Osiris 101 will be ready for distribution towards the end of December 2025 or in early January 2026.

The Reading Period for Osiris 102 begins January 15, 2026 and ends March 31.

Osiris does not publish any text written with the aid of AI, nor do we publish previously published material. We believe in the integrity of the writer and in the integrity of their work. The hand of the writer, their spirit, their vision, their quirks and idiosyncrasies are all part of the text. Let us continue to celebrate the beauty of imperfection.

When Birds Were Saints on Cruachán Aigli

The eagles have gone by way of the west

in the rush of the sea and birds flit stir 

occasionally landing on the stack’s steep crown

where pilgrims yearly climb in adoration

And here the fog caught me in its deep wakeful sleep

closed in around me like the clouds of heaven

from some children’s story of golden streets

and pillowy white avenues of cotton but

not before I caught a glimpse of the eagle

its shadowy image on the pallet of white

flying overhead calling out the magi’s names 

the ones who had disappeared with the Cross

A skeptic myself I squatted in the fog

and drank from a plastic hipflask of clear water

not blessed or even drawn from a holy Celtic well

but carried up hours of rough track to the summit 

drank and refreshed myself in the white silence

close to the sky but without a clear view

and I heard the magi call and the anchors 

of the earth drag along through the lost names

as through all the gods were gathering again

on the eagle’s strong wings

When I listen to Russian Music

When I listen to Russian music

snow begins to fall.

I pull on overcoats

that come with the records,

coat over coat over coat,

and leave my home forever.

When I listen to Russian music

I search for children in the drifts.

I have only the coats on my back.

My pockets are empty.

When I listen to Russian music

poverty is no disgrace.

I cover cold children

coat by coat

and stay until they wake.

Alone on the road,

I listen to Russian music

wrapped in wool

from throat to soul

against the bitter summer.

La Senna

In fondo
in ognuno di noi
c’è una Senna
avvitata e contorta
snodata e sgranata
debordante e cangiante
fluente e degradante
verso le nostre assenze
diluita nelle attese
dileguata in capillari ramati
Con lampioni ai lati
e gialli e tenui
con ponti azzuccherati e nebbiosi 
con pioggia fine
C’è una Senna
tortuosa e impetuosa
ingabbiata da argini e panchine 
nubi basse e voragini radicate 
inurbamenti statici e dolori fusi

Osiris would like to thank all the writers who have contributed their work since 1972.

You share your voices, your visions, and your cultures to stand in solidarity with your fellow writers. Each of you, writing in different languages, keys and registers, exploring harmonies and dissonances, moving language in new ways or embracing traditions, is unique. Writing is an act of courage and faith that transcends boundaries and opens the world for others. 

Osiris would like to thank all our readers who, for over five decades, have joined us on this adventure. You are the essential link for writers, the hearts and vibrant minds that enter the world of their poems. Your appreciation, criticism, and devotion to poetry takes poetry off the page and into the world. 

Contraires

Le silence s’étire svelte, sauvage

à travers les buis au ras du sol, gronde

et s’élève comme une masse invisible.

L’espace se dilate en ce rien minuscule

d’où l’on apprend la lenteur

au cœur de la disparition.

Scène

Rentré, depuis
ma fenêtre surpris
happé par la scène, en pleine
nuit, derrière
sans rideau, quelques
étages plus bas, une large
porte vitrée de l’immeuble d’en face :

un couple dans la lumière verte

je finis par m’y arracher, au-dedans
blessé d’une mort, comme
lorsqu’en gare de Potsdam, avant même la chute du mur j’avais vu plusieurs quais plus loin étendu
sur le dos sur un rail dans le sens
de la longueur déjà
à moitié coupé un homme
par la roue d’un wagon engagé dans son corps

BROKEN RIVER 

Nothing could be

further from landscape,

nothing so industrial

contain the folded hills,

water’s unravelled flow.

Brutish constructions

are all incorrect angles,

polished and painted

to be still. The river

is broken, unimagined,

spirit sucked dry, life

bolted crudely together.

Sea and land

The cold air is billowing through the cabin
Christ the redeemer is draped in the national colours
we are disinfected when entering
the boats return to the harbour at the day’s end
the man at the helm a woman still stretched out across the bow

they are being delivered and
the sea flashing gold sprinkles
and this is going nowhere
days spent thinking of nothing
but emptying the mind
and sleep
the black sand still burns my soles
the church is aflame again
mountains covered in mist and rumbling
roads winding along the coast under flowers
they’re dressed in black and running at dawn
they’re dressed in white and crowding 
the roads at night
there are jumpers, card-players and day trip trains
this is just a litany of lives
and they all have stories to tell

(there is no break between lines; formatting glitch)