This Galway magazine has done me the signal honour of publishing another poem of mine, ‘Survivor’. I am very pleased to find myself in the company of some fine and well-known writers such as Kate Dempsey, Michael Farry, Brian Kirk and John W. Sexton, as well as some others I have not seen before.
I liked very much the precise demestic details of Kate’s ‘No.1 Mum’ and John’s series of terse tercets. Not sure if the latter could be classed as a sort of haiku selection but they work very well:
how easily the snail
on its skin
and Brian Kirk’s ‘Immanent’ has an immediate appeal to me because it captures that moment (when night is about to ‘fall’) about which I have often written myself.
… The night is ready
like a cat to pounce,
and idly, like a cat,
it paws the moment …
Another poem of twilight time (favourite time of poets!) is from the pen of Michael Farry. ‘Waiting for the Train’ is the title and that is what the poem is about (Michael writes that ‘down to earth’ type of stuff that I like a lot). he catches the atmosphere of the old station, now falling somewhat into neglect where the dying sun casts
a brief drench of rusty brilliance,
kindling the few last clinging beech leaves,
their fallen fellows thick on the disused platform.
My own contribution is a poem written after an illness in which I suggest there may be some similarity between myself and its long-legged subject:
Driving down the Belgard Road
I see again the gossamer evidence
of my sitting tenant, snug
behind the glass of my wing mirror.
Rare the glimpse I’ve had of him
the time we’ve been together, I
so sure the wind would put an end
to his arachnoid acrobatics
but this tiny wight is match
and more for zippy morning breezes,
keen as elephant or moose
or mouse (or me) to cling to life.
In dead of night and lit by streetlamp,
undisturbed by prowling cat
or busy milkman he will toil
to realign his damaged lacework
and, come day, will venture out,
negotiate his deadly silk
to reach his breakfast, all the while
remembering to place his feet
along particular threads he spun
dissimilar from the others, ones
he left bereft of gum. But he
and only he, can tell which ones.