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. He was in the top 30 in the Poemhunter contest a few years ago.
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 online and in the anthology Galway Review 3,4 and 5. His third collection of poetry 'Earth to Earth' was published by the Galway Academic Press in 2015.
His fourth collection 'The Singing Woods' was published in 2017. All available from Kenny's Books online.
Matt Mooney's Works:
'Earth to Earth'
'The Singing Woods'
Matt Mooney Poems
The clearness of a dream I had in bed last night Has dimmed at dawn- I'm awake and looking west,
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.
Cat On The Street
She closes the door as she steps outside At the end of her day's designing; Stooping she greets a cat on the street Whose bushy tail it exceeds him.
Alive By The Lee
A tall man bends low, While there is time, To pick up a lost coin Lying in the bus lane,
I Ask Myself
What’s that? That sound from the wood! Does that bare tree complain a lot? It does not!
Scents of the Summer, incense to his senses, The boy walks barefoot most of the way. By hills of furze bushes above the soft bog, Though ever so slowly the river flows free
Sliabh Aughty, my own mountain mine, Rhododendroned ridge ever there for me; Fields ascending higher as I go From Ballylee to Loughrea's lake:
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-
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 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
Under the eiderdown
We lie inert,
Alert to night winds
That hurry up the hill:
Playing hide and seek
Among the trees,
Lulling us to sleep:
Sure of ourselves
And the only sounds