On not feeling loved
Last year 5,558 children were placed into care,
they attend school, eat spaghetti, try to be good.
Baby pangolins are the most likely creature
to be orphaned due to illegal wildlife trade.
Apple trees need other varieties around them
in order to pollinate, fruit will not mature.
Prayer plants and peace lilies need plenty
of watering, otherwise they will die.
New-borns are known to smile from 4 weeks,
they respond (thrive) to touch, familiarity, love.
Mobile phones can be set to sound unique tones
to let you know it is a significant other calling.
Low lying mist and wind are weather forces most
likely to induce feelings of loneliness.
It is okay to feel neglected; eat plenty of fruit,
take long walks, write yourself a love letter.
You are as worthy as the day your mother
put you to her breast, pale with relief.
The Aquilegia self-seeds
It is a dark day for May,
wind belts the hawthorn
like drunks in a street fight.
Since the storm our grass
remains untouched, I notice
the things it hides now.
The cat, a punctured ball, a blue
bike my son wanted to sell,
he’s too busy now, I leave it.
I get used to leaving things,
step over boxes, solitary shoes.
I rarely weed; no longer buy seeds.
I open the curtain after a fractious nap,
the house is alive with silence.
Inside a rusted wheel, bonnets sway.
A smile breaks my fast; planted years ago
by the back fence: now here, starting again.
The night before my wedding
I sleep alone, jolt awake by the water pump,
Émile late and breaking the shower rule.
I think of his small, neat body
so different to the solid heft of yours.
In the morning he drives me to the florist,
I choose Baby’s breath and lavender,
laugh at her insistence on a bouquet.
I have enough to carry, pay the twelve quid.
I hope my wife will be as you, Émile’s wide-eyed
surprise at my lack of fuss, the donuts
I hand him so plump with cream
we lick our fingers all the way home.
I throw my hair in a bun, weave
in a careless dressing of bloom.
Then stand on a stool to see
the length of borrowed dress.
White, with a brazen splash of scarlet
to match the fiery pashmina
I pull across my face to hide.
I didn’t think of marriage.
I sit in the bedroom with the radio on,
Émile fries eggs with mushrooms.
I wait for the next twenty-five years to begin.
Chronic
It’s nights like this I want to die / not because of the pain but / because of its absence / the world shimmers through the stove/ I eat dark chocolate / the wine is earthy and my cat is the colour of flame / the day had so much kindness I could not fathom it / I thought they are right / they are right / about the universe and manifesting / I forget about the days I thought it was nonsense because / now having done nothing except / defrost the freezer and grate cheese on my dinner / everything seems luminous / I’m riding high on a moment / but I know it won’t last / I can’t hold on / the rope slips in my sweaty grip/ I must let go / accept tomorrow / the pain may wag its finger at me/ grin like joker from Batman/ I will curse St. Juliana / rummage in the bin of faith / scan the trees for feathers of hope / my stomach will sink yet I will / recall the hot French guy I watched on TV / how he made me feel 23 when my body was just for pleasure / as it is I still only feel 36 and I’m not that old anyway / but if I die now I’d rise glorious into the heavens / feeling vaguely sexy / loved for my wit and creativity /not my stoicism for hanging on long past my desires.
Listening to Sparrow-weavers
Four inches below my navel
a skin crease stretches,
a gossamer zip, slowly drawn
reveals an echo chamber
where I believe a small choir sing
a requiem, flowing upwards,
notes gently sail through blood,
sinew, lymph and residue of milk.
Soprano’s high is a sluice on bone,
alto and bass cup the hollow
beneath the breast, ribs release.
The knot in my throat loosens,
I remember my voice, lost
among songs that belong
to the woman I was before.
If I open my mouth should I scream
or may the birds have woven their spell?
Bobbie Sparrow is a poet and Psychotherapist living in Ireland. Her collection The Weight of Blood was published by Yaffle press in 2024. Bobbie’s poems are published in many national and international journals including: Southword, Bangor literary Journal, Crannog, Cordite, Skylight 47, Honest Ulsterman, Abridged., Ink, Sweat and Tears. She has been placed in several well established poetry competitions. Her poem Leaning in was chosen by Cork County Council in 2024 to be placed in framed situ in Tramore valley park. Bobbie was recently a recipient of the highly sought Arts Council Agility award.
She is currently working on her second collection.
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