Monday, October 31, 2016

The Reading

In the mock parlour room, people come and go.
No one speaks of Michaelangelo.
 
The words are thin and the wit is dull.
Arrogance saturates the air. No lull.
 
The Liffey water turns green, olive, matt black.
The lights upon it are buttered mosaic, forth and back.
 
The moment of grace is brief and it is bright.
It is sign-posted by no hot spotlight.
 
I want to drum my heels, point and shout:
Talent is here; talent is out.


This poem was originally published on the Poethead blog.

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Pillow-Talk

I tuck myself into you.
The front of my knee
Fondles the back of your knee.

You tip your shoulder back,
Nudge my shoulder.
Hey you, you say.

Happiness is a little slip of a thing.


Published by Wordlegs in their Spring 2014 issue.

Friday, October 21, 2016

Friday, October 14, 2016

drought

this is the third dry year and 
this year is the deepest 
of the dry years

the commentator says
as though dryness were a well
sinking down and down

into eventual wetness
taking me rustily 
down and down in a bucket

mouth parched body humid
waiting and wanting
the eventual to be now

for the dip, float and gush


First published in Skylight47 in April 2016

Friday, October 7, 2016

Advice Given To Soothe The Sore Heart

Leave the thing alone for as long as you can.
Don't scratch at it.
Try a hot water bottle 
Sandwiched between a pillow and your back.
Don't wear mascara on nights out.
Feel a mess for a while. That's ok.
Drink lots of water. 

Friends will donate hugs, if you ask nicely. 
Ask nicely.
Don't ask why. Or do ask why
But leave the answer sit on the counter-top.
Leave it settle.
Pour it down the sink. Go for a walk.

Leave the bloody thing alone for as long as you can.
When it happens, engage and hold the eye contact 
That your fear begs you to avoid.
No one can see your legs shake.
The heart was not meant to stay soothed. 
Love again.

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Sandymount Haiku

Roundabouts prompt views
Shy wave considers approach
Steeples prick the coast

Charcoal floating on slate
Horizon ships darker bolts 
Sandymount Beach dusk 


Friday, September 30, 2016

Workshopped

Not quite perfect,
But a lot to like here.
There are a few edits I could suggest:
Years 14-17 seem an obvious choice;
In particular, that time you sat on your bed,
Wishing you knew what feelings 
Really felt like.

Other parts work better together,
Where there's a strong narrative pull.
I wonder at so much repetition though -
Does it not get dull? It lulls, I know, 
But does anyone really want that?
The washing-up, the meetings, the sleeping -
Over and over.

I question the ending,
And the beginning.
Does the start have to be so vaguely recalled,
And, well, so graphic? 
Would it not put people off the whole thing?
And the ending - I'm not sure I buy it.
Yeah, it seems pretty improbable.
Yeah, too anarchic.


Friday, September 23, 2016

When Did Women Stop Fainting?

When did women stop fainting?
Was it at about the same time
That men stopped carrying smelling salts?
Did smelling salts producers have time
To capture other markets?
Did anyone lament the tapering off of
The feminine wile that beguiled so many, supposedly?
Did some women cling to it, pull its stays tight, 
Or fake it, eeking its time out?
Did all the women just stop en masse?
Did a plague of alertness suddenly transmit itself,
Catching from one woman to another,
A slow hop from body to body
Of wake, of consciousness?

Friday, August 26, 2016

Popularity, Personified

Smugness was her scarf,
Inked pinkly, cerisely,
She stroked it smugly.
Smugness was her scarf.

Idleness was her chignon,
Gleaming, burnished, shiny
She fondled it idly.
Idleness was her chignon.

Cuteness was her weapon,
Trigger fingered, ready,
She cocked it cutely.
Cuteness was her weapon.

Blandness was her boyfriend,
Broad-shouldered, dreamy
She loved blandly.
Blandness was her boyfriend. 

Popping Candy

Your company is
Like popping candy
Fizzing in my head.

Your company is

Like deft acupuncture
Painlessly needling me.

You say something

So unexpectedly funny
That I almost snort.

How long does
Popping candy last?
Does anyone know?

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

For Heaney

30/08/2013

The sorrow's mine and yours
It's all of ours. We shake our heads.
Now, when we want words,
We will rifle and riffle 
Through pages printed.  
We will thumb-skim his volumes.
We will become accustomed,
And forget to mourn, as we do today,
For his bits of the world welded to
Bits of the meaning of the world,
With those new silvered weldings,
Hand-soldered together by him,
Scudding from him to us.
We will miss his missiles of insight.

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

Offering

I would bring you white roses
And mysterious irises 
And open sunflowers
If they would let me

I would bring you sweet port wine
And hoppy beers 
And tiny dry Champagne bubbles
If they would let me

I would bring you blissful heat
And cooling showers
And misty bridge fog hovering
If they would let me

I would bring you woven blankets
And intriguing ceramics
And all the treasures of this New World
If they would let me

But they won't let me
And I just can't choose
The right offering for you
So my lines will have to suffice. 

Please let my lines suffice.

Tír na nÓg

I saw Tír na nÓg  
For the first time 
Yesterday. 

From the car, before Thurles,

While driving on the M8.

All the plants, 

All the trees faced it, 
Pulled to it. 

I felt the pull myself. 

The draw.

And the island? 
A mossy green copse, 
Saturated in spring green. 

On this bright day, 

A wisp of mist hung 

There. Around. 
The rounded island 
Otherworldly. 

Ah, the longing. 

The longing for it lingers.

This poem was first published on the Poethead blog.

Thursday, May 5, 2016

Poetry is

the zigzag free
fall
of a feather

an elegant
half
twirl
a darting dive

if you turn
away
before watching
it
fully
drop

it's only
a
thought