Five Poems by Thomas Collins (Tomás Ó Coileáin)

 

Escapist’s Woods 

 
The soothing scent of conifers 
and the aroma of cut grass 
haze slowly by, with dragonflies 
like winged rainbows or oil stains, 
and twitters fly from hidden birds 
in bushes bearing yellow bloom 
beneath rustling leaves as in a rush 
the breeze plays branches like ocean waves. 
 
An edge of broken rock protrudes 
its dirty point from underfoot 
and prods into a booted heel 
as clouds erupt from dusty path, 
while daisies bend their sunshine heads 
away from shadows under leaves 
and a beetle flutters emerald wings 
but keeps its stroll along the track. 
 
A single drop of water drips 
to run along its streamy way 
from blossomed branch to sweating brow, 
past a blinking eye and down his cheek, 
until it rests into his neck 
amongst his lightly sprouting stubble 
and dries above his open collar 
in setting orange evening heat. 

 

He stands with chest half-bathed in light, 
the other half, with right arm bare, 
shivers a little, under shadow, 
and hairs stand up to catch warm air. 
Alone in the woods, he flicks a hand 
to ward a midge-swarm from his face, 
gently steps over moss and mushrooms, 
between cool boughs and into peace.

 

Conduiramour
 
I make up pictures on the floorboards 
from the vantage point of my seat. 
Patterns of eyes and lines of grain 
peer from the floor by a wise man's feet. 
I search for shapes that might make sense 
or form familiar patterns there, 
hidden in the beams on which we walk 
without a second thought or care. 
I seek some beauty or some peace, 
some clearing in a shadowed wood 
where tangled branches cloud the light 
and blur the line between bad and good. 
 
I shield my eyes from the dazzling glare 
that glows from brilliant passing beacons 
and turn away from those who may 
innocently coax me to temptation. 
I think, instead, of one who waits 
and wishes for my swift return. 
Her smiling face and open arms, 
they make me wish I had not gone. 
I see her dancing in a hall, 
her perfect feet on a wooden floor, 
and smile to realise that she’s 
my very own Conduiramour.

 

Piss Artists 

 

Maybe I’m just spending too much time in  

the wrong places, but these days it seems that 

there’s much less graffiti scribbled and scrawled 

on public toilet cubicle walls, 

 

little by way of classic “Up the Ra” 

or even “I rode your Ma” and the once 

inspired riposte of “Go home, Dad, you’re drunk”, 

no more “Drunk octopus wants to fight”, 

 

the crude rhymes, private public partnership 

in simple acts of poetry, patterns 

and coat-hanger pareidolia  

high at the back of the cubicle door, 

 

no more phone numbers over men’s first names, 

no-strings promises and good-times prayers, 

lonely or illicitly soliciting, 

or simply setting some friend up for prank calls, 

 

no more jokes about Arts Degrees under 

the toilet-roll dispenser, and no more 

ABU Premier League football banter, 

no warnings, “Beware of limbo dancers”. 

 

Maybe all the jokers are on TikTok,  

the wit saved for Likes on Facebook, the lonely  

hooking up on Grindr. Maybe it’s just me 

who still brings a pen to the lavatory.

 

Birdman 

 

You don’t see too many river birds 
around suburban estates, 
save for the scavenging gulls 
that flood the school-yards 
to fight for crumbs in the cracks 
in the tarmac after break or lunch, 
but then again you never miss 
the things you never had – 
 
The inky cormorants perched in gangs 
on the slick smooth limbs reaching 
from a submerged trunk at the centre of the stream,  

water deceptively calm around it, 
the current’s power disguised 
beyond its dark mirror-surface, 
 
The shock flash of firework-kingfisher, 
swooping, diving, shuttling out of its delicate splash, 
 
The slow shadows cast under a gliding heron 
while another stands patient in the reeds, 
alone but proud by the bank, 
 
The thumping bell-beat of Concorde swans 
and how they seem to walk on water 
just before take-off, 
 
The mother-mallard guiding her clan 
all in a row for their first swim, 
 

Until the hoot of a startled goose 
ignites an eruption of starlings and crows 
from fields and meadows. 

 

It transforms the whole universe. 
Familiar things become alien, 
changed utterly  – 

 
A stepping back into the Cave, 
dry land, a return home  

after an odyssey along the Shannon, 
confusing her for the Styx of Hades 
or, after fruit and enlightenment, Eden.

 

Playing With Fire 
 
There is surely something satisfying in stoking the ashes of a dying fire, 
beyond some abstract or symbolic sense, a very real comfort 
in the welcoming warmth or the gorgeous orange glow of hidden embers 
flaring like favourite memories ready to live again with the right fuel and fresh air, 
the naive thrill of playing with danger, the power in knowing all that you have burned 
and what you could yet destroy, erase, wipe out, reduce to dust, ashes to ashes,  
scattering remnants through the gaps in the grate, a quick cosmetic cleaning of the fireplace, 
just chalky detritus left to smoulder underneath, hidden behind the bars of the guard.

Thomas Collins (Tomás Ó Coileáin) is a writer, teacher, poetry editor, father, and semi-retired goalkeeper from Limerick City, Ireland. His debut collection in English, "Inside Out", was published by Revival Press in 2020, as was his bilingual collection, "Ar An Leoithne/On The Breeze". Poems in Irish and English have appeared in Comhar, Irisleabhar Mhá Nuad, The Stony Thursday Book, An Gael, White House Revival Poetry Journal, The Ogham Stone, Scothsmaointe Gan Smál, Drawn To The Light Press, Stripes, Stray Words, and chapbooks from the Stanzas creative writing collective. He has been Poetry Editor with Revival Press since August 2023.