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Thanks For Nothing, Hippies
April 2012

The Truth & Other Stories

Sarah Clancy

ISBN: 978-1-908836-91-5

Page Count: 110

Publication Date: Monday, September 15, 2014

Cover Artwork: The author

Click to play audio "It's the Dark", a poem from The Truth & Other Sto... play
Click to play audio "For Lazarus, Whose Alarm Clock is Ringing", a poe... play

About this Book

The Truth and Other Stories is Sarah Clancy’s third collection of poetry. In it she excavates the personal and psychological wreckage caused by a grim and unrelenting recession in her native Ireland and further afield. She does this without sacrificing any of the warmth, wit or linguistic extremity we’ve come to expect from her. In a poetic game of truth or dare these poems flit between testifying to, and then blatantly denying the realities of her protagonists’ experiences.  At times she acts as her own cadaver; using parts of herself as the objects of her abstracted curiosity. In so doing she claims her own place in the chorus of panicking misfits and lost souls she has created. Even in her most heartbreaking poems or when dealing with the most serious of themes the language is misleadingly casual and almost offhand. This collection’s excitement and momentum come from the writer’s delight in the possibilities she has for inventing new selves with which to see the world anew over and over again. 

This is a book of rich, rhythmically insistent and often thrillingly confrontational poetry, the beauty and variety of which leaves the impression of an important rish writer laying claim to a new level of vision and originality.  Martin Dyar

There is no camouflage here. Sarah Clancy writes real poems about real people. She plucks a few from Clancyland, half myth, half mystery. Their freshness and eloquence and above all their humanity, act as more of of a bonfire than a beacon in these dark times.  Rita Ann Higgins

'' a short space of time she has established herself as one of the most important emerging voices in Irish poetry''   Kevin Higgins, The Galway Advertiser

A passionate and powerful collection, poised at times, at times raging. Satirical and beautiful, this collection is a strong sharp whirlwind in human observation. Sarah Clancy is courageous and brilliant, a most important poetic voice for our generation.  Elaine Feeney

If there ever is anything approaching a revolution, and day-by-day it seems more and more likely, if not here in Ireland, then elsewhere in Europe, Sarah Clancy will be one of its poets – I say ‘one’ because of all things she would not want to alone in the reading-room on that fateful day. William Wall

Author Biography

Sarah Clancy is a page and performance poet from Galway, she has two previous collections to her name, Stacey and the Mechanical Bull (Lapwing Press, Belfast, 2011) and Thanks for Nothing, Hippies (Salmon Poetry, 2012). Along with fellow Galway poet Elaine Feeney she released a poetry CD called Cinderella Backwards in 2013.  She has been placed or shortlisted in several of Ireland’s most prestigious written poetry competitions including The Ballymaloe International Poetry Prize, The Patrick Kavanagh Award and The Listowel Collection of Poetry Competition.  In performance poetry Sarah has won the Cuirt International Festival of Literature Grand Slam Championships and has twice been runner up in the North Beach Nights Grand Slam. In 2013 on her second go at representing Connaught in the All- Ireland Grand Slam Championships she was runner up. She has recently stopped sulking about this. In 2013 she received an individual artist's bursary from Galway City Council. She is frequently invited to read her work at various festivals and events around Ireland and abroad and can’t believe she’s still getting away with it.  She is on twitter @sarahmaintains and can be contacted by e-mail at

Read a sample from this book

For Lazarus, Whose Alarm Clock is Ringing
for Elaine Feeney

In the airport terminal’s time warp the sun-on-glass glare 
and the lack of appropriate places to sleep
have left me bug eyed and pacing static-filled corridors
that send sparks through my fingers and hair 
when I touch things (or if I touched things) and I’m thinking 
of how we came to be each others’ others and how it is 
that people like us come to mean things to each other.
Without knowing it does so, the heat from the sun’s kiss on 
the plate glass window licks at my neck, like it we are helpless 
our warmth spreads without any permission, we’ve no borders 
no boundaries and we’ve been friends since we met 
so I can say Lazarus get up and talk to me, because I want
to tell you how I’d resolved to be only one person 
all of the time until a woman came to my ninth floor hotel room 
and stood at the window looking down at some city below her,
I (or the me I was using) stayed at a distance with my back 
to the wall and across those great acres of room space of bed space
and sheet span I watched the light burnish her edges
her ribcage, her jaw and the fine hairs on her arm 
and as the evening grew gentler I watched the rise and fall 
of her breath while the day itself melted and Lazarus 
I wanted to go to her but this me that I’ve chosen to be 
all of the time now didn’t know where or how to begin:

I (or the me I was using) didn’t believe that my static filled fingers
could touch her and she might welcome it and I wanted to tell you 
that I mightn't be able to stay being me in situations like this 
where I have all the ingredients gathered and measured 
and then I forget how to cook them (if that was in fact
me there in the bedroom and not one of my minions) 
and I'm saying this because I've learned that staying one person 
isn't straightforward and sometimes being truthful is less accurate 
than having the courage to act a part beautifully
and Lazarus I want to tell you whenever you get up
that I might not be able and I know you'll know what I mean 
because we are each others others and we know things –
Lazarus, it’s high time you were up.

It’s the Dark
a poem for my selves 

On this day of halogen and helium
we are dodging shadows
our eyes squinting against late afternoon sun
but it's with us, despite the whiteness
it's a hand not held
in a dark bedroom, in a dark house, on a dark street
where no one ever thought to leave a light on for us
it's every unblown birthday candle
a school of sorts, an education, 
it's a taunting lane with pine trees and a wind channelled down it, 
it’s the terror that made our fat legs pedal faster
made us flee it,
as if, in the bright lights of the kitchen hours later 
we still wouldn't feel it
it’s that car journey we didn't want to go on
those other headlights sweeping past in freedom
and our relentless windscreen wipers beating rhythm 
to the place we swore we'd never get to 
on a morning night wouldn't relinquish,
it's a bridge in an inferno crumbling
and I can tell you there's no crossing back over
it's the confessional where we don't know what to say 
or even who to answer to,
it’s a hundred pagan folk memories; 
nameless, because they never tried to conquer it,
it's the dark
it's the dark
it's the dark
and it's best to leave it be.

Copyright © Sarah Clancy 2014©


Review:  The Truth & Other Stories reviewed by Des Kenny for The Galway Advertiser (October 2nd, 2014)

FOR THOSE who have seen Sarah Clancy recite her poetry, the title of her latest collection, The Truth & Other Stories, published by Salmon, will come as no surprise.
     Always challenging, somewhat defiant, Clancy does not mince words, and, using a rhythm and delivering with a style that any self-respecting rap artist would be proud of, berates and derides the status quo incessantly, but always with a sense of humour.
     Although this is only her third collection, it seems as if Clancy has been around forever, a natural descendant of the Galway that emerged in the 1980s when the nascent Salmon poetry movement fostered such poets as Mary O’Malley, Rita Anne Higgins, Anne Kennedy, and Eva Bourke. 
     Despite the fact she has already published two collections, her reputation is based not on her written work but on her rendering thereof whether it be on a soapbox in the marketplace square or more formally in the green pastures of NUI Galway. Her delivery is original, lively, feisty, and without apology.
     She is aware, however, that she is serving a literary apprenticeship and has been working extremely hard to reach a maturity in style and language that will in essence be her true poetic voice.
     The Truth & Other Stories is a major step towards this. Despite her hesitation in the introductory preamble, ‘Cold Case’: “Let’s not go in there/sharp-stick poking/turn now with me – this time/let’s keep on walking.”
     In the first poem ‘Pagan’s Votive’ she sets out her table fairly and squarely:
“I pray that I will write/a disassociated poem that floats me with it/to somewhere without bitterness/I pray that I will wear it/like a scapular against cynicism/and that it will act as agent/to distil my anger into action/I pray that on pet days like this one/that somehow finds me/in the sanctuary of St Bridget’s well/beside a young person grieving/that it will make me able/ that it will make me gentle.”
     At first glance this is not the Sarah Clancy Galway has known. Immediately however Galway’s rapper is back in full flow as her second poem begins:

“...for the striving, for the starlings all fetched up by cold/for the crow and his shriekery, for the everyday ebb/and its thievery, for the lap- dancing punters who look/into the faces of the prey they exploit, for the do-gooders/who wouldn’t, the god-be-with-yous and for the dot the dot the dot the dot.”

      What follows is an amazing panorama of thoughts, beliefs, savage attacks, lyrical and romantic interludes, sometimes stinging, sometimes cajoling (one of the poems is entitled ‘My Thoughts Are Carrots My Thoughts Are Sticks’) never sequential, a whole dam burst of words that leaves the reader breathless and bewildered.
     As the collection develops, out of this existentialist mayhem, a synthesis, albeit a fragile one, emerges and Clancy attempts to reach a deeper level of honesty and truth:

“Somedays I am applicant,/somedays I am unsuccessful applicant/or one of more hundred highly qualified applicants/most days now I am not disappointed by this/because I had to make some cuts/and first I severed the part where hope lives/yes that was severe but remember/ we’re all suffering here”.

Eventually she seems to find her place and a basis to work from:

“And I know about Mahon who seems to conclude/that the only true poetry is not to write it/but he does anyway just not so very much/as he used to, on the way back I passed the postman/and made him a symbol of something/of structure and timekeeping and capitalism/and I thought I am a prisoner of theory and culture.”

In its totality, this is possibly the most important poetry collection to appear this year, not only for its energy and vibrancy, its word power and its intriguing rhythms, but also because of the poet’s honesty in admitting freely of her aesthetic fragility. In doing so, she has taken a massive step towards poetic maturity and has fully served her apprenticeship.

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