Saturday 2nd February 2019 at 7.30pm Special Dinner to Celebrate the Presentation of a Copy of a Hand-Written Letter by W.B. Yeats to Ellen Duncan, Founder of the United Arts Club.                   United Arts Club Members, Peadar and Treasa Mac Maghnais have kindly offered to donate this…

The United Arts Club is situated in the heart of Georgian Dublin. Since its foundation in 1907 the Club has been a meeting place for people with an interest in all aspects of the arts. The club has a fascinating and rich cultural history, our founding members include WB Yeats, Countess Markievicz, and AE Russell….

Mary Lou McDonald, TD and VP Sinn Fein will launch “The Shaping of English Poetry Volume IV” by G. Morgan at the United Arts Club, 3 Fitzwilliam Street Upper, Dublin 2 6-8pm  Friday next, 28th July , 2017

  Mirrors  The poems I gave to you were false, mean little servant mirrors for you to hold while I admired my lines between the cracks. This was indeed a shame, for I meant to say that your smile rivals all the treasures of high summer and brings a warm delight to my darkest winter…

Sideways The mirror restores the images we see back from left to right. – Or perhaps that’s right to left? I wonder if there’s an axis in the middle? Whatever. It never switches up to down, (or down to up for that matter) even if you turn the mirror sideways. It’s probably all gravity and…

  Augustine Some years ago, or yesterday, I threw a book into the air, a medium tome, hard backed, gold edged and well bound. I watched as it arced slowly through each temporal cliché from the dawn of time till Gabriel’s call, becoming something new within the changing quanta of the universe. I see it…

Da Capo   If you re-tell a life, tell and re-tell things that had happened, tell and re-tell old loves, friends and deaths (if only to yourself), if you re-tell a life events will swirl and stick to a line of time like flies to poisoned  paper. They will become like notes on a stave,…

Barefoot   I’ve a pair of sturdy old boots that nearly have the creak gone out of them, steel-toed rostra that might have sat at the stage edge waiting for a spool to wind or a leaf to fall.   I am troubled by autumnal words swirling  falsly, strewn hither and thither by the cracked…

Lucia (es hora de seguir otro camino, donde ella no sonría)   I dreamt I saw Lucia last night chatting on the train, going home from Heidelberg.   Her feet were tucked underneath her on the seat. Laughing lightly as she spoke she warmly gripped my hand.   From time to time she leant her…

Margins   In the margins of my life I notice that my poor dog is growing old. Some days I look into her eyes and try to rationalise the end of things, (and the real end of things) as we go about our common tasks.   Perhaps we both sense an approach of change, together…

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