The Pickled Body - Issue 2.1 Quantum

2.1

Quantum

Spring 2015

t h e

p i c k l e d

b o d y

Contents

Editorial 3

Kate Dempsey

Equations on Waking 4

Eabhan Ni Shuileabhain

Flowers 5

Noel Duffy

Shapes That Fit Together 6

Tessa Berring

Etching 6

Shane Holohan

Two Become One 7

Neil Fulwood

Display 7

Sheila Mannix

Bakunin’s Probability Clouds 8

Jennifer Matthews

S.A.D. 9

Sean Ruane

Scale 9

Iggy McGovern

Quantum Clerihew 10

Afric McGlinchey

A Quantum of Happiness 11

Paul Casey

a small measure 11

Featured artist Sean Hayes

A Rose is a Rose is a Rose is a Rose 12

Siobhán Flynn

A Glimpse of the God Particle 16

Michael Farry

My Fish and I 17

Kay Buckley

Fields 17

Kate Quigley

Inside the Orange 18

Angela T. Carr

Experimental Mathematics 19

bruno neiva

logistics 19

Marjorie Lotfi Gill

Low Tide 20

Death Row Door 20

Eleanor Hooker

By the Barricade 21

Justin Karcher

The Great Abyss Where I Grew Up

is Being All Modernized and Gentrified 22

Review Dimitra Xidous

on Dylan Brennan’s Blood Oranges 23

Pickled this issue 24

the pickled body quantum 2

Editorial

A poem is unpredictable. A message, a feeling, sent from one mind to another, it is changed

in ways the writer cannot know. In this issue of The Pickled Body, we have captured some of

these slices of meaning yet let them slip out on a journey over which neither we nor the

poets have any control. Make of them what you will, because a poem becomes something

other – and richer – when it combines with the mind of the reader.

!

Some of the poems presented here deal, on the face of it, directly with the theme of

quantum mechanics. Others take the notion of Ian Fleming’s ‘quantum of solace’, his

unusual tale of the death of affect, in which he illustrates the bare minimum of human

feeling!– the least amount of hope, of consolation – required for a relationship to survive.

Others still are perhaps surprisingly spiritual.

!

A few of the poets in this issue are physicists or have a background in the subject – offering

us an insider’s perspective, if you will. All are first-rate explorers. We are delighted to bring

their work to you. We are also thrilled to feature Sean Hayes’s glorious photography

nestled among the poems.

!

In choosing ‘quantum’ as our theme, we knew that poetry, like all art, like all

communication, finds its true form when it is received, not when it is transmitted. And

when that happens, both the poem and the reader are changed.

Engage.


Kate Dempsey

Equations on Waking

You cling to the brink of sleep In the thin light I watch your dream,

your eyelid flickers, your mouth twitches. I touch your night-rough chin,

you turn, I kiss your jaw.

If it were dark as a shutdown mine I could still know your scent

dusky dizzy sweet; You breathe out, I breathe.

your pulse beats to my heart.

You teeter at the edge. I move, slow as dawn, spoon

sunshine around you. Closer. My skin to

your skin, we share the warmth.

But skin is no barrier. I analyse wave functions

to find my busy fundamental particles

quantum tunnelling through you and fragments of you

in me.


Eabhan Ni Shuileabhain

Flowers

I watched him

turning through her gate,

walking in her door.

I understood it all then,

the late nights,

how he seemed more sure,

smiled more easily,

brought so many more flowers than before.

Why he ran his fingers through my hair

like he used to and cupped my face

and started holding me again.

I had wondered was he trying

to get back what we once had,

wondered whether I still wanted it.

And then I saw him go to her.

I waited as night settled down

and lights were flared behind curtains

that shielded me from how his back would look,

his spine marked out, his shoulders bared,

the small hollows above his buttocks that I loved

showing how his muscles worked

giving pleasure to someone else, not me.

And waiting there, I wanted him again,

wanted him to wrap his fingers in my hair

and drag us back to life.

I put his flowers

in all the vases I could find,

in old jugs and chipped glassware,

hoping the scent of his guilt would convince us both

he wasn't leaving, he couldn't leave,

hoping he wouldn't see the dread I hid

on every windowsill and ledge.


Noel Duffy

Shapes That Fit Together

The two elements exist

as though predestined

to make a perfect fit,

like a see-saw pivot the molecule

bent into a fixed contour—

one oxygen with its

partially empty shell, coupling

with two hydrogen atoms

each angling from the side—

this their own unique

and necessary marriage

at the scale of the tiny,

the weak charge each carries

enough to draw these molecules

together, grouping them

into a liquid cluster

giving us water, the cloud

that hangs in the sky above,

the rain that falls around us all;

a substance so pure it carries

no taste or smell, it the base

receptacle for the elements

that hide in its embrace,

supporting all the living things

in a given place.

Tessa Berring

Etching

She is quietly anatomical,

nothing gory, no ripped flesh

or yellowed innards.

A flat sucked lozenge

outlined on a tongue,

intestines folding,

paper walnuts,

and limbs non-plussed

by scissors.

Held up, splayed,

dried frog in a tin,

naked puppet in a turban,

solemn lips to colour in.

Witness this symmetry of

fists and feet soles,

foetal snail knot, crouched.

Thought dares its way to surgery,

remnants of a cutting out.


Shane Holohan

Two Become One

Wednesday, September 12th, 2001

Overdue Africans babble competitivelyBellies swollen, joints loosening, teeth less secure

I should resent how their taut skin Mocks, but I don’t

To my right you lean leftA little more than you need toThe pressure small comfort

She arrives with a clipboard And the words that divide us

Just uterine ballast,I sit, sit and waitWith the babble, the belliesThe heartwhoosh cacophony

While you go with her

Past the curtain, through the doorTo the room I rememberBut won’t see again

You return moments later,Empty.

Neil Fulwood

Display

The kerbside is a gallery

of broken glass, each

exhibit a shattered portrait

of the sun.

Petrol expands its debate

on combustion

across tyre-marked concrete,

a dull rainbow smearing

the surface of its latency.


Sheila Mannix

Bakunin’s Probability Clouds

in a stone

in a piece of wood

in a rag

in this state of barbarism and animal brutality

particles seek each other



*

a particle of the infinitely great

is necessarily infinitely small

immediately god appears

man is reduced to

nothing

in a stone

in a piece of wood

in a rag

*

a particle of the infinitely great

is necessarily infinitely small


man is reduced to

nothing


man is reduced to

nothing

*

god is everything

the liberty of living men

the sufferings of real men

are nothing


man is reduced to

nothing


man is reduced to

nothing

*


man is reduced to

nothing

in a stone

in a piece of wood

in a rag



*


man is reduced to

nothing

in a stone

in a piece of wood

in a rag

in a stone

in a piece of wood

in a rag


Jennifer MatthewsS.A.D.

My disorder in this sunless fortressof brown stairs and blue bodiesI’m told is to blame on a lackof vitamin D. Worse are the poisonous positive ions from computer screens— unhappy mirrors gazed into for days, weeks scrying eventualities, soaking up full spectrum gossip, up to the minute depressants & political-affective-contorters.

The solutions: milk with a green cap, saline baths in magnetised pools,high intensity yoga aerobics to sweat out ill will, stagnant karmaand negative ‘I’ statements. Following, my yoghurt pot of drinkable serotoninto supplement my deficit of connectivity, of chemical facility, those leaps of light I crave from neuron to neuron.But thriving somewhere behind my shaded winter eyes: mood sucking, white light eating machines.

Sean RuaneScale

Metal at the smallest levels, so I’m told,May show differences beyond those of scale.When gold’s reduced in size a billionfoldIt’s red, magnetic, liquid, a catalystAnd hardly seems itself, torc strangleholdOn our emotions loosed, pierced gilt chain-mail,The sheer awe lost it once inspired in bulk.

It strikes me, sitting by this mountain lake,

That the ring thrown away here in a sulkLast August, when our hopes were at their brittlest,Was merely rust-prone, tarnishable gold;While your forgiveness, even at its littlest,To the tiny traveller down in the vale,Would glint as bright as a welcoming grailRaised on the walls of a noblewoman’s stronghold.


Iggy McGovern

Quantum Clerihew

Max Planck

is the man to thank

for the mysterious phantom

that is the quantum

Louis de Broglie

had the unholy

idea that a moving particle

wasn’t a definite article

Werner Heisenberg

Would not waste an erg

On those who were unconvincible

about his uncertainty principle

Albert Einstein

liked to opine:

‘it's not very nice

for God to play dice!’

Erwin Schrödinger

Was a real humdinger

His eponymous wave equation, it’s said

Was conceived in a mystery woman’s

bed

Paul Dirac

Took a different tack

People thought he was mad as a hatter

With his prediction of antimatter

Neils Bohr

might feel sore

if he heard my brother’s perceptive

remark:

something rotten in the state of the

theory of Denmark


Afric McGlinchey

A Quantum of Happiness

A half-wild boy, panting up the hill

under a sky blue-swept, cloud-ragged.

His body asks a question, gives an answer.

A mosaic of light, like a secret,

captured in this song of slanted movement;

a half-wild boy, panting up the hill.

His urge to run leaps from foot to foot,

and earth exhales its pleasure in response.


The wind swings behind him, like memories

shaken out, snapped laundry.

A half-wild boy panting up the hill.

!

He flies through doorless rooms,

across a private ocean, to a pinnacle.


!

Each day’s discovery, a kind of grace.

Arms winged above his head, like a stork, uplifting.

A half-wild boy, panting on the hill.


Paul Casey

a small measure

stars are born people die

more stars than people

by far reborn as stars

and more stars than grains of sand

the number of grains of sand?

(7.5 x 1018 grains of sand)

seven quintillion, five hundred-

quadrillion grains we believe

(give or take a few grains of sand)

the number of stars, 70 thousand million,

million, million stars (the same number

as molecules in ten drops of water)

so there are more worlds

in eleven of your teardrops

than stars (or grains of sand)


Featured artist

Sean Hayes

A Rose is a Rose is a Rose is a Rose

Siobhán Flynn

A Glimpse of the God Particle

The elusive Higgs boson

may have been sighted

doubts arise as it decays

immediately after creation

transforms into smaller particles

which form the elementary units of the universe

that is if it exists at all

They speculate that it provides mass

without it

the atoms that make up the pears

ripening in my fruit bowl

would be zipping around the kitchen

at the speed of light

which is the same speed

they turn from ripeness to rot

I evaluate them every day

cradle one in my palm

apply gentle pressure

but they’re always too hard

until I forget my inspection

too late I discover

their time has passed

There is nothing official yet

but the scientists are intrigued

they have found clues

spikes in their data

which suggest that the Higgs boson did exist

for a moment

like a perfectly ripe pear


Michael Farry

My Fish and I

(After a painting by Roisin Duffy)

I have no idea what it is—

somewhere between trout and swordfish—

but it’s mine and has been

since my first fascination

with the swirl of deep water,

creatures too fast for me

splashing to right and left.

In these strange solitary times

I hug it tight, enjoy its silent,

wet companionship,

knowing full well

how fragile is my grip,

how one flick would leave little,

a few sad scales maybe,

a damp memory

and me, way out of my depth,

drowning among seaweed fronds

and the bright cold creatures of the deep.

Kay Buckley

Fields

You put your hand on the gate and a herd

of grass warmth and wetness spies you shepherd.

Moving towards the metal, breath purling in patterns,

the cows cross the field, collecting mass to their atoms

Higgs boson. A world in particles, you and I, in the clear,

as mud shod too, our love has grown, once apart to now near.


Kate Quigley

Inside the Orange

Your pithy skin, rent

in a spiral on the desk.

It looks to the teacup

& the dusty aloofness

of books for help—

No joy here.

Your juice is dripping

freely now—yes,

you were a good orange

while you lived.

Sweet, helpful, did

not try to escape your

net like some of the

others; like that one,

with a still-green hue

& sour face. But you,

you were a good orange.

Your Spanish brains

stuck in my teeth now,

fizzy, a matador’s gored

side-step, tanging blood

on the bull’s muzzle.

A line of spat-pips,

mapping the story of

your ideas. One, half-

formed, browning; chipped

bone from that unlucky

matador, as you watched

from between leaves,

hushing scandalous crows.

Another, the drop of an

earring, the fishlimbed

flamenco dancer you

almost got inside one

crazed night.

The last; strange; vaguely

twisted & veined grey,

a little dark spot liked a

round eye:

the child

you have purged here,

far from your hot home.


Angela T. Carr

Experimental Mathematics

Experiment: two irrational primes shift

the horizontal plane of an unswept floor;

parabolic algorithms of Cuvier and tequila

collide in a skitter of projectile shoes;

a.m.’s rain-caked windows skew solar telegraphs,

prismatic intersections no longer able

to mathematically express the root

of who fucked who first and where;

Euclidean geometry tested,

but data, ultimately, unproven;

subjects exposed to relative uncertainty

in the stark, glaring angles of noon.

bruno neiva

logistics

been there

but

couldn’t

you know

pull it off

(it was so bloody whirlwind)

the road was clear

but

all the cars looked the same

from afar

really

they did

blinking

like dying soundless

fireworks


Marjorie Lotfi Gill

Low Tide

The water on the sea side of the harbour wall flashes

like a child thrown in, a skinny child swimmer

waving wildly and howling at the cold and the dark

The marina side is calm as a sheet of window glass

laid over its waves, the bottom revealed,

like each of us, from its surface

He sits watching, not at the end of the curving stone wall

where the waters meet, but further back

so his view is true east to west, facing the North Sea

The boats in the marina wait like old men in a town square,

rusted at the joints, names that once called

to one another from the hull now flaked or gone—

and those furthest inland sit knee deep in mud, anchored

to breeze blocks beached in the sandy gristle,

like a set of dentures left out in an empty glass

A small school of fish, mackerel or saithe, wing through the water

darting in perfect unison; when they hold still,

he holds his breath, and gasping, looks away

He reaches into the small pack of his possessions,

all else given or lost, finds his passport, and hurls it

into the sea, aiming for the water’s point of change

Death Row Door

The door was like the skin of another man,

a long back risen in places with leathered scars,

welts grown dark with age, the whip’s strength

still visible in repeating arcs along its unhinged edge.

Then it read to him like the patchwork of patterns

she’d applied and pinned down, cut open before stitching

together to be worn by him and, later, his brothers.

But tonight the door is his father’s fields, the spades

of dark earth lifted high before turning, now waiting

for the next crop, the markings of each life drawn out

of the dormant soil and the hull, a husk left behind.


Eleanor Hooker

By the Barricade

We are the survivors

who wait by the barricade

for the slow countdown.

Some of our dead slip through,

stand beside us, unsteady, unclothed, low—

we cannot take them with us.

The cry goes up for cheer,

smile, they demand, be merry.

Fireworks tear the stars

from the moon, pock the night

with dissimulated Armageddon,

the awed throng pitches forward.

If not in groups then kinfolk

keep in hailing distance, their

calls, inmost, distinctive,

provisional. My Dad

sees me first. He’s changed; parchment against bone,

eyes gone the colour of vertigo.

I am a smashed pane,

that lets the rained downpour in,

in to vacant tenure.

As the countdown begins

there is a clamour for the barricade.

This is where we’re obliged to live on.

Time takes its relentless

hold, drives us through to

this New fatherless Year.

It is unstoppable.

I look back as the barricade goes down on

the old year, on my Dad, left behind.


Justin Karcher

The Great Abyss Where I Grew Up is Being All Modernized and Gentrified

Steady, heavy rain throughout tonight and

It’s worth mentioning that time is running out

For me to be happier that I’ve ever been,

That creatures are being catapulted into the neighborhood

And that their sweat tastes like cool craft beer.

It’s madness!—me all drunk like this and growling

At my telescope. It plays strip poker with the stars

And always wins, but that doesn’t get me any closer

To rolling around with them in mothballed beds.

I’m too old to become an astronaut, which sucks,

Because darkness is exploration and the darkness

Above is the best kind of darkness. The closest I’ve been

To being an astronaut is that time I was drunk and snuck

Into that bounce house on Niagara Falls Blvd. in the dead

Of night. It was a clear night so the stars were dandruffing

Like dogs all over Western New York and it felt like I was

Caught in a snow globe of astronomy and zodiac vomit.

It was great—the way the moonlight pulverized me into

Earthly submission, the way I drunkenly bounced like

An inner city basketball with a death wish. It was great

Being swallowed up into the emptiness of space. It

Sounded like the desert, the interplay between light

And shadow. The true emptiness in our lonely lives

Is starkly apparent. We Americans know backwards

And forwards the vacant industrial buildings, how after

Heavy rain, human teeth and bones can become exposed

In the burial pits of ghost towns rotting right on the Rust

Belt. It’s tough to clean up this mess. The universe on the

Other hand is concise. Its long dark hair isn’t pulled back into

A loose ponytail and messy bangs. Ah well—steady, heavy rain

Throughout tonight. A stormy night of severe starlessness.

Nothing to do but keep a watchful eye on the parking lot adjacent

To my house, pockmarked with rusting cars, abandoned buildings,

And the nation’s last train blasted by war. Lifeless bodies hanging

By chastity belts from the city’s only tree. Postpartum duchesses

Using sledgehammers to remove the paint on their faces. Frat boys

Binge drinking the liquid nicotine used in e-cigarettes and looking

For love. They’re tossing a box of Soviet-era condoms around

Like some prophylactic Frisbee. I envy the reckless evilness

Of their youth, how their faces leap from mask to mask,

Manmade satellites launched into the emptiness of space,

Hot sticky masses that will undoubtedly never make it back home.

I wish I was the first animal sent into space. What brings them here

Night after night? To the parking lot adjacent to my house? Some

Gentrified wormhole dragging them all into limbos of overpriced

Identities? Did they fall into the great abyss of finding yourself?

Nah – nobody falls into the abyss of finding yourself. It’s the

Bluffs of finding yourself and the abyss of losing yourself—

That’s how they getcha. Yeah, that’s how they getcha.


Dimitra Xidous reviews

Blood Oranges by Dylan Brennan

Brennan has flung his bones on a high temple.

Blood Oranges, the debut collection by Dylan Brennan, begins with a broken promise, of bones and ‘skinless fingers’ – and, at the risk of stating the obvious but mindful also of the need to find an opening, to begin somewhere, there is much about bones in the collection. There are bones in the titles, as in Bones of Anonymous Children – a jolting piece about the skeletal remains of two sacrificed children:

[…] There was evidence of cranialcranial irregularities – deformed babies skull-smashed for ritual.

Sometimes restraint goes a long way. Knowing when not to say something is a skill. The opposite is also true and what gives this poem its muscularity, what makes it matter, is Brennan’s ease with which he rubs our noses in this:

[…] unholy mess. The spiritual and physical constructs of all those years would come crashing down around us. We’d never clean that up.

You’d have to have been living under a rock not to draw parallels between this poem and the Tuam babies scandal of 2014. To paraphrase Brennan – here in Ireland, an unholy discovery of a holy mess).

Elsewhere the issue of bones is there in the bodies of the poems themselves. The Ethnographer carries the stench of

wet bone/ …[…]Riddled with moist infection – skin, bone and a pencil,

while in Here and Now Upon this Earth, a stand-out piece, the explicitness of bone is to be found in the absence of flesh:

you’ll have to goyou’ll end up fleshless

and

I say don’t let me go to the place of the fleshless

Even in fruit, in the spat-out pips, Brennan manages to echo the idea of bones:

In that place we spent an entire dayeating and burying our dead underspat-out cherry pips

All that said, not every bone reference or bone poem in the collection works. Bone Couplet is a misstep; here, knowing when not to say something – when to leave a poem on the cutting-room floor – would have been the wiser choice. Desire, the poem preceding it, could have suffered the same fate and I for one would not have mourned its loss. Brennan does better in some of his longer pieces, while some of his shorter poems are, pardon the choice of words, just the bones of ‘not yet there’ pieces. Sometimes I need my poems to have a little more meat on them. On this point, Irma is a poem with meat, and a lot of it.

Irma is one of the more sensual and visceral poems in the collection. It looks good on the page – one gets the sense that Brennan worked hard for this one, tweaking line breaks, fattening up or leaning down the verses until they were just right. Read this poem in silence and feel momentum as your eyes run along each line, across and down each verse; read this poem out loud, and you almost taste iron as you hear yourself say lines such as:

Iron Woman – your poseis insubmissive and I will not

look away.

The soil beneath you smells fertile.

Irma you are made of iron

While this is not the only poem in the collection that focuses on the female body (‘Between your thighs, the cunty/petals of Longley’s Sheela-na-gig’, from Danzante) and pregnancy/birth (Silent Birth) it is the strongest. The references to blood recall the cover image – a bleeding orange sphere, a blood orange; and for a moment I am left wishing there was a poem on menstrual blood in the collection. I think Brennan could (and should) write one on the topic*. A final comment on Irma – ‘from whence/he landed’. A more contemporary word than ‘whence’ would have served the poem better. Of course, this is a small gripe on what is an otherwise voluptuous and well-formed piece.

There is much made of Mexico in the collection, which is not surprising when you consider that this is where Brennan currently resides. While the collection is written in English, the work benefits from the poet’s fluency in another tongue. There is a liveliness, something alive throughout the collection; and nowhere is it more lively, more alive than in The Men in Fake Uniforms:

I would have begged for mercy.

I would’ve licked milk off a grey carpet, tasting the calcium tingedwith the salt of my teardrops and snot.

I would’ve shouted at them, go ahead and do it, I always hated that fucking finger so go ahead.

I would have gotten through the anger, somehow.

In Blood Oranges, Brennan shows us Mexico through his eyes. It is a land of blood and sacrifice. There are moments of acute visceral pleasure in reading these poems. While it isn’t perfect – debut collections rarely are – Blood Oranges does what most debuts should: it whets one’s appetite. To draw from the title poem, Brennan has ‘flung [his] bones on a high temple’. For my part, I came to pray (and prey).

*pretty please, with a cherry on top

Blood Oranges is published by Penny Dreadful Press.


Pickled this issueKay Buckley lives in Barnsley. She was overall winner of the 2014 York Mix poetry competition. Her poems have been published in magazines, e-zines and anthologies including Antiphon, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog, Proletarian Poetry, Three Drops from a

Cauldron and The Darker Side of Love by Paper Swans Press.

Tessa Berring is an Edinburgh-based artist and poet. A!lot of her work centres around!histories of!human anatomy!in both!art and medicine. She!frequently!combines!words and!images,!and has also had poems published separately!in both!print and!online journals.

Angela!T.!Carr!is!a!poet!based!in!Dublin,!with!work!published!in!a!number!of!UK!and!Irish!literary!journals.!In!2014,!she!won!the!Allingham!Poetry!Competition,!was!selected!for!Poetry!Ireland!Introductions!series!and!published!her!debut!collection,!How!to!Lose!Your!Home!&!Save!Your!Life.!www.adreamingskin.com

Paul Casey has published poetry in five of his six spoken languages. His début collection is home more

or less (Salmon Poetry, 2012), with his second due in 2016. He is the founder/director of the Ó Bhéal reading series in his home city, Cork.

Kate Dempsey’s poetry and fiction is widely published in Ireland and the UK and has a degree

in Physics. Her debut collection, The Space Between is forthcoming later this year with Doire Press. She reads with the Poetry Divas Collective who love to blur the wobbly boundaries between page and stage.

Noel Duffy’s debut collection In the Library of Lost

Objects (Ward Wood Publishing, 2011) was shortlisted for the Strong Award for Best First Collection by an Irish Poet. His secondOn Light & Carbon followed in autumn 2013, again with Ward Wood. He lives in Dublin.

Michael Farry was was selected for Poetry Ireland Introductions in 2011 and his first poetry collection, Asking for Directions, was published by Doghouse Books in 2012. He won the Dromineer Poetry Competition in 2014.

Siobhán Flynn has been placed and shortlisted in a number of poetry competitions including the Percy French prize in Strokestown and the Desmond O'Grady prize.!She!lives in Dublin with her husband, two sons, a dog and the hope that she has a collection published some day.

Neil Fulwood is the author of film studies book 'The Films of Sam Peckinpah'. His poetry has appeared in The Morning Star, Butcher's Dog, Prole, The Black Light Engine Room, Obsessed With Pipework, Art Decades and Ink Sweat & Tears. He lives in Nottingham, holds down a day job and subsidizes several pubs. He is a member of the Alan Sillitoe Committee, a group who are raising funds towards a permanent memorial to Alan. Neil co-designed their website www.sillitoe.com.

Marjorie Gill’s poems have been shortlisted for both the 2013 and 2014 Bridport Prizes and the 2014 Mslexia Poetry Pamphlet Competition.! Others have been published by, or are forthcoming in Rattle, Ambit, Gutter, Magma, Mslexia, The North, the

reader and The Scotsman.

Sean Hayes is a advertising art director with over 30 years’ experience working for clients and ad agencies in Dublin, Paris, Brussels and Warsaw. He has worked with creatives from Los Angeles to Lublin and clients from Tokyo to Tallin. He started shooting with his iPhone in 2010 and has since become an avid iPhoneographer. His mobile photography has been selected for exhibitions in Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, Miami, Milan, Paris and Brussels. Sean received an honorable mention in the landscape category of the MPA 2012 and 2nd place in the people category of!the MPA 2013.!http://mobilephotoawards.com/3rd-annual-mobile-photography-awards-winners-honorable-mentions/ He publishes a blog dedicated to celebrating the best in photography and cinematography past, present and future, at http://seanhayesphotography.com Sean lives and works in Brussels, Belgium with his wife and kids.

Shane Holohan lives in Stoneybatter in Dublin, in a house full of books, some of which are about Quantum Mechanics.

Eleanor Hooker's first collection of poems!The

Shadow Owner's Companion!(Dedalus Press) was shortlisted for the Strong/Shine award in 2013. Eleanor is currently completing her second

collection, a poem from which is nominated by the Ofi Press for a Pushcart Prize.!Eleanor is Programme Curator for the Dromineer Literary Festival. http://www.eleanorhooker.com

Justin Karcher lives in Buffalo, NY. His poems have appeared in Melancholy Hyperbole, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, and more. You can find him on Twitter (@justin_karcher)

Sheila Mannix lives in West Cork. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming!in Irish Left Review

and!Burning Bush 2 (IRE); STRIDE and!Tears in the

fence (UK); Tripwire: a journal of poetics and Akashic Books' Thursdaze series (USA). !www.sheilamannix.wordpress.com

Jennifer Matthews writes poetry and book reviews, and is editor of the!Long Story Short!literary journal. Her poetry has been published in!The Stinging Fly, Mslexia, Revival, Necessary Fiction, Poetry Salzburg,

Foma & Fontanelles!and!Cork Literary Review, Poetry

International Web!and anthologised in Dedalus's collection of immigrant poetry in Ireland,!Landing

Places!(2010). In 2012 she read at Electric Picnic with Poetry Ireland, and had a poem shortlisted by Gwyneth Lewis in the Bridport poetry competition. Her poetry was recognised in both the 2013 and 2014 Over the Edge New Writer of the Year competitions.


http://www.eleanorhooker.com/

http://www.eleanorhooker.com/

http://www.sheilamannix.wordpress.com/

http://www.sheilamannix.wordpress.com/

http://www.adreamingskin.com/

http://www.adreamingskin.com/

http://www.sillitoe.com/

http://www.sillitoe.com/

http://mobilephotoawards.com/3rd-annual-mobile-photography-awards-winners-honorable-mentions/






http://seanhayesphotography.com




Afric McGlinchey’s !collection, The lucky star of

hidden things !was published by Salmon Poetry.

Achievements include the 40th Hennessy Emerging

Poetry Award, !2012 Northern Liberties Prize !(USA)

and 2015 Poets Meet Politics award. She is currently

Poet in Residence at the West Cork Uillinn Arts

Centre. www.africmcglinchey.com

Iggy McGovern is Fellow Emeritus in Physics at

Trinity College Dublin. He has published two

collections of poetry with Dedalus Press. His most

recent title, A Mystic Dream of 4, a sonnet sequence

based on the life of Irish mathematician William

Rowan Hamilton, is published by Quaternia Press.

bruno neiva!is a Portuguese text artist, poet and

writer. He’s recently published!washing-

up!(zimZalla, 2014),!dough!(erbacce press, 2014),

and!averbaldraftsone&otherstories!(Knives Forks and

Spoons Press, 2013). More of his work can be found

in several magazines and anthologies worldwide.

He’s currently working on!Servant Drone, a

collaborative poetry and performance project with

English poet Paul Hawkins.

Kate Quigley’s work has appeared in a number of

Irish & UK journals including The Stinging Fly, The

Shop, The Moth & Orbis. She is one of the co-

founders of Flying South), a mental health themed

open mic night/artists’ collective - http://

facebook.com/FlyingSouth2015.

Sean Ruane lives in Meath. He read at the Fringe

Festival in Edinburgh in 2013. Short films ‘Sean

Ruane Poetry Live’ and ‘Sean—Harlequinade’ are

available on YouTube. His poem ‘Squares’ appears

on Soundcloud.com

Eabhan Ní Shuileabháin, daughter of an Irish-

American father and an Irish mother, grew up in

Dublin, Ireland, but now lives in Gwynedd, Wales,

with her husband and son. Her poetry has appeared

in numerous journals throughout Europe and

America.

Erratum. In our ‘Bull’ issue we printed an

incomplete biographical note for contributor Maeve

O’Sullivan. We are happy to correct this now:

Dubliner Maeve O’Sullivan’s work has been widely

published and anthologised for twenty years. Her

collections of haiku (Initial Response, 2011) and

poetry (Vocal Chords, 2014), are from Alba

Publishing. Maeve is a member of Haiku Ireland, the

Poetry Divas and the Hibernian Poetry Workshop.

www.twitter.com/maeveos

t h e p i c k l e d b o d ywww.thepickledbody.com

!

Also:Facebook: /ThePickledBody

Twitter: @thepickledbodythepickledbody.tumblr.com

!

!

Since 2013. The Pickled Body is an online poetry and art

magazine edited, designed and produced by Dimitra Xidous

and Patrick Chapman. The poems and artwork featured in this

issue are copyright © 2015 by their respective authors and

artists, and may not be reproduced without permission. The Pickled Body is copyright © 2015 by Dimitra Xidous and Patrick

Chapman. All rights reserved.!


http://www.thepickledbody.com/

http://thepickledbody.tumblr.com/

http://thepickledbody.tumblr.com/

http://www.africmcglinchey.com/

http://www.africmcglinchey.com/

http://facebook.com/FlyingSouth2015




http://www.twitter.com/maeveos

http://www.twitter.com/maeveos

http://www.thepickledbody.com/

The Pickled Body - Issue 2.1 Quantum

Documents

Transcript of The Pickled Body - Issue 2.1 Quantum