Charlotte Arthur: Irish Woman Poet

Colman gives no biographical details for Charlotte Arthur other than to say that she contributed to The Irish Statesman. She published two volumes of verse, Dreams and Trees (Dublin, 1925) and Poor Faun (New York and London, 1930). Candle-Light and Dawn was one of four poems by Arthur to be published in the September 1926 issue of Poetry under the group title ‘Poems from Ireland’, and the only one not to be marred by Kiltartanese.


I have lit a candle in the night
And held It to the mirror on the wall,
Staring and staring at the face there,

Watching the tears fall.

I have quenched a candle in the dawn,
Hearing a winter bird’s thin calling,
And stared still at the dim face

With the tears falling.

International Call for Writers on Trump

A petition started by Catherine Walsh (@gurriersread) calling on non-US based writers to sign.

This is a European created petition which replicates ‘WRITERS ON TRUMP’ the U.S. petition against Trump’s candidacy for presidency of the U.S. I have started this petition in support of all of our writing contemporaries in the United States, to visibly demonstrate the solidarity of all kinds of international writers with their campaign. Please read what they have to say below and sign this petition if you are in agreement.

If you agree, click here to sign.

Poster Poems: Fear

The August Poster Poems is now online on the Guardian Books Blog on the topic of fear, and linking to poems by James Thomson, TS Eliot, Robert Frost, Hayden Carruth, WD Snodgrass, George Mackay Brown, Sharon Olds, Robert Creeley and Dorothy Porter.

E Colthurst: Irish Woman Poet

Little is known of Colthurst’s life, other than that she was born in Cork, lived most of her life in Killarney and published profusely, if anonymously. Impromptu is from her 1840 volume, The Storm and Other Poems.

Behind me a desert, cold, barren, and drear,

Before me, a paradise lies;

Oh ! the bright-shining- lakes, and the mountains are there,

Now cloth ‘d to the summit, now rugged and bare,

Where the red deer sinks deep in his lone heather lair,

Or far from the wild hunter flies.

The white clouds around all mysteriously flung.

Still opening new wonders to view.

Now cresting the torrents, now resting among

The moss-tinted cliffs, whence the arbuties sprung,

With bright-berried hollies, whose branches are hung

Luxuriant o’er waters of blue.

And echo, sweet echo, is busy around.

Her own native region is here.

Repeating, prolonging each musical sound.

Melodiously breathing to distance profound.

Or bidding the nest of the eagle resound

To the stag-hound in rapid career.

Oh who could contemplate a landscape so fair.

Or look on a scene such as this.

Distinguish the Almighty Architect there.

Nor feel combinations of beauty so rare.

Roll off from the bosom the cloud of its care,

And waken the spirit of bliss?