Ian Duhig
Maggie's Boy
‘Don’t talk to people,’ my landlady said.
‘They’ll only want to know about you.’
Even shoptalk made me edgy; ‘Are ye gettin’?’
‘Howse about ye?’ Nowhere had my cigarettes.
I couldn’t understand their bread.
This summer I have come to see her.
She gives me tea, barmbrack, soda farls
And asks about my wife. She is washing her nets
And I can see through arcades of union flags,
Bunting, red-white-and-blue lamp-posts
To the gable wall; King Billy on horseback,
Square and compass, masonic numbers.
Before it, her son is practising his mace.
He waits to catch a thirty-foot throw,
Holding his stance, counting.
magazine list
- Features
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- Agenda
- Ambit
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- Atlas
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Dream Catcher
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- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
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- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
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- North, The
- Oasis
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- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
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- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The