Fionncara MacEoin

 Fionncara MacEoin is a poet living in Saskatoon. MacEoin has participated in writing retreats and workshops in Saskatchewan and at The Banff Centre. Her poetry has appeared in The Society, In Medias Res, Transition, CV2, and the chapbook Even the Sky Parts (JackPine Press 2011)





80 pages / paper

Available in the US
World Rights Available


Not the First Thing I've Missed

ISBN: 978-1-927068-83-0

Poems imbued with a rueful, self-deprecating humour about how delusions frighten while they enlighten.

These poems are short meditations that explore an emotional counterpoint where hope and doubt collide and where the familiar present is only an echo of some past loss. Moreover, questions arise: How can we be certain of what we really know? Why does the reverie of reality seem so strange in the recklessness of our everyday lives?

Not The First Thing I've Missed captures the debris and encumbrances of such questions with a healthy humour and a wicked sense of ownership. These poems distill the upheaval that comes when delusion and reality merge and comment on the resulting residue of self-examination. MacEoin's insights provide a catalyst for readers who want to know what happens to people in the aftermath of such a struggle, and also offer an immediate empathy for those with similar experiences.

"The more I have read of Fionncara's work, the more I have come to admire her for continuing to make me feel a bit uneasy and alert and humble. She has an edgy, lyrical voice full of disdain, despair, love and light focused on things and people that matter. She is a writer to watch, for sure." — John Lent

"These poems are as much mini short-stories as they are quirky and biting minimalist observations on contemporary living. Offering compassion, unexpected insight and humour, MacEoin transforms sadness and despair into a catalogue of memories of survival. These are stories we didn?t know we wanted, no needed, to hear." — Priscila Uppal

"How do you write about despair? Beside Rockwell’s oatmeal and fishing rods, MacEoin’s version of the world doesn’t have a chance. Life inside and outside the institution is one proliferation of the progressive tense — experience as "floating, barking, shaking, turning, slaving, clutching, glaring, coughing, and disappearing”: that mutated world where present, past, and future are one. “You could call it living," moving from “bed to chair / bed to chair” where time is a "barrier to be broken” because no one wants the depressives. These poems stagger and drool. Sometimes, they brawl. Nothing like Purdy’s fisticuffs in a northern bar, this landscape is inside the head, the one in the mirror, the hospital bed." —Susan Stenson


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