Friday 1 February 2019

Let Us Stand

Here they come, our tiniest unnursed,
without a single cry.
Not like the moments when at first
their lives met with the light.

Denied by church and family names
on initial newborn breaths,
their mothers smeared in sin and shame
ensured their graveless deaths.
The living marked by illrepute,
in servitude kept hidden;
a purgatory of hobnailed boots,
suffer little children.

Damned for trespass, stuff of nonsense,
by those who had committed worse,
branded fit or not for auction
and stamped firmly with a curse.
How could they know the order,
they were born without being versed.
And now they rise, here they come,
our tiniest unnursed.

Solemnity must them surround,
and the mothers who still mourn,
a ceremony wrong way round
as bones are upward borne.
We'll all be waiting, bated breath,
but for those who heard the cries
it's been a kind of living death,
though they made it out alive.

Let us stand, in guard of honour,
to indignity reverse,
that we all may be the stronger
for our tiniest to nurse.


(Explanation: A hero of our time, Catherine Corless, a historian from Co. Galway in Ireland, brought information into the public domain about the cover-up of the burial of nearly 800 children in a disused septic tank in Tuam. The former site of one of Ireland's shameful Mother And Baby homes run by the Bon Secours nuns will be formally examined this year, 2019.

Tuesday 1 January 2019

The Double-Cross

We could put the world to rights
while the children swim.
Neither split the darks and lights
nor changed our loyal spin.
There were significant discussions
about ground spikes, pegs and space,
and the expected repercussions
of a sand-filled parasol base.
And what of Irish weather,
of its quirks and irks and blame,
of its making us feel clever
when we'd played it at its game.
The key hot press minutiae,
the heavy towels that goad,
the rule of washing every day
regardless of the load.
Radiators for heat only;
wet windows a disaster,
but such noble ideology
did not make the clothes dry faster.

The children went on mid-term,
and while we've been apart
I've double-crossed my laundry partner
by following my heart.
I was led by lust and not by love,
a slave to my desire.
I am now a daily user of
a condenser tumble-dryer.

(Explanation: This poem is about me and my friend, René Murray, a fellow homeschooler. We honestly did talk a lot about the washing! And I was just a little bit afraid that the acquisition of the tumble dryer would result in us having nothing to talk about;). I am happy to report that there is still plenty of chat. Now my fears are about the next electricity bill).

Saturday 1 December 2018

Hide And Seek

The kitten seeks.
Warmth, play and feeding
fulfil his dreams.
He paws the page the child is reading
and prepares to pounce
on his own elusive shadow.
I am constantly putting him out.
Somehow the children know
and let him back in.
He is the star of his own show
as he flips, crouches, vaults.
But the terms are his;
he will not play ball...
unless the ball jingles.

He rests in the slimmest shaft of sunlight
or on a cosy lap.
On waking he stretches, wrestles and bites
and may curl into another nap.
This does not always suit the two girls.
I am reminded of another
three who just loved
waking their sleeping baby brother.
The irony, not lost on me;
the frustrations of a weary mother.

He purrs as if he houses
a tiny motor under his fleece
and a single mew rouses
actions to meet his every need.
Never doubt that this creature
is in charge;
He is your trainer and teacher,
you are just a pawn.
For all your adoration
you cannot reach the levels
befitting his station
so he simply worships himself.

He is only a pet to his own ends,
he cannot be bought;
he will eat and drink to his hearts content
then go without a grateful thought.
He will climb up high,
regardless of your rules,
and perch where he likes.
Small eyes are watching you
when the kitten hides.

Thursday 1 November 2018

Michael Walsh's Shoes

His first child was new,
he saw his feet go
to his father's shoes,
and his baby's toes
into his.

His father now stepped
to the pair from the time
the grandfather had left,
took his place in the line,
for now his.

I saw the pairs in my mind;
the ones not yet seen
and the ones that had died.

Pairs still to come and pairs that have been.

Tiny and shiny, knitted and fleece,
tattered and battered, slip-on and heeled,
leather and weathered, polished and laced,
safety and weighty, office and suede.

If a baby could choose
at the event of being born,
they could do worse than safe shoes
and a path that's well worn.

(Explanation: In April 2017, I met my cousin, Michael Walsh, at another cousin's house. We weren't chatting about anything profound when Michael mentioned how he had felt when his first child was born; that he had seen himself moving into his father's shoes and leaving his free for the baby. I was in bits, I left with my eyes welling up. What a beautiful sentiment and such poetry, not from me!!!, in what was otherwise a normal chat.

Michael Walsh is the twin of Cath Walsh, one of two cousins who worked on the family tree with me. My poem, Rita's Silver Box, was written after all that work).

Monday 1 October 2018

A Bucket Of Apples

Our bells the only sound
we passed the farmyard
and stopped at the house.
One dog on guard
and one with three legs,
the combination
of the cattle grid and dogs
at their destination
made the young cyclists' day.
The long black cat indoors
was the icing on the cake.
We stayed while it poured.

The man in socks held court
on spiders, weather, cattle.

We received so much more
than a bucket of apples.

(Explanation: In August 2018, as around the same time in 2017, we opened our front door to find a bucket of apples. They were deliciously sweet. We stewed them and made tarts. Last year we didn't know who had left them at our door. This year we cycled to our neighbours' to say thanks. I felt my children were a little disappointed at not having the mystery of the year before; the wondering about who had left the apples fascinated them! But, certainly the visit to our neighbours' house more than made up for any disappointment there might have been).

Saturday 1 September 2018

Meteor Shower

A wish sent high,
a wish sent far.
A cloudy night,
a single star.

And then the scare;
no hope of prosper:
The wish set square
on a helicopter.

(Explanation: In August 2018, there were a couple of days when meteor showers could be seen in the sky. We were unfortunate in that we told the children there were going to be meteor showers only to have them staring at cloudy skies. Convinced they had wished on what they thought to be a shooting star they were devastated when their dad told them that it looked more like a helicopter than a star).

Wednesday 1 August 2018

Backseat Cook

Ten years of your drooling at Darina's results,
printing instructions for future consults.
And yet, what you ate before you met me,
was pies en Bentos and Findus Pancakes á la crispy.
And yet you're an expect, a connoisseur true
as long as you're not the one making the food.
Why don't you cook your dream dinner spreads
instead of hoarding those recipes up on that shelf?
I can't fully gauge what gets me more enraged;
the elastic bands, the dust, or the yellowing pages,
but, I can tell you, truly, the worst of this scene
is how you make speeches about this cuisine;
your plans for fine dining are beyond compare,
you're always refining your ideal menu's fair.
And, oh, how you verbalise, oh, the wild zeal,
when you've set your sights on the day's perfect meal.

I've something to say, the joke's wearing thinner,
I've put in a decade and you've never made dinner.
You've eaten every repast that I've made,
but not one day has passed when you haven't raised
one of your sheets stored up on that shelf
and proceeded to lecture us all how to chef.

(Explanation: This is about my husband, and it's all true. Well, to be fair, he always makes Christmas dinner......but that's once a year so let's not be too fair. I absolutely hate hate hate cooking so I'd be happy for my husband to put his money where his mouth (and recipe collection) is, so don't let me get in your way, Martin!!!)

Sunday 29 July 2018

Nicola's Children

Then all the women felt like skittles;
lined up in rows.
And though they were strong it wasn't long
before the bowlers bowled.
As hard as it was to believe
it was worse to have been deceived
by a First World, modern state.
And bad as that was
it was worse to have gone
without knowing you could have been saved.

All of the Nicolas, denied proper care,
will never bend their heads again
for a child to pull back their hair,
to share a secret only meant for them.

(Explanation: In relation to this article, on 2nd May 2018, I heard a man called David speak on Liveline, Joe Duffy's RTÉ radio1 show, about the death of his wife, Nicola, in relation to the Cervical Check scandal in Ireland. It was heartbreaking to listen to David, but he spoke very well and gave the timeline and details of his late wife's suffering. His children have a great father, but it is tragic that they are, needlessly, without their mother.

Update on 14/11/2022: RIP Vicky Phelan)

Friday 1 June 2018

The Oyster Farmer

The egret is settled
and the toddling brent goose
eyes the laden-down trestles
and oilskins and boots.
At one with the elements
he works with the tides,
through weather inclement
he's always strandside.
Wild winds and great lulls,
stinks of wet sand and seaweed,
he watches herons and gulls,
and pulls crabs from his sleeves.
The common sandpiper
sees the turning occurring,
and the oystercatcher
tests for any poor work done.
For all the weekends
and the middles of night
he's on the world's edge
for the dawning of light.

Tuesday 1 May 2018

Two Reasons

The eighth amendment is giving me cause for concern,
I'm worried for my children when they're women in the world.

They're into Cats, the musical. For the vegetarian, our youngest,
a sausage sandwich is not unusual. She wears her lucky bracelet on her wrist.
She makes pop-up cards and reads to me every morning.
I watch her lips mouth out the words and her nose pull and fill the soundings.
The other works on secret projects and deftly crafts clay creature forms.
She knows all the wild bird sound effects and her default setting is ever calm.
She takes excellent photos and wears her pyjamas late on weekends.
They spend hours on Lego and enjoy going to the cinema with friends.
They shoot baskets, sew and knit. They often think they have invented things,
they try to feed the wild rabbits. They swim, play football, swing on swings.
They have found a number of dead shrews and keep trinkets in their pockets,
they are experts at temporary tattoos and launching vinegar rockets.
They find themselves hilarious when they say 'portaloo' instead of 'Pórt Láirge',
they like flamingos and manatees, sloths and bobcats and sparrowhawks.
They love carousels and ferris wheels, otters, walruses and seals.
They are my two reasons to repeal.

(Explanation: On May 25th, in Ireland, we will vote in a referendum to retain or repeal the Eighth Amendment of our constitution. There are many reasons to repeal. For me, my daughters are two of those reasons.)