Crannóg Magazine was set up in 2002 by members of Galway Writers’ Workshop. It publishes three issues per year. Each issue is launched with a night of literature and music in The Crane Bar in Galway.
Crannóg is now edited by a board of four writers: Sandra Bunting, Gerardine Burke, Jarlath Fahy and Tony O’Dwyer and published by Wordsonthestreet publishers, Galway.
Crannóg has included the work of writers from every continent and is read all over the world. Many Crannóg authors have been included in The Forward Book of Poetry highlighting the quality and reach of the magazine.
Its mission is to publish the work of Irish writers alongside the best available worldwide and to show how well such writing sits with the best available internationally. This has a dual effect of giving writers a world platform to have their work read in print and also brings work of an international standard to the attention of an Irish audience.
Crannóg’s rapid growth is due to a consistent raising of standards in production, in content and in the use of new technology to widen its scope and compete with the best of literary magazines internationally. It continues its efforts to grow the magazine and to contribute to Irish cultural life.
Each issue of Crannóg contains in the region of a dozen short-stories and 50 poems all presented between beautifully designed covers which are steadily gaining iconic status.
Crannóg accepts short-stories up to 2000 words and poems up to 50 lines. A submission should contain one short-story or no more than three poems. Submitters are advised to read the magazine to get a flavour of the type of work we publish.
The website www.crannogmagazine.com provides further information on Crannóg together with a facility to purchase the current issue.
From Crannóg 32, spring 2013
by Alison Wells (excerpt)
You pick me up in the morning from the mat on the floor under the letter box, or perhaps from the hall table, amidst a pile of unopened mail from recipients long gone, no forwarding address, forgotten, perhaps even deceased.
You run your finger along the tight edge of me. I am long, slim, pale, like a ghost from the old days. I may seem empty, even though I am not. I am etched with your name. And your location; the device by which I have been brought to you, into your long hand, the kink in the bone of your ring finger.
You look at me. You’re eyes are not quite what they once were, you pull me close, push me back again, the focus adjusting. You see the way the letters of you are formed on my outside, the curl of them; the places where I leave you trailing and where you are indented.
You think of bringing me close to your face, of breathing me in, perhaps even vaguely touching your lips to my starched skin, but you are in the hallway and there are voices from the other flats, perhaps from the stairs, footsteps approaching. Because you are about to go out you don’t go back and leave me on your kitchen table with the maple-effect veneer and the dark mug stain and the microscopic grains of cereal your single diligence missed. I do not have to wait there; while the isosceles of sun slides across me through the mid morning leaving me basking and warm; while the afternoon comes to the hum of the ancient fridge freezer the landlord will not change; to the evening and the lonely dusk and the sound of cars splishing lamplit puddles against the kerb. If you left me there, you would see me firstly when you walked in to the empty flat as you turned on the light you would see me alone, on the kitchen table, the herald of your longing. You would pounce on me, tear me open, feed on my words, so hungry and weary. You would put me down temporarily sated, you would put your head on the table and sleep, your cheek against me.
Coping with the Weather
by Greagóir O’Dúill
Different ways of coping with the weather:
go torpid, so growth stalls, there is no need to forage
or cluster in a hive, a goldcrest colony.
Shed leaves to diminish wind resistance,
evolve needles that do not challenge any force.
Take on a camouflage of snow, sink in mud,
read the signs of shorter day, colder night and hide.
It still will come, that point in time, that breakpoint
when food is gone, reserves used, the cold drops
below endurance, the wind gusts suddenly
way above your counter-tensing capacity.
And then the question’s simple: do you survive the break,
bough fallen, or die immediately of trauma or when the rot sets in.
The weather is not to blame, wind goes where it must, the cold too is innocent.