Poetry, Uncategorized


by Conor Smyth


In the middle of summer
He still shivered
Quaking from guttural tremors
Body condensed to a ball
A boned cage once,
Heartily round, contented
Now vulnerable, prey for the elements
Sustenance not forthcoming
Cold sweat and restless limbs
Eyes heavy but alert, the waking coma
He is exhausted by the absence of hope
Dishevelled, disowned by relief
6am, dawn on blackened eyes
A Muted television
Curling, cramped hot/cold
Sleep, only a kind memory


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Conor Smyth is from Bangor, Northern Ireland. He studied Film at DeMontfort University, Leicester, and has written articles for Culture NI; http://www.culturenorthernireland.org/ He started concentration on his own poetry in the last 12 months with a view to getting work published.

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photo by Kristi Harms


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