Drawn to the Light Press is a magazine of contemporary poetry edited by Orla Fay. It will be published thrice yearly in October, February and June. Orla has a Master’s Degree in Digital Arts and Humanities and formerly worked as the editor of Boyne Berries Magazine. Her poetry has been widely published and placed in many competitions. In October 2020 she published her chapbook Drawn to the Light. Her debut collection is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry. Orla can be contacted for writing, editing, proofreading and creative assignments.

Orla’s blog can be found here.

Cover image ‘Aurora’ by Deirdre McKernan.

Drawn to the Light Poetry Chapbook

A chapbook of 26 poems by DTTLP editor Orla Fay. Available now. Price includes postage.


Read a sample of this book…

The Natural Order

I start the year with care for what is small,
the black beetle caught in the threads of my glove,
warrior having survived the night,

experience the trauma in freeing him, or her, or it!
Ten minutes or more spent in surgery
and I never want to be a spider.

I suppose that yes there must be death,
that this is the universal law,
best make my peace with it now.

Yet I balked in finding fledglings on the roadside,
their tiny, almost weightless bodies
just not managing to fly,

how I lament
those who are this sacrifice,
the could-have-beens.

I ushered two to a leafy, grass and hedgerow
pyre, that when the sun sets, or rises
the next day the cleansing by fire,

the ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
the earth giveth and taketh away, realise
that the great bounty of spring must have its casualties.

The murder of crows know this,
feeding on the freshly ploughed fields,
see that the land is life to their skies,

as do the worms, soil eaters and keepers know,
that the mother provides mealy moments
of subterranean artistry before the farmer’s hand.

How the West is Won

The cowboy looked like The Lone Ranger,
Billy the Kid, or Wyatt Earp,
shiny badge pinned to brown suede waistcoat,
black Stetson pointed tip down as he flung away a cigar.
Everyone wanted to be like him,
on his left hip a holster from which he pulled a silver,
heavy Colt Peacemaker, the Colt .45,
the gun that won the West.

What hope did my Sioux friend have,
his long raven hair blowing on the prairie?
He carried a tomahawk on his belt,
a bow and arrow slung across his back.
He wore feathers in his hair, ate hunted
buffalo and wore buffalo hide in winter.
The wolf ran with him under the full moon,
the fish in the streams came to the softness of his hands.

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