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  • A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford

    Let them not forget us, the weak souls among the asphodels Seferis — 'Mythistorema' For J.G. Farrell Even now there are places where a thought might grow — Peruvian mines, ...

    • Poetry
    • Other
    3 min read
  • Murder of the Innocent

    The noise. He was pulled out, squealing, an iron cleek sunk in the roof of his mouth. (Don't say they are not intelligent: they know the hour has come and ...

    • Poetry
    • Other
    1 min read


For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noise way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein