Apologies for Cross Posting

Sojourns, Allen Fisher, 8¼ x 5½ inches, 24 pages, deskjet printed, 250g card
cover, colour cover illustration by the author, hand sewn binding. ISBN 1
903090 25 3
Stg 3.50 / USD 5

Luminarias, Familiar Hinges, Sheila E. Murphy, 5¾ x 3¾ inches, 28 pages,
250g card cover, colour cover illustration specially commissioned for this
edition from Louise Mac Mahon, hand sewn binding. ISBN 1 903090 26 1
Stg3.50 / USD 5

Postage extra. Visa and Mastercard accepted.

Wild Honey Press is happy to announce the publication of these two new
chapbooks. Both are available from Wild Honey Press, 16a Ballyman Road,
Bray, Co. Wicklow, Ireland, or from Peter Riley or Billy Mills.


Sojourns is part of Fisher's Gravity as a Consequence of Shape. A work in
eight sections, starting with (RED) RED SHIFT 1 and ending with (RED) RED
SHIFT 2, its themes of colour and movement are explored with a wide range of
registers and reference. Here are two extracts:

The ancients used cinnabar, the red sulphide of mercury, for bright red.
Zosimus spoke of it coming from the stars. Vermilion is the re-synthesis of
mercury and sulphur into the likeness of the cinnabar from which the mercury
was extracted. After vapourising and recondensing into the top of a flask,
the flask is broken. It's almost black. As it is ground it becomes red.
Cennion reckons that if you ground it every day for twenty years the colour
would still become finer and more handsome.

And

rhubatic fummeck thick
onto router's roof run

Athen fibre screened
crogged or laced

get it off thar
git orf like I sayd

yonder hill orogesh
miles from here


Luminarias, Familiar Hinges consists of twenty one four stanza pieces, each
stanza contain four lines. I was immediately struck by the scope, clarity
and multiplicity embraced by this work. There is a spiritual quality which
gives it a tremendous unity.

 Here is the opening section:

Holy be the quiet of our nest
Awash in oils and thin-brushed
Eggshell hue that rests even
In dark, and blessed be the handsome

Furniture, the sparkle of a hundred
Watts on glass, an engine rubbed
Into commotion where a lamp would be.
There are no insects here,

The walls remain as rough
As paths preceding pavement. All the crooks
Forgot to come, and mercy litters
Turf and tangibles. The ebb

And flow of distance slims
The merely artificial space between us,
Shaped unfamiliar as
The icing on the cake we won't consume.

Best wishes

Randolph Healy.