Philip Brady’s poetry has appeared in over fifty journals in the United States and Ireland, including Abraxas, The American Literary Review, The Belfast Literary Supplement, The Honest Ulsterman, The Laurel Review, The Massachusetts Review, Pacific International,Poetry Northwest, and other journals. Translated into Spanish, Polish, Norwegian, and Hebrew, his poems have been published internationally.

Brady is the author of three collections of poetry, Fathom, (Word Press, 2007); Weal(winner of the 1999 Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press); and Forged Correspondences, (New Myths, 1996) chosen for Ploughshares’ “Editors’ Shelf” by Maxine Kumin.

Brady’s poetry has received the Ohioana Poetry Award in 2008, two Ohio Arts Council Individual Artists Fellowships, a Best of Ohio Writers Contest Prizes, a Newhouse Award and a Thayer Fellowship in the Arts from New York State, an Academy of American Poets Prize, a Listowel Writer’s Prize (Ireland) and residencies at Yaddo, the Millay Colony, the Ragdale Foundation, the Hambidge Center, the Headlands Center for the Arts, The Virginia Center for the Arts, Hawthornden Castle (Scotland), The Tyrone Guthrie Centre (Ireland), Fundacion Valparaiso (Spain), and Cimelice Castle, (Czech Republic). He has also been a visiting lecturer at the University of Ibadan in Nigeria and the Poets’ House in Donegal, Ireland.

From Fathom

Word Press, 2007


Here’s the dilemma: The adolescent boy
rocking on the toilet seat, arms clenched
around his concave chest to numb his pulse
and focus on his immediate need to choose
between medicine cabinet mirror or water glass—
which to smash and how to gouge each wrist—


Winter nights, dismissed from Fordham Prep,
I’d find him on the bus—Mr.McMann.
As the door hissed open and I stepped
into the vestibule and rendered a token,


Across three continents in two envelopes
I am carrying, to remind myself,
proof that human creatures,
manifest in such numbers that God sneezes,
compose the simulacra of one absence
incandescent beneath knowing so we stare
with horror and desire at ourselves.

From Weal

Winner of the Richard Snyder Memorial Publication Prize
Ashland Poetry Press, 2000


I don’t know how they hand out incarnations,
but somebody got shafted with this one:
to be a handsome man without much brains,
bad heart, no money or position
in America in the depths of the cold war —


In the year of our lord when my lady classics prof
quieted class and flipped the light switch off,
and on the screen appeared celestial buttocks –
nymphs mounted by satyrs with huge cocks,
the scene all laced with whips and chalices,
she was maybe thirty-another species
from the tail I stalked: foxy virgins bent
on the MRS.

From Forged Correspondences

New Myths, 1996

First Born
(for Anne Brady)

The day the four McCann girls were shown Brooklyn
and told that beneath their feet were rivers and tunnels,
another fleet of trams, a whole underground city —
that was the day they realized they’d need me.
They could translate pence to nickels,
knew mince meant raisin, but one look
at the brickwork, the smoking girders — one look
at their small blue parents inching under the neon
storming the sky, and all but the baby sensed
they’d need an American — rich, educated,
tall if possible. But where to find one…

The Cornice of the Skull

To lurch, crooning, in moonlight from the pub,
and wander the Connemara beach,
and grope my tent and collapse, snoring until
I wake at high tide in the ocean;
In Archive