We're delighted to present a pair of poems from Secret Poets, the début collection by Darren Donohue, published by Turas Press.

Secret Poets charts the poet's journey through illness and his determination to uncover the sublime hiding within the every day.

Late at Night

Late at night,

when the moon rolls on its side,

and empty fields mourn history,

dictators kill poets.


Surprised in their pyjamas,

stolen from their beds,

they're marched to where firing squads

miss their target,

taking one, two, three bullets

to send geckos flying

in the hidden dark.


A wooden-legged school teacher

and two anarchist matadors

are trapped like paper

between scissor-blade headlights.


Lorca, standing apart,

dips his pen in their shadows

and draws their faces

in rings of gun smoke.


The briefest silence

and petty rage

whistles through him,

dragging the poet

from his balcony of stars

into an unmarked grave.

The Weed

What must the weed make of it all?

After a lifetime of pushing, growing,

stretching, flowering, to find itself

embedded between two concrete walls,

its feet planted in some mother crack,

the little chink through which it sprang.


The view ̶ a grey concrete garden competing

with a heavy grey sky, a modest peach house

with matching drains, a mossy chimney stack

black with soot, old bits of pipe drooling

over an outhouse roof, a shy breeze now

and then. How absurd! And yet, the weed

continues its journey upward, trying to see


over the wall and into the next garden.

What patience! Such perseverance!

Teach me, little weed, your inexhaustible curiosity,

your blind faith, your undiminished character

and infinite certainty. Look on me and share

the allegiance to which your root is tapped.

Secret Poets is published by Turas Press