wanting it all
fuck hesitate!
fucking it up
in true film fashion
slipperless
pretending not
to believe in the myth
losing myself to learning lessons?
so then
what the fuck
is?
Me, aged six
The family garden in the 1970’s
Hair
Still there, still fair
pretty as the picture
I am looking out of
with my brother, and
a row of dolls, lined up
legs kicking the technicolour air
of the bright 60’s sunshine.
The family garden
still made of grass
stretching away behind us into the blue
Sperrin Mountains.
Idyllic you may think
but we are already old and worried,
discontent
posing for pictures
on a Sunday afternoon
The Protestant family album
Oh! How cute! Is that your brother?
Did he really have such white hair?
And weren’t you pretty, then!
Then.
And then we turned to play
upset the dolls
fists and legs flying in the air
For Gawd’s sake! Can’t a body
have a bit o’ peace around here!
Peace?
No!
Like the hair
It’s not there
Memory Tricks
Long legs hold me
I cannot breathe
sacks of flour in a dusty storeroom
we are hiding, but how?
Surely we are being missed
the dentist’s drill whines on children’s bones
the milk cart starts up
and out in the fields the smell of slurry
spreads, like the new healthy margarine
Tomorrow a magician will come
To trick coins out of children’s ears
From between their fingers
he will reward them with chocolate money
and orange lollipops
but you will get none
you will not be picked
again
amen
pull the cold leeches from the toilet walls
pick at your skin
don’t let them in
Exposure
Cold air
On cracked bone
The dentist drilling
„Open wide
Relax!“
Eyes squeezed shut
Spinning
Through the dust and debris
Of things past
A Northern Ireland sixties classroom
Palm outstretched
For the willow cane
For a pencil stuck
In a best friend’s head
For forbidden words
„Fuck you! You’re dead!“
Forbidden words
But worser still
The words left
Unsaid
Playing tig
In the schoolyard
Quickly caught, squashed
No room to breathe
„When a man marries a woman
He asks her if she wants
To make a baby.
She says yes, and then
He sticks his thing up her
Fanny“
No! No! No!
This is worse than custard
Force-fed in the school canteen
I run
The Journey Home
was ne’er much fun
A yellow bus, Mr Magowan
hacking and spitting us
all on board
for a twisty jaunt o’er
Gillygooley and Drumquin hills
I sit alone, mostly
Or with my brother
Counting rain drops on cloudy window panes
the others laughing, yelling, teasing
doing deals
and us? Small, so very small
waiting
in a vacuum of noise
every Protestant hedge
every Catholic tree
bringing us closer
and closer
end stretch
the yellow bus stops
C’mon get up, get out first
and maybe, just maybe....
But the seats have feet to trip us up
arms to hold us back
twisting and turning down the steps
schoolbags caught up in some
big thorn bush smelling blood
tearing for skin, demanding sacrifice
and the others? - laughing, yelling, pushing
my brother piggy in the middle bouncing ball
daring me to rescue
Still. I stand still. Where is the courage?
Blue. True Blue.
I hold on to the straps of my schoolbag.
And I run
And I run
And I run
The Playground