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Aine MacAodha 

I am from Omagh in Northern Ireland and my work has appeared in Citizen 32, Poetry Now, Forward Press, Arabesque Review, Earz Magazine, Lavender Press, New Belfast Arts, and on the web sites Edit Red, ABC Tales and The Irish Haiku Society. 


I was was a runner up in the Brian Moore Short Story Contest, and was awarded a Bursary for The Tyrone Guthrie Artist centre by Omagh District council. I am currently in the final stages of preparing a first collection of poetry, Whispers from the Sperrins. I was interviewed by Radio Ulster and BBC TV in relation to the Raw campaign. 



Native Speakers 

I envy your tongue
how the silvery words evoke
the layered past of home.
snippets recalled from early
youth slip out in dreams
during the day-light hours,
in particles of conversations
on radio Telefis Eireann 
wheezing from Da's old wireless
that needed time to heat 
for clearer contact.
I can't translate without
a book to help me
yet I don't want to
the words
of your poems
speak for themselves.





I seek you in the lakes of Tyrone

the less known ones whose beauty

remain unblemished by progress.

In the curling streams at war

with the elements and whose

very existence is threatened by

housing developments.

I look for you as summer coughs up

It’s last songs of the season,

I seek your words in her breath.

In the secrets of motherhood

asleep in the elderly, yearning

recall once again.

I seek it too in the faces of youth

in the songs they sing from

the concrete forests they live in.



I also seek it in me

when dark clouds

gather up a storm.





Losing shadows that follow

from these troubled acres

is hard going at times.


When it’s them same shadows

you seek to understand

what it all came down to.


Three in the morning brings relief

nature is more calmer and cools

to a creaking lullaby


Some birds sleep sound.

The urban ones

blether through the night.


The moon solemnly gives orders

to orchestrate the night crawlers

on missions. She casts shadows


in dimly lit corners of the globe.

She’ll never be the sun

blitzing the crops, warming


the shadows.

But she’ll always be the catalyst

calling you back to the past.





Loneliness has a bite.

Not a nibble

but a razor sharp bite.


Morning flounces openly

showing off its tie dyed light.

The hills beyond my window

glazed by the mist

blown in off the Atlantic,

fusing Donegal, Sligo and Tyrone

in a painters paradise of shade.


The starlings argue for space

on the corrugated garage roof,

unnerved by the chatter on the floor-court.

They’ve made a tiny field on the roof

green as the hills.


Loneliness has a bite, razor sharp

and I need it like the views I see.

It calls me back to nature

makes me more aware of the innocence

and beauty of the forgotten.





Our ancient bloodlines

are calling to us

interrogating us

with wisps of insight.


They are turning

in their boggy graves

surfaced over time.


They rise out from

small lakes hidden

on the land.


Through dreams at

night and ponderings

of the daylight,


Among glens and forests,

and from branches of the

Thorn and Elder.


From the anglers rod

cast on rivers. On Salmon

longing for the open seas.


In tales, myths and poetry

their marks will not fade

like snapshots in the sun.


Our lands are piled

high and low deep and wide

with blue prints of a time, when

spoken signals were the headlines.


Our ancestors are turning

in their graves.





It’s easy to imagine

these scooped out hollows,

were once  filled with ice,

melting as the did stamping

kettle holes on the landscape.


The lake waltzes to and fro

like a child mesmerized

by magical stories voiced

by an old teller of tales.


Its edges flanked with an audience of

Purple moss, pink Cranberry flower,

and the burnt Orange of summer gorse,

all paying homage by showiness.


A clump of rushes move slightly,

I think of childhood tales,

the watershee, luring one off

to the silver world of faeries.


The light of the day now slipping

ever so peacefully behind the

peaks of the Sperrins, I shall go now

and take its essence with me,

to sooth my night quests ahead.

Mise Eire 

Talk to me of bogs
of blankets on the land
talk to me of myths
you have at your command.
Tell me of Cu Chulainn
the hero hound of Ulster
The battles of the Tain Bo
and the warriors of Munster.
The progress of the firbolgs
the De danaans on the hill
remind me of our legends
of folklore through the quill.
Talk to me of forests
of flora and fauna there
talk to me of mountains
in Tyrone and in Kildare.
Tell me now of future
of equality in the land
speak to me of serenity
so the tribes can understand.







copyright © Aine MacAodha