Thursday, 25 May 2017

Coming of Age | A Poem

I write to try and find
the will to throw letters together
of words I should
have spoken
long ago -
But I was swallowed,
every fragment of my being,
not by walls, but rather
what was between them;

Whoever filled up the space
of a
Shopping aisle
Packed church.

An entire community,
Where I did not feel
To Dream.

If you want to
bring me somewhere
I have felt
If all else fails -
Take me to Dublin

Where I am no longer
known for being the success
story of a girl’s
nature defying science -
I only got here because
I craved

The lights do not owe
Me anything,
Hold my hand
as they set me alight
in the felicity
that is now
my youth.

I am a woman who will dance
In maroon brogue shoes
To any beat as I please,
I’ll waltz into Flannery’s in a ball gown
And dance with strangers
After I’ve simmered down a
Bottle of white wine
I bought for under a fiver
where I cradled it,
quite proudly,
down the Ballymun road.

I have rote-learned
recipes of cups of tea
for the masses,
My dining table is
a hub for your tales -
My couch is a cot
to rest your tired bones
As we kick back and dissect
the events of the
Night before.

I have entertained the sweetest
talk my ears ever did bear witness -
From a country mother’s son -
A tonic of some kind,
A sense of vivacity that I had
only imagined 
happened at the pens
of other writers.
Never have I felt more
encased in such a
Thunderous bloom
than listening

To recitals that came
out of his mouth like
rose petals,
Delicate in the weight
they carried,
Divine in the pictures
they grew
of life both
Lived and unseen,
At a pace
Where only
Gold dust
could keep up.

But yet, I step to my own
tune again,
A modest glow still

I will go home
to the island of whispers,
where the waves of the
Atlantic curl around
the cogs of my mind.

A heart once heavy
Now lifted,
Strengthened -

I will sit on the patio
and see him surge through
the clouds above my head -
Germany-bound at summer’s end
I will make a promise to us both;
Age is coming.

Saturday, 18 March 2017

To Leave, To Live | A Poem

In winter, my heart was warmer
In spring, bloodlines trickle down
To write a name so crisp and clear
Quite easily, faltering

Now is the time
To change with the season,
To be honest in nature,
To put the lights back in my 
Eyes again -

You cannot
Shelve yourself for
The year,
Far worse things happen
Across our raging seas.

If you leave your window open
You may hear my feet 
Dancing in the garden,
To dance away
A sense of finality
I am all too familiar with.

Sincere in strength,
True in intention,
A smile that
Could rip the tide apart.

Say my name and
Let it fall over the dusty myrtle
There will be a smell of rain
To send me away and
I’ll sing all along a 
Pebbled path to
A new ballroom

About promises that hung
On copper wires,
Bending over every
Which way,
Calls me now to consider;
Did you ever love, son?

Dearest scaltarín,
Arrows fall short and
Lanterns furtively
Get lost in their

A ruby glow is shadowed
At night when we leave.
It will make its way to 
Another home,
Unknown to us.

If it is to be the will
Of a future
Closing day,
It may be found on a 
Mountain top,
Sitting beside a blue ribbon
Tied to a branch of a hawthorn tree
That we once planted
In our 

*Scaltarín (scawl-tar-een)
Meaning a small bird in Irish
(A variation of the word you won't typically find in a dictionary. How convenient.)