Sequinned Revers.-Lil
Creaked steps, lead
to the cross-beamed loft ,a single
window casts light into the blue
shadows within
Shelves groan under stacks of material
bound
with string
Well- thumbed yellow edged
patterns tumble off the cutting bench
beside the gold box of Sweet Afton’s
they’’ll be puffed
into the web and weave hold the dust
above this room of cloth batches
Bobbins jump up and down, treacherous
scissors
look dangerous hung on the industrial scope
sewing machine
Lil, her face, smoky as an Albanian field
worker
pulls
and shapes, pins a body into form,
mutters to herself.
The mountains out beyond, draws her eye
Mount Gable, with its horses back close
enough to mount
perhaps she sees red buses
pillar-boxes or hears Cockney slang.
She takes a half day off
never on the Fair day.
farmers leave the livestock
bang up the three flight of stairs
pay their way.
Leeches lie idly by
Between two shoulder blades, a drip
appears
Non-virginal, it’s been before
The knife a different size
Lose yourself in words, and forget
Your intent was not to master the knife- a
different size
Between the shoulder-blades, a drip
appears
Their talk a variation, a pain,
Nightmare wisdom from mere dreams
That knife a different size
Happy for no reason, I’m inoculated
Against the throw-down barbs, averse to misfortune
Between the shoulder-blades, a drip
appears
I lost some words, darkness sifted out
In blindness, I became the Light
The knife a different colour, inked
Words will never hurt you, she said
She didn’t lie beneath the lines
Between the shoulder blades, a drip
appears
Leeches lie idly by.
After Georgi Petri “Feed the Fish” .
Dry-eyed vigil
The storm is raging as I cross the bridge
towards the hospital in squelching shoes
my low mood drips ire, knowing you are snug
in bed
blue rubber floor mutes the sound of
footsteps, when
plastic curtains whisper harshly
Nurses move with intent over your inert shape
tampering with the accrued signs
disparage my presence, mawkishly listen,
watch
your grey hair lying limp upon your brow
your quick wit and pithy responses, let go
without a thought for me
an act of forgetting
Of stories told succinctly to reel me in
like gut upon a spool, creaking as you spin
now you lie still, underwhelmed
idle amnesia, the act of forgetting
transcends pedestrian realities
the backstory left alone.
Margaret Kiernan writes fiction, non-fiction essay, memoir, and poetry. She has had poetry and prose published. In e-book, in anthology collections, and literary journals and magazines. Including, Black-lion Press, Pendemic.ie journal-C19 collection , archived at University College Dublin.
The Blue Nib Lit-Journal , The Write Life Magazine, Unity Global Festival, Vox Galvia at the Galway Advertiser, A New Ulster Literary Press, The Burrow Lit. Journal,
Poet-Head.Wordpress.com and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
She writes with Over the Edge, Thursday writing/reading group at Galway Arts Centre, and, Ox Mountain Poets, Sligo.
She is listed in the Index of Contemporary Women Poets in Ireland, 2020.
She holds several Educational qualifications, Including a Degree in Arts in Humanities, from Sligo IT.
Her background is in Advocacy in Human and Social Rights.
Margaret has completed numerous courses and workshops in writing, for prose and poetry.
Tutors in poetry includes, Annemarie Ni Churainn, Martin Dyer, Colm Keegan, Monica Corish, Moyra Donaldson, Noel Monahan, Kevin Higgins.
Tutors in prose includes, Claire Allan, Anne McMaster, Conor Kostick, Carlo Gebler, Malacai O’Doherty, Jan Carson, Ciara Doorley. END.
Margaret has four grown-up children. She lives in Westmeath with her dog Molly. She is a landscape painter. Is into Nature, walking, gardening, music, and heritage. She is working towards a First collection in Poetry.
Social Media-
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/margaretgibbonskiernan/@kiernanmargaret
Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/margaretkiernan
LinkedIn: http://linkedIn.com/in/margaretkiernan
Facebook: http://facebook.com/margaret.kiernan
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