stalingrad or Valley Forge. The natural contests differ from the human in that the former are conducted as a matter of survival and predatory food, whilst humans too often have mutually slaughtered for less justifiable reasons.
If you had been present in a garden shed in the West of Ireland, on a day when the sun shone brightly through the small rooflight, you would have witnessed a memorable spectacle being enacted: a fight to the death between a wasp and a spider. The spider is an astute tactician who knows well the importance of selecting the battleground best suited to neutralizing the wasp’s superiority in weaponry and manoeuvrability, to level the playing field. He must at the outset disable at least one of the wasp’s advantages in weaponry.

The battleground was an unusually strong web, right up in a shaft of strong sunshine. Of the forest of webs in this virtually untouched habitat, this fortification was of the strongest. A foraging wasp, minding his own business and failing to keep a sharp lookout, reported his blundering intrusion by a frantic acceleration of his buzzing wings. This (which is well known to a spider) is designed to enmesh the intruder deeper and deeper the more he struggles.
You would observe the entire web violently rocking, such was the energy of the wasp. You would find the spider, and he was a big one, waiting expectantly at the extremity of one web strand, from which position he could sally forth to any point of the web in attack. If you were familiar with spider strategy and language, you would understand that his tactics were to tire out the wasp until the point when he could rush in and deliver the paralysing bite.

It was a long wait. At intervals, the spider would make a rush towards the wasp, a manoeuvre that alarmed the wasp into a renewed frenzy of buzzing. Time and again he advanced and time and again retreated, as the fellow had obviously learned the wisdom of discretion being the better part of valour. As the buzzing got fainter and lower on the audio scale, you might predict how this was going to end. If you were a betting man, you’d be laying odds on the spider.

If you stayed until the denouement, you would have witnessed the countless rushes and retreats and the wasp’s failing strength, but nothing in nature is quite predictable, and, as the spider poised for the final coup de gras, the buzzing re-awoke to a sudden crescendo and the wasp broke free, mocking his erstwhile adversary all the while. The spider was left crouching at the edge of his torn flytrap, and one can imagine his chagrin, in spider language – Damn! If the wasp was trailing a metre-long string of web – for all the world like one of those advertising streamers towed by light aircraft – it was a small burden to carry for his triumphant escape. And if he was trumpeting his triumph over a wily enemy, who are we to criticise him?

Tony Tynan

May 7 2014

An Deireadh Seachtaine

Oíche dé hAoine,
Ré don bhóthar,
I mo shuí sa chúl le deartháir agus driofiúr.
Ag imirt “I Spy,”
Ag canadh amhrán,
Máthair ag tabhairt seacláide dúinn.

Deireadh an turais,
Teach sa bhaile mór,
Iompartha isteach i lámha cinéalta athar.
Sceallóga prátaí,
Uncail aoibhiúil,
Boladh Players Uimhir a Sé agus móna.

Lá eile,
I gcistin tí feirme,
Aintín, uncail, col ceathracha agus Seanathair.
In aice leis an sorn
Te agus codlatach,
Ag éisteacht le scéalta faoi daoine anaithnide.

Tráthnóna Dé Domhnaigh,
An filleadh,
Go scoil agus leabhair is obair is baile.
Aistear níos ciúin,
Ag athmhachnamh,
Beidh muid arais an tseachtain seo chugainn.

Máire ní Theimhneáin