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SIMON LEWIS / JEWTOWN


Winner of the 2015 Hennessy Award for Poetry
Shortlisted for the 2016 Shine/Strong Prize for First Collection




A vivid and expertly-crafted collection which rescues a vitally important component of our shared history from neglect and obscurity and spills over with light and the life of those it contains.

— Dave Lordan


(click to view cover)

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2016 / 72 pages
ISBN: 978-1-907682-45-2
Cover art: Clare Keogh

€12



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SIMON LEWIS was the winner of the Hennessy Prize for Emerging Poetry and the runner up in the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award in 2015. He also featured in Poetry Ireland’s Introductions Series the same year. He has been shortlisted for the Listowel Poetry Prize and Bridport Prize and received commendations in the Gregory O’Donoghue prize and Dromineer Literary Prize. He has been published in many literary journals and magazines, including The Stony Thursday, Boyne Berries, The Irish Times, Literary Orphans, Blue Max Review, Irish Literary Review, Silver Apples and Deep Water. Simon lives in Carlow and is Principal of the Educate Together primary school and is well known in education circles for his views on technology in education and has written several publications in this field.


SAMPLE POEMS

The Albert Road Kids


We all played together, the Albert Road kids,
street games like knick-knack and hide-and-seek.
Then they got older, called us kikes, shylocks, yids.

There was Moishe Magoo and Sidney the Squid
and Charlie the Chatterbox who couldn’t speak.
We all played together, the Albert Road kids.

I was Paddy the Jew as my hair was red,
there was Cohen the Golden and Wolfson the Weak.
Then they got older, called us kikes, shylocks, yids.

My best friend, (a goy), we called Terrible Ed
who wouldn’t tell lies, or curse or give cheek.
We all played together, the Albert Road kids.

We crept into Houghton’s, grabbed bundles of twigs,
shared out the bounty for playtime that week.
Then they got older, threw the sticks at us yids.

Our playtimes slowed down as we got educated,
our friends learned their lessons in Mass every week.
We did play together, the Albert Road kids,
then they got older, called us kikes, shylocks, yids.



Mary Daly


Sometimes, she shows me how to make the bread
the special one they like on Sabbath. In silence,
except for affirmation or a gentle hand
to sway me right. At the sink I watch
the salt soak up the blood from fish and meat,
smell the sweetness of their soup, or gaze
as gherkins float in brine like goldfish,
until one day, he plucks one out, crunches,
winces, nods and offers one to me.
When I get home each week, mother makes
bacon, sausage, pudding. Always asks
‘Are those Jewmen treating my daughter right?’
And somehow I feel betrayal with every bite.