Conall O’Cuinn lives in Dublin but grew up in the fields of Athenry, Co. Galway.
He has lived many years abroad: Germany, Zambia, Zaire (now DCR), Côtes D’Ivoire, and the U.S.A.. Some particular interests: oral literature, especially proverbs, and cinema.
Five poems Conall O’Cuinn
After the funeral
Back home
after burying
the last of her four brothers,
we sat. I ask,
How are you, Mam
after all that?
The steam from whisky
and cloves incenses the air.
Ah sure, you know,
death is part of our lives now,
we just accept it.
Pause.
And I won’t be long after him.
Another pause.
Without fret
a quiet change in gear:
And you won’t be long after us.
She seemed pleased with that.
The clock went tick tock,
and the cat sat on the mat
looking at both of us,
smiling.
Twilight Zone
Day dissolves, relaxes into night,
transits between work and friendship.
A choice between sleep
or further exploration
of paths already trekked in day’s light.
In the twilight
the trees seem taller, wider,
deepen a desire to go beyond
the beaten track, to explore
unvoiced reckonings, possibilities,
pushing back questions and fears.
We reach the limit.
no signposts beyond this point
probe carefully the back roads.
Growth from above
and fertile edges from the side
nudge us together in thoughts
of hands held for warming
aware of invisible webs
delicately woven over years
of love and care
easy to damage
through carelessness.
The lake edge appears
below the silhouetted mountain.
In the rustle of the reeds
a red light flashes
to warn off
thieves of other men’s boats.
Ropes
You ask me to be patient,
to walk with you
across the rickety bridge
out over the wide chasm
a torrent below.
Gut-terror seizes you
as you peer between
the flimsy planks,
strain under the weight
of your grief.
You test each board,
for fear of a trap-
door set to drop you
down into the rage of rapids
or dash you on the rocky bank.
Your downward focus
blinds you to the gentle ropes
firm warm hand-holds
reaching out to help you,
step by step,
to solid ground.
Finishing Line
Do you remember, Dad,
the time we tiptoed
our way around Slyne Head?
They say we were mad.
Our little dingy skirted wide
the swell of the tower’s reputed anger
breaking over us
if we came too close.
Years later
was it you who phoned us
that night at two in Galway Bay?
Your number showed up
as we strained to see
the winning Volvo boat
its sail lowered suddenly
as it crossed the finishing line.
Trawling
1.
Could it have been real,
or was it all a figment
of my childhood,
some interior play?
the time I lay open-eyed staring
beyond the door at the dark window
across the landing
its pane rattling, refracting
as the storm gonged to open
an invisible curtain
reveal a menagerie of exotic
animals that talked, as they do
and then vanished,
blown ashes left behind in the cold
fireplace, shrivelled fruits
of a fall from grace,
the great divide
between inside and outside
discarded film cuttings
down the corridor
of mere bare lights.
2.
But could it be that we did indeed
walk that road on Mweenish Island
down towards Calladh an Phortach*
passing the reed lake to find
full muscled men
waist high in the dark water
hand-nets full of thrashing salmon,
or were they mullet?
Could it be fact
or was it the fiction of a child believing
he walked out one day with his Dad?
3.
I caught you before you slipped away
led you slowly down that road again
a now-or-never chance to broach
the question before it was too late
to check it out: the place, the lake,
the waist-high water, the nets, the deep
excited shouts, the thrashing of men
and fish in primal play.
You trawled the sea of memory and hooked
that very one. I saw the tug
of recognition on your face,
the gentle smile of pleasure.
Indeed I do, you said,
and we were there
together.
________________
* The Quay of the Bog.
The Galway Review 