Cyphers Magazine


Publishing poetry, prose and art since 1975

Category: Poem

Monet in Árann

for Kathleen Loughnane by Moya Cannon. Over the drystone, sunstruck wallwe were ambushed by the swayand scent of a July meadow—whites of tall daisy and yarrow,purples of scabious and cranesbill,the bitten yellow of cat’s ear,blue tremble of harebell,and more flowers that we couldn’t name, but we were caught, are caught still,in the blurry, summery sway […]


by Leland Bardwell I am locked in this acropolisjust Feodor and meI rub my fingersin his overcoat of stonegambling my airline ticketand find in the valleyof my life-linethe gravel of Baden Baden   2022 is Leland Bardwell’s centenary year. Her complete poems will be published this year and a new book from Lepus Print celebrates […]


by Macdara Woods. The fiddler in the caveholds back the sea:the firbolgs planted the land like this the smoky kitchencandle-lighton mother of pearl: This side of the portallet me feel itlet me putmy hand there let mehold ittouch itfeel it let me somehow stay connected This poem first appeared in Cyphers 56, in 2004. It […]

Green Window

By Pearse Hutchinson The small kitchen in the attic scarcely had room for anything bar the big double bed.Which was surprisingly comfortable.There was one small square window, above the sink.It was entirely covered – and very neatly too – by some very thin green material.You’d be amazedI always wasat how much light that green window […]

Rough Magic

When naming the storms the meteorologists
choose from Shakespeare, the Bible, the Greek gods.
This one will come bringing monsoon rain
and leave us needing candlelight.
The worst of it will be the flood
pawing the back door to get in.


By Pól Breathnach Gearrchaille ’s stócach i dtús na ndéaga faoi éadach rocach ar shop in éindí. Caithriú na beirte: cíocha a’ péacadh, fionnadh ag eascairt in ascaillí ’s i mbléine. Fiosracht is fionnachtain, diurnú ’s freagairt, tráthnóntaí samhraidh ’s a muintir sa gcathair. B’ionadh liom do ghliondar is do ghníomha prasa. Ghlac tú liom […]

He Made It All Too Obvious

He made it all too phony about affection,
made it all too creepy about using women,
made it all too Don Juan about his alleged amours,
all too evident he was twisted and all
too dull when anyone interrupted him by
so little as a word,

Head Wounds

Each thin line of fresh blood on my forehead
is an insignia of age
I claim,

my genetic baldness, ambushed and bled
stanched by paper scrap or band aid
no shame.

Scroll to Top