Adam Wyeth is from Sussex and now lives in County Cork. His poems have been published in numerous literary journals, anthologized in the O’Brien Press Award winning book, Something Beginning with P, and the Arvon International Poetry Competition have specially commended his work in their 25th anniversary anthology (2006).

He was recently selected in the Poetry Ireland 2007 Introductions Series in Dublin. He has been a guest reader at the Whitehouse Poetry Revival in Limerick, and continues to bring his poetry to the fore. He teaches creative writing in Cork.

Adam is also a filmmaker, and is credited among his works with directing ”Soundeye International Poetry Festival” (2005) and “Desmond O’Grady” (2005). (see clips of these below.)

Audio Poems from Whirligig by Adam Wyeth [top]

[audio:Alfa Romeo Guillietta Spyder Veloce.mp3]
Alfa Romeo Guillietta Spyder Veloce

[audio:Google Earth.mp3]
Google Earth

[audio:Silent Music.mp3]
Silent Music

[audio:A Viking Comes To Tea.mp3]
A Viking Comes To Tea (read by Paula McGlinchey)

Hell (read by Paula McGlinchey)


[audio:Those Were The Days.mp3]
Those Were The Days (read by Paula McGlinchey)

[audio:Night Train.mp3]
Night Train

[audio:The kings bed.mp3]
The King’s Bed (Read by Adam Wyeth and Paula McGlinchey)

Videos from the Poetry Ireland 2007 Introductions Series, Dublin [top]

Alfa Romeo Guilietta Spyder Veloce

Google Earth


A Viking Comes To Tea


Oxbow Lake

Clips from Poetry Films directed by Adam Wyeth [top]

Renowned Limerick poet Desmond O’Grady shares his poetry and thoughts. Extracts from the documentary film ‘A life in a day of Desmond O’Grady’ by Wyeth and Walsh. To purchase this documentary, you can email the author here.

Desmond O’Grady – ‘Kinsale’

Desmond O’Grady – ‘Exile from Exile’

Desmond O’Grady – Conversation and Poetry

Clips with Poetry and Interviews from the SoundEye Cork International Poetry Festival 2005. From the documentary ‘SoundEye’ by Adam Wyeth and Keith Walsh. To purchase this documentary, you can email the author here.

Charles Bernstein – ‘Thank You’

Mairead Byrne – ‘The Eaten Bagel’ & ‘The Russian Week’

Nathaniel Mackey

Tom Leonard

Yang Lian – ‘Yi’

Poetry Montage 1

Poetry Montage 2

Poems by Adam Wyeth [top]

Google Earth

                                The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.
                                        Theseus from A Midsummer Night’s Dream
                                                                                Act V Scene 1

We started in Africa, the world at our fingertips,
dropped in on your house in Zimbabwe; threading
our way north out of Harare into the suburbs,
magnifying the streets – the forms of things unknown,
till we spotted your mum’s white Mercedes parked
in the driveway; seeming – more strange than true,
the three of us huddled round a monitor in Streatham,
you pointed out the swimming pool and stables.
We whizzed out, looking down on our blue planet,
then like gods – zoomed in towards Ireland –
taking the road west from Cork to Kinsale,
following the Bandon river through Innishannon,
turning off and leapfrogging over farms
to find our home framed in fields of barley;
enlarged the display to see our sycamore’s leaves
waving back. Then with the touch of a button,
we were smack bang in Central London,
tracing our footsteps earlier in the day, walking
the wobbly bridge between St Paul’s and Tate Modern;
the London Eye staring majestically over the Thames.
South through Brixton into Streatham –
one sees more devils than vast hell can hold –
the blank expressions of millions of roofs gazing
squarely up at us, while we made our way down
the avenue, as if we were trying to sneak up
on ourselves; till there we were right outside the door:
the lunatic, the lover and the poet – peeping through
the computer screen like a window to our souls.

Alfa Romeo Guilietta Spyder Veloce

I see you in my mind’s eye driving your Alfa,
your Alfa Romeo Guilietta Spyder Veloce.
Never happier, winding through country
lanes of Devonshire; darting over the moors.
Taking to the road as Vikings took to sea
in search of plunder. No wonder
at eighty-five you drive a sky-blue Mx5
convertible, you call Malcolm,

collecting me at Tunbridge Wells station,
tearing home to catch the last of the sun –
sucking on your Peterson’s I bought
in Dublin, our smiles and words
briefly catching each other
before taking wing on the wind


I wonder how you are in your humble abode,
in the Bungalow – Belvedere – Blackness road?
The alliteration raises my heart’s alarm –
as if it belongs in an Emily Dickinson poem,

-oppresses, like the Heft of Cathedral Tunes.
I’m reading her bittersweet verse,
and find you – skulking between the lines,
hiding from friends behind blinds –

or the shield of a half-open door.
I think of you before you got your eye put out:
a carefree girl with Audrey Hepburn
flair – a tan to match – legs 11 –

working in the bank where you met dad.
What happened then ? I’ll never know –
how you were dragged in the shadows
never to unravel your bandaged soul.

My stiff Heart questions was it He –
who sent you into the House of Cold?
Or was it the responsibility as the eldest child
living in a large household?

Dickinson knew what it was like to hide,
referred to as the Myth of Amherst –
never leaving her childhood home
till the day she died.

All I can do is wish you ~winged-hope~
that you will fly once more
like the words in her poems
– flanked – with dashes to help them soar.


I’ll always remember those Sunday drives home.
How a blackening silence came over us
with the night. I’d look back at the road
we set out on when our weekend had begun:

singing songs, stopping at petrol stations
at the back of beyond, turning off the beaten
track and finding a pub for lunch –
with swings and climbing frames to play on.

But all that was fading fast, as signs marked
the dwindling miles, oncoming headlights
dazzled us, the final catseyes blinked past
and the road emptied – losing its nerve

as we curved off the motorway. Then the real
darkness set in – and the chill of parting
made me numb. I’d run upstairs to my room
without a word spoken, and out the corner

of my window watch your silver Citroen slip
into the night; a final sliver of light then total eclipse.
Another week of staring into space in classrooms,
waiting for our next outing all together. Save mum.

Leland Bardwell

night I could not sleep
I came to read you in lamplight –
poking out the rushes
of books, festooned on my shelves
that I look upon as family.
But Leland, you were the least familiar
of kith and kin, given me
by your son, Nicholas in Dingle.
And so, Leland Bardwell,
I stretched out your pages like arms
and undressed you
with my eyes, my ears, my nose, my hands,
my mouth – watering inside –
devoured you! Night I could not sleep,
Leland Bardwell
I came to you out of the rushes of bed sheets,
and held your slender spine
tenderly as the first time I found poetry
singing in me.
The lines of your life on Lower Leeson Street
opened and closed like doors
in my mind, and the sun and moon rose
at the same time.
Leland Bardwell, night I could not sleep
I came to raise the dead
weight of my head from its rushes of knots
and lay it on your lap
where your lyrics ran like fingers through my locks.
Night cannot contain
the strain of thoughts that fly between these walls –
so I have come
to settle them in words
plucking them
from the air, where all things come.
Such thoughts
I had while reading you Leland Bardwell,
night I could not sleep.

Chamber Music

The one piece of music that churns my stomach
is Shubert’s Quintet in C.

Since my grandmother told me
this is what Nazi officers played full volume

to drown out the moans of millions of Jews
as they were led into gas chambers.

No matter how stirring a pitch the violins reach,
or how plangently the rasping cellos sigh –

I see their gaunt naked forms fall like flies –
in a poisonous fog; reduced to cow pat

lining the floors, then shit-shovelled into pits –
while the whole movement plays over and again

never reaching the end, like a scratched record
that keeps jumping back.


After the dust settled
and the rubble had gone –
the sirens ceased to call

and our husbands came home;
we no longer had the excuse
to roam the streets at night –

and rendezvous, catching
each other’s eyes in the light
of bombed out buildings –

as we did during the blitz.
You’d put your coat
round my bare shoulders

and we’d suck down
your last cigarette.
Fags are always nicer shared.

Your whispering breath tickling
my ear, red lipstick coating the butt.
The rush and blush of the city on fire,

echoed my heart, thumping
like a bomb about to go off.
At first, I thought it was only us,

but then I noticed others;
hearing muffled moans
behind cloaked windows.

Sometimes I wished the whole city
would turn to ashes, leaving you and me,
a Madam and Eve, betwixt and between.

On nights when you never came
I’d wander alone amid the blaze
trying to find you in alleys

we had known – the black curtains
flapping out of windows, like ghosts;
blowing me out like a flame.

Dirge of a Domestic Husband

I am a domestic Husband.
And I live on the outskirts
of my wife’s skirts
in a house of sticks, on a cliff,
overlooking the sea,
out on a limb of a peninsula
dangling precariously
off my daddy toe
in the foothills of Cork County.
I have escaped the fast lane
of the city
and opted for the quiet path
in the country.
And I drown my sorrows
in the bubbles of washing-up.
And I hang my wet dreams
on the washing line.
And I iron the creases
of my overcast thoughts,
burying them like secrets
in the airing cupboard.
And I pick out words
that ring true on the radio
and repeat them over and over:
tristesse, rigmarole, laborious;
going inside them
till they make no sense,
then wash my hands of them.
And I sit on the fence and stare at the cows
talking in long confirmative vowels.
I am so busy sweeping dust
under the carpets,
I have no time to think about
my part in society.
I wait for my bread-winning,
life-giving wife to swim home,
bearing gifts from the city
and news of hope.

Famous Danish Poets
(for Mike)

Over Danish pastries and tea,
I asked my wife do you know of any
famous Danish poets? She said no
I do not know of any famous Danish poets.

I said do you know why you do not
know of any famous Danish poets?
She said no I do not know why I do not
know of any famous Danish poets.

So I took a line from a Robbie Burns
poem: My love is like a red, red rose;
and regurgitated in Danish: My love is like:

Sounds like someone throwing up, said my wife.
That is why there are no famous Danish poets.

Oxbow Lake

From Lesotho to Sullivan’s Quay,
Maurice Scully inscribed in his book
of poetry to me. Because I caught
wind of him mentioning a Basotho blanket
in one of his poems. We got
talking – how we both went to Lesotho:
seeking adventure, growing our hair.
And we ran through places
we visited there, like a river snaking down
the mountains, till our paths
criss-crossed here – converging
like an oxbow lake. From The Kingdom in the Sky
to the People’s Republic of Cork
below the sea. And under his signature
X marked the spot to me.

X marked the spot to me
below the sea, and under his signature,
to the People’s Republic of Cork.
Like an oxbow lake from The Kingdom in the Sky,
criss-crossed here – converging
the mountains. Till our paths
we visited there, like a river snaking down.
And we ran through places,
seeking adventure, growing our hair.
Talking – how we both went to Lesotho
in one of his poems. We got
wind of him mentioning a Basotho blanket
of poetry to me. Because I caught
Maurice Scully – inscribed in his book,
From Lesotho to Sullivan’s Quay.

Poetry Workshops by Adam Wyeth [top]

Every Monday in Association with Tigh Filí, a fun and inspiring course led by poet, Adam Wyeth.

Creative Writing Workshops (Monday 11 – 1pm)

For anyone interested in poetry or creative writing, Adam’s inspirational workshops are not to be missed. During the course, you will be set fun and stimulating exercises to help free up the imagination. You will learn about craft and technique, discover ways to improve your range and ability as a writer and look at ways of getting your work published. Also find out why losing your voice and writing about what you don’t know is so important – all this and much more.

All you need is paper, pen and your imagination!

Poetry Appreciation Workshops (Monday 2-4pm)

Discover a language within a language. Enjoy and savour a wealth of poems by a wide-selection of contemporary leading poets from around the world. The sessions will entail reading several poems in a group and garnering an in-depth understanding of the poem and poet through discussion.

Venue: Tigh Filí Gallery, Cork Arts Theatre, Carroll’s Quay

For your place Contact Adam on 086 3166300 or email Adam here

Also starting soon – evening Creative Writing Workshops.