The 18th of May and here we are, sister Your two elderly siblings, bending to your gravestone With blossoms so fairest- gathered from roadside and gardens - Bouquets that should have been for your 60th birthday. We remember the day you were born The whoop of delight I gave that you were a girl At last our luck was in, now there would be three of us girls, Even stevens with the boys, after eight long years You were never an afterthought – you became our ‘peata beag’. Yes you crowded out the girls room But there was always space enough for all your things, Books and toys, sharing clothes and oh the storytelling Not that you became rooted there, a homebird while we flew the nest No, you spread your wings across countries and continents You saw the whole of the moon For nature was your element You transplanted yourself into a landscape as old as time Fashioned a magical garden that Drew water from an ancient spring And happily counted weeds as survivors. But you did not. As the beast from the East roared Your heart was stilled and ours broken So here we are, our Queen of the May We who are elderly now, you who are not Oh, sister. Where is the luck in that?
Category: Poetry
Reardon’s poems are elegiac in the unfolding of life in its multitudinous everydayness. Here you find her immigrant parents’ pasts expressing themselves in the everyday habits and rituals of “old country”
The overarching theme of Elaine Reardon’s poetry chapbook, The Heart is a Nursery for Hope, is life, in all its quirkiness, from small moments in the day to life changing events.
Gay’s Phone in by Maureen Byrne
The line is bad, I can’t hear you Gay,
I can hear you fine, so fire away,
I feel so bad, I wish I was dead,
You should see the sunrise up at Howth Head,
Listen Gay, there’s a lot at stake,
I must stop you there, time for a break,
O Gay you know you’re the housewife’s choice,
Thanks Mrs A you’ve a very young voice,
Well Gay, I really can’t agree,
You mean to say you’d contradict me,
Doesn’t everyone know that I’m never wrong,
Get back to the sink, it’s where you belong,
Now I could have gone to the U.S.A.
But lucky for you, I decided to stay,
For how could you manage without little me,
With no Late Late Show, no Rose of Tralee,
With no morning show things would grind to a halt,
And then you would say it was all Gaybo’s fault,
So hush little woman, and dry off your tears,
Like tax and the poor, I’ll be with you for years.
Recent Comments