Recent Reviews |
A selection of recent reviews of Salmon titles. Click on the book images to find out more about each title.
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Pete Mullineaux
Swan, Heron, Ducks
The surface on the canal tonight: black cellophane.And music without volume – here in overlappingrhythmic channels of water birds. On her island nesta white goddess folds an angular neck, arrangingand tuning feathers; then like a great wingedaccordion at the heart of this session, flamboyantflapping brings wind and sound to the picture.Across the weir, her partner raps with an old heron –bird banter between tunes, before the grey one swoopsabove the reeds towards a suitable platform for business;no show, motionless now on spindly fiddle-bow legs –content to sit this one out, waiting perhaps for a callto sing an old heron song – and all this time, weavingin their own patterns, the coming and going of ducks,silver-grey in the moonlight, tracking their owninvisible melody, dipping and diving…
nothing strange then in a concertina sounding jollywhile the player's expressionis so often grave, giving little awayof what lies beneath.
we make recordings of whales and dolphins[...]but the cows are singing in their campmarking their losscelebrating the grassthanking the rain.
Ethna McKiernan
Michele Vassal
Fred Johnston, Western Writers' Centre
Alan Garvey, Gloom Cupboard
Martin Egan
Ferdia McAnna (Writer and Film Director)
Nadine Sellers, Last Known Nest
Nuala Ní Chonchúir
'Paul,' I said, 'your poetry is filthy with longing.'He said, 'Would you like to dance?'
John Murphy
What with me being me and you seeming you,and you being you and me seeming me:mirage, motive, will, and fixed point of view,transcendent other, yet singular being:in mode of the seen and mode of the seeingwe are nothing at all if not seem and be.
So here goes, son. Breathe. No pressure. Speak now.I say the black guitar is a Burns and the bandis Chris Barber’s fronted by Andy Fairweather-Low—
I’ve gambled on this late night music programhoping you’ll put down your paper and we’ll talk,though lately all I say seems forced and false.
My father troops us along the North CircularPointing at churches, schools, and select houses.He says he built them all and we half believe him.
At Doyle’s corner DeValera’s coffin passes,Flag-draped on a shining gun carriage.My father reloads his nicotine-stained finger.
I shoot my mouth off and say it’s rude to point.My face stings and my eyes burn with grief.I stand corrected before the man who built Ireland.
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