Clair-Obscur
One
December afternoon on Patrick Street
As
I was waiting for my friend
Two
elderly street photographers approached me
And
asked if they could take my picture
I
agreed and they instructed me to fix my posture
To
relax and put my shoulders back
As
it was nearly Christmas, everyone was in good spirits
I
had on a sequinned dress and a red check scarf
When
my friend arrived, they took our picture
Capturing
us in just one snap
With
their vintage, hand-held camera
Its
enormous lens and booming flash
Afterwards,
I shared my details and we parted ways
The
two gentlemen went to take more pictures
Like
they did every Saturday afternoon for the last fifty years
My
friend and I headed off to the museum
They
never sent our photograph and I often wondered why
Had
they mislaid my details or did they just forget?
Was
the picture grainy, was the photo not developed?
Or
was one of us only smiling a half-smile?
Some
time later, my friend stopped being my friend
Without
any reason or explanation or even saying goodbye
I
had no choice but to move on and accept
We
were no longer in each other’s life
It’s
a pity that, in the end, all we remember is the way things end
Not
the sweetness of new beginnings, not the good times in between
All
the little moments that make up a friendship
Though
fleeting, no less real
Sometimes, I wish they’d sent that photo, to have as a
memento
Of that perfect day when we were still good friends
But instead it’s just a blurry, ever-fading memory
Forever lost in the endless rolls of film.
Strafsingen
(Strafsingen
refers to the practice of punitive singing imposed on prisoners in Nazi
concentration camps.)
Sing in the mornings
On the march to work
Sing in the evenings
During the interminable
rollcalls
Sing as they raise their
batons and yell ‘not loud enough!’
Sing out from your
tired, raw throats
Sing until every last
sap of energy
Has been used up
Sing the old folk songs
That remind you of
another life
Sing forth each ‘infernal
note’
Every slow and tortuous
line
Sing whenever the guards
demand it
Sing on command
Sing while they drink
and kill
Sing while you starve
Sing ‘Ave Maria’
When they hold a gun to
your head
Sing, sing aloud when
they kick and punch you
And beat you to the
ground
Sing for your choir
mates
Being directed towards
their death
Sing and don’t stop
singing
Until you’ve sung your
last breath.
Death Camp
for the suicide victims of
Auschwitz-Birkenau
They flung themselves on
the electric wires
In an act of certain
suicide
From the watchtowers
The machine guns fired
I admire them
For this final act of
defiance
They chose death on
their own terms
They found their own way
of escaping Hell.
Untimely
I’d
never been to a funeral like that
Even
before the mass started
The
crowds gathered inside the church,
And
outside in the churchyard, were already crying
Mourners
went to sympathise with your family
Whose
eyes were completely glazed over
As
if they’d been put in a medicated stupor
Just
to get through the day
In
his sermon, the priest recalled
How
he baptised you in the same church
And
praised the lasting impact you had made
In
your short but precious life
I
remember thinking as I watched your boyfriend
Carry
out your coffin in his ill-fitting, rented suit
How
young and vulnerable he looked
To
shoulder the burden of such grief
The
graveyard was a long drive away
When
we got there, I was struck
By
how lonely it looked, with no pretty views,
No
planted trees, miles from anywhere
I
watched as they lowered your coffin
Into
that cold, unsheltered spot
Before
returning to the car
And crying all the long journey home.
Jeanna Louise Ní Ríordáin is an Irish-language translator and language tutor from West Cork, Ireland. She has a PhD in French literature, a BA in Irish and French and an MA in French, all from University College Cork.
She has always loved writing and has recently started writing poetry. Her work has been featured in The Quarryman and Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus: The Anthology, Volume Two. Among her favourite poets are Victor Hugo, W.B. Yeats, and Langston Hughes.
Very moving work.
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