It's nice to be able to pick up an actual book or magazine with real pages. Can you remember what that's like? The kids and tech heads are going on about ebook readers and how they'll be the death of books. Bah I say to that and to them. Bah I say again. As long as I'm around I'll be buying books and urging others to do so. I love the feel of paper and the interaction. Don't worry I haven't developed a book fetish and I'm not taking part in any sordid book acts - not yet anyway.
That brings me to the Moth which is a great looking Irish poetry, prose, review and art mag. It has a lovely feel and texture to it, I just can't help running my hands all over it. The pages are interspersed with paintings and drawings (in colour!) and writing from international and Irish writers. And I found it in my local newsagents, which came as a shock though I'm quite happy to see it stocked with all the other journals and magazines. Check out Moth magazine here
Here's a poem from one of the issues:
Brown’s Hotel, Laugharne
This old building gathers the cold into itself
now everyone has left. They’ve boarded up
the skylights, turned keys in fidgety doors, allowed
unnecessary post to pile up, like some awful palimpsest.
Tables and chairs are heaped at a window,
it appears that nobody cares where once
couples stared through whisky at one another,
raking over the grains of life, days composed
of small incidents, intrusion, neglect, excess,
maudlin news, divisive laughter, excuses
for being this way and for not being that.
The ancient toxicants, heady love, and the rest.
Who scribbles in the corner, studies the bar,
thinking with his ears, turns the pitiable
into heart, steals the dark out of night? Pisses
up against a tree, then meanders out of sight.