Four Poems By Oisín Breen

Pic by Steve Johnson



The Mulch

When we think of chimaera,
Of the impossibility of stasis,
And the consistency of change,
Of the annihilation of the zero point,
Perfection, though incomplete, produces truths,

                                                                         and they are beyond proof.
                                                                        and they are beyond refute.
                                                                   and they are beyond recanting.

Being, however, as we are:
Present, here; by all accounts.
We evolve:

                                                                         Outwards into apotheosis.
                                                                               Or inwards unto mud.  



I shear the wings from my back,
So as to preserve the ratio,
Between my differing selves,
Like two lengths of cut ore.

And it is with the muck of Jehovah,
That I dig beneath my teeth,
Hearing only the clattering
Of wooden shutters in the wind.

And it is with regret,
That I remember my ancestry in sand,
And the black circles I once saw,
When the sun shook loose from its hanging.

And although I am now doused in the blood of hawks,
There is respite yet.

And action, unfixed, bears witness to that beautifully violent proposition of our being:
Stochastic, complex, and perforated in equilibrium,
We are fluid and constructed from breaking points,
And the sole moral is our robust perpetuation, reconstituted out of those base-level constants:
Our long fear of meaning,
And our search for love,
Only love,
For love whole in silence.



“Are you playing on Friday?” she asks,
always in Technicolour.

She is colour,
but I can never look at her face.

I only ever imagine colours;
mauves, reds, and thrumming ochres.

I love her too much
To even look at her.

This is just how I am. 



All this is only the warped eyes of carved wood,
Fat fruit smothering the ground beneath it,
And gravity, constantly reframed with lightness.

And there is lightness
There is heat.
Yet, silence speaks best.
And I pray for the memory of the dead.


About the Author

Oisín Breen is a 36-year-old poet, part-time academic in narratological complexity, and a financial journalist covering the US-registered investment advisory sector. Dublin born Breen’s debut collection, ‘Flowers, all sorts in blossom, figs, berries, and fruits, forgotten’ was released in 2020 by Hybrid press in Edinburgh (

Primarily a proponent of long-form style-orientated poetry infused with the philosophical, Breen had a number of poems published in his early twenties mostly in online magazines, before taking time out to hone his craft, since then he has been published both in written and audio formats in a number of journals, including the Blue Nib, Books Ireland, Metaworker, the Seattle Star, Modern Literature, the New English Review, La Piccioletta Barca and Dreich magazine.