Biography of Matt Mooney
Born in Kilchreest, Loughrea, Co. Galway in 1943, he took up a teaching position in Listowel in 1966.
His first book of poetry 'Droving' was launched at Writers' Week, Listowel in 2003.
He read at The Baffle Festival, and the West Cork Literary Festival and in Victoria, Canada. His poem ‘The Instrument’ was read on Radio One by Ciarán Mac Mathúna. ‘Stepping Away’ appeared in West 47.
His second collection of poems 'Falling Apples' was launched at Writers'Week, Listowel in 2010.It's available for purchase on line at Original Writing Ltd, from Kenny's Books on line and from Amazon.
It can be downloaded as an e book as well.
He has read and performed poems in The White House, Limerick, at poetry Slams including Baffle, Cúirt, Writers' Week. His poems have been published in Feasta, West 47, in The Applicant, the First Cut and The Galway Review.
Matt Mooney's Works:
- A Vespa -new-
Matt Mooney Poems
Red deer at dawn that come our way, Quick and sleek and nimble, nibbling; Drifting fog is weaving morning magic Beyond the ruined castle by the lake.
An Eye On London
The morning sky has a crest of a moon Sitting up over my window's horizon, Tall conifers compete with chimney stacks, Castle top turrets and white office blocks;
By the banks of the Nervión river In the cool of the chestnut trees I watched a wayward fallen leaf Tumbling along in the breeze;
Across The Irish Sea
When the light was white from Tilley lamps And the boat to Holyhead was overladen, The postman was a sight for pure delight As casually from his bag he took the letter-
Goodbyes at the open front door On a Sunday morning in Summer; An aeroplane shines in the sun; At home I can learn about solitude.
The merry widow in her home, So proud of her tidy residence, Hostess to all who rambled in- No age barrier or code of entry.
The clearness of a dream I had in bed last night Has dimmed at dawn- I'm awake and looking west,
The Old Accordion.
Eyes mesmerized by long musical fingers Reaching out across the centuries’ divide To draw from the wellsprings of the past, Divining the pure music that he inherited
Belonging Where hill climbing ends Around the fourth bend,
Badgers In The Wood
Stopped in our tracks We stood in the wood Seeing her pass before us: She was the badger black and grey
On main roads it’s a bumperland- It’s no joke to be driving anymore: Awful accidents, death statistics, Greenhouse gases, big meltdown;
I see him as the signalman On the unseen tracks of time A family priest for all of us- As we travel down the line.
Face To Face
The morning train to Dublin Carrying me comfortably; Fascinated by a lady’s face In the hand mirror she held
Earth To Earth
Earth to Earth Oh to be as still as the lily pads Floating in the billabong
Late Night Taxi
In the still night
From the dreamy depths;
There is a diesel drone
That plays upon my brain:
A taxi from the town
A small-time punter,
Elegant even at this hour;