‘Samhain’ by Ingrid Casey

On the Wednesday before Samhain, I am making

a typo in the IM to my besto about the summer of

1816, the summer of no sun, I say summer of no sin,

is there such a thing, we emojicate, jocular, of course

not, but Shelley’s summer, as I’d been reading over the

clouds of gothic steam rising from Wednesday kitchen

mince being garlicked to within an inch of its life, as I

run to the neighbours for a tin opener, that summer was

biblical, umbilical, brown snow fell on Hungarian fields

while Byron and company settled around other mountains,

moved enough to create monsters out of the mahogany, the

terrible summer skies. What sin, to birth such a monster. I hear

the children clamouring, crashing into this, my realm, my radio

moments, my online journal and fleeting chats moments, I lay out

the knives, the pumpkins will be carved and we will read stories during

Samhain and nine months later we will sin, every summer, we will birth

storm stories.

Ingrid Casey is a writer and teacher, a Dublin native living in Kildare. Her work has featured in journals across Ireland and the UK, with short fiction and poetry having been shortlisted for literary prizes such as Doolin Writers’ festival and the Francis Ledwidge Memorial prize. She has been awarded the John Hewitt bursary in 2017. Current poetry is available in the Three Drops Press anthology of ghosts and hauntings, White Noise and Ouija Boards. A first collection of poetry is also forthcoming in 2018.

‘Samhain’ is published in Issue 8 of The Lonely Crowd, alongside a short story and another poem by Ingrid Casey – on Nov. 8th 
Image © Jo Mazelis, 2017.