Category Archives: Fourth Year

An apology:

Make dirty a page of new.
My own design, my own to choose.
I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong
to do. To bring the past upon a
page so new. There are no
conjunctions, there is no hope
of Christ redeem. There is none
of that when white becomes
unclean.

There fault is mine, all here
agree clear. The burden
of resurrection is one
that Pontius could understand.

The sin of woman outmatches
sin of man.

Wounds well sutured still
tear in time.

I don’t care to believe this,
the way I am.

But to die, to be true – the
larks of jealous tone colour
my name and actions of all.

To try my triumph,
to fail my past.

To colour anything so darling is
skill,
sharpened with my own mouth’s axe.

6 August 2017

I wouldn’t blame you if you
fled away mo duine amhain óg
The stars seem far but
much closer to a home.

The bag’s all packed, by do máthair
agus t-athair, I. The journey’ll
rough, the sky dear will seem
far. But if you must go,
then go on ye should.

With the rocks in the shoes,
the heel gone to hole.
think of maimaí agus dadaí
when all looks far and gone.

Do theaglach can’t much given,
aside from food, hearth, and love.
If I could pack you gold sovereigns,
then I think you’d still ferry far.

From with do fhuil the monster
borne and reared, unstoppable by nature,
and governing law

If I coulda switched it out of you,
by birch or belt all, I wouldn’t
dare change what’s true from nature’s call.

Brought the horse mare your brother,
the call from your sister.
Both missed you already, as soon
as letter lighted shore.

Farewell mo duine amhain óg –
farewell from broken-hearted
loved one, anois anois ye go.

Guest list

My heart has beat
a thousand time, a space of minutes
on tomorrow’s eve – this night.

Jealous Amor, will I see him
tonight? Who inited that beast
with that ignoble heart.
The one whose presence
instant one knows.

Or shall my dancing companion
be one of Lust?
The girl with the eyes,
so large, no room for a heart.
To see her dance one could
assume so pure – but after
the midnight gong he ride
turns wicked, her ribbons down
twirl.

Shall I dine tonight with Monsieur
Grá? The one whose fluent tongue
entraps the public all?
Stare through candle light,
darling guest of the ball.
Who intervenes all the guests,
who urges mother to pull up
daughters’ shawls.
That feeds the embers of jealous rage,
The one whose wand turns men’s whispered
to quiet rage.

He’s great friends to all mentioned above,
though oft times, slandered
as well as by all.

If he sit across dining table,
I’ll treat him truly, and
honour him above all.

4 December 2016

Bones which knew no past existence
declare their right to life,
with nails and acid
that deteriorate cartilage guilt-free,
radiating from the extremes
to the buried heart within.

Sleep bypasses.
Quite rightly so.
An intelligent guest who
knows its better to enter
a peaceful, quiet home instead
of this toy soldier war-zone.

I cast no blame;
utter apologies
to my appendages
’til turmoil is
achieved in the head.

Walking is a past dream,
unsure if the life which
dreamt it was even mine.

My bones, dissent.
They are not mine.
They have seceded this Union,
an agreement in the past
that had been perfectly fine.

Toss and turn on the back which is still.
The sunrise is overrated: I see its
colours drench my walls.

Traffic hums,
my body still burns.
Shipping forecasts appear
and submerge.

When it rains it pours
and when it pours it
pours acid.
A new wrinkle on my face has
made itself cosy and warm.

At least someone is content
and has won from this war.