Poet Laureate: Edward O’Dwyer

Edward O’Dwyer is the Poet Laureate for Adare, Co Limerick. A native of Limerick, Edward is a poet, fiction writer and a secondary school teacher.

“It is a great honour to be selected by Poetry Ireland for Poetry Town 2021 as the Poet Laureate of Adare,” he says. “Whether taking part in Poetry Ireland’s Introductions series, or through publication in Poetry Ireland Review, my interactions with the organisation have always been extremely positive, and so I am eager and grateful to work with Poetry Ireland again.

“To do so in this capacity is especially wonderful, as a representative of Limerick, my home. I always identify as a writer from Limerick, aiming to contribute in my own way to the strong and varied cultural and artistic traditions we have.”

Edward’s bio

Edward O’Dwyer is a secondary school teacher in Limerick writing both poetry and fiction. His third collection of poetry, Exquisite Prisons, is due soon from Salmon Poetry, and follows The Rain on Cruise’s Street (2014), which was Highly Commended in the Forward Prizes, and Bad News, Good News, Bad News (2017), which contains the poem, ‘The Whole History of Dancing’, which won the Best Original Poem award from Eigse Michael Hartnett Festival 2018.

He has represented Ireland at Poesiefestival Berlin, for their European ‘renshi’ project, took part in Poetry Ireland’s Introductions series, and was shortlisted for a Hennessy Award. His first short story collection, Cheat Sheets, was published by Truth Serum Press in 2018 and features on The Lonely Crowd journal’s ‘Best Books of 2018’ list. He has written the follow-up, Are You Waiting For Love?, and, during lockdown, his first novel, The Last Bite.

Edward presented Adare’s Town Poem at a special event on 18 September). You can read the full text of Edward's poem below.

(Photo credit: Niall Hartnett)
 

We’d Meet in Adare, But Won’t Anymore

i.m. Joseph Sweeney

We’d meet in Adare, but won’t anymore, for Joe has died.
Now he is a ghost at my side by the banks of the Maigue.
I’ll have to imagine the poems he’d quote perfectly from,
I must imagine every lilt and swing and rhythm of his voice.

Now he is a ghost at my side by the banks of the Maigue.
The Earls of Dunraven all died, everyone dies. Now Joe has.
I must imagine every lilt and swing and rhythm of his voice
for Joe is a ghost now, sipping ghost tea in The Good Room.

The Earls of Dunraven all died, everyone dies. Now Joe has.
We saw a crow drop dead once from the air by Chawke’s.
For Joe is a ghost now, sipping ghost tea in The Good Room,
I imagine his words, always these words: beautiful Adare.

We saw a crow drop dead once from the air by Chawke’s:
such happens, anything can die of old age or a broken heart.
I imagine his words, always these words: beautiful Adare.
Joe’s ghost and I loiter. We gawk in through the Manor gates.

Such happens, anything can die of old age or a broken heart.
Not old, Joe, I can’t help wondering was he broken-hearted.
Joe’s ghost and I loiter. We gawk in through the Manor gates.
His ghost and I watch tourists snap thatched roof cottages.

Not old, Joe, I can’t help wondering was he broken-hearted.
We’d meet in Adare, but won’t anymore, for Joe has died.
His ghost and I watch tourists snap thatched roof cottages.
I’ll have to imagine the poems he’d quote perfectly from.