drmstream[writing]

  This blog is an inad­ver­tent place, nei­ther com­mon­place book nor pub­lish­ing plat­form, dis­or­derly in approach but earnest in inten­tion, a bal­ance of self provo­ca­tion, hope­ful procla­ma­tion and inter­mit­tent dis­trac­tion. Despite its irres­olute intent, drmstream[writing] frames a rela­tion­ship for a kind-of writer and a kind-of audi­ence.  There is a group of you — a few […]

When you felt the red fire Of the forge, as it played, Did you feel, Too, my swordsman’s desire Run like blood on your blade And blue steel? A won­der­ful set of broad­sides from turn of the cen­tury Ire­land, illus­trated by the artist Jack B. Yeats. Each edi­tion was just 300 copies.  Art speaks to whomever will […]

When I still believed in fairies, I walked alone up a moun­tain in the west of Ire­land, the bog slip­ping away as I pushed along a faint trail past a hid­den lake and beyond a stony ridge. I believed I was some­one who walked alone in the wild, but I wasn’t. I was in a fevered […]

Yes, the news­pa­pers were right: snow was gen­eral all over Ire­land. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, fur­ther west­wards, softly falling into the dark muti­nous Shan­non waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely church­yard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses […]