The Saturday poem: The Artane Band

Da used to swing me over the turnstile,
to see the Dublin matches. I remember
the sight of my own legs, dangling.

I'd never see much of the game;
what's left is the smell of men,
their coats steaming rain and beer,

being hoisted by my ribs above
the crowd, the pitch spread out
green and vast, the distance of it.

And every half-time the band
playing on the field, their music rising
and falling with the seaweed stink

A priest-eating werewolf? ‘That sounds like a terrible idea’

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Two female debut authors shortlisted for Man Booker prize

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Forget 'friendship audits'. Old friends should be cultivated, not culled

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My migraine and vertigo became a book about love and pain

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that rushed in from the bay.
There's the boys, Da would say
and he'd wag his finger in a warning

that told me these matchstick boys
made music because they were outlaws,
each cymbal clash a cry of mea culpa,

and I imagined myself out there with them
in this rainy coliseum with my Da as emperor
giving the thumbs down,

shaking his head for the loss of his son
to that criminal gang:
The bold boys of the Artane Band.

Jessica Traynor's debut collection, The Liffey Swim (Dedalus Press) was published in 2014. A verse response to Swift's A Modest Proposal has just been published by Salvage Press