Miceál Kearney, lives in County Galway. He has published in Ireland, England and America. He had read as part of Poetry Ireland’s Introduction Series 2009. Doire Press published his 1st collection; Inheritance in May 2008.
Four poems by Miceál Kearney
Neé Lianne
1 Gran
Never burnt her bra.
Always kept the kettle boiled
and the sweets well hidden.
She loved her High Nelly
would cycle down to Sweeney’s in Mulroog
or Lane’s of Toureen for tea and talk.
Now she time-travels, chases shadows
meandering trails carved over mountains
generations deeper.
2 Grandmother Clock
Originally from Carron, County Clare,
then hung on the wall at aunt May’s in Pollock,
went to Toureen and finally in Cregulas
was placed on the wall
just as the leaves began to fall
and tick-tocked — until it stopped
at 5.21am in the Year of Our Lord, 2007.
And none of us, since,
has had the heart to restart it.
3 The Removal
Mick, Matty, Jimmy and Frank stand —
the four moons of this dead Sun.
The two remaining daughters
Burka-black on comfort-less chairs.
Alzheimer’s relieved her off many things.
But her ace of hearts; that
she refused until the end.
Then the lid was screwed on.
The Department of Suicide Prevention
After Dave Lorden. For Brian.
You woke early, I’d say,
so not to disturb anyone
rope ready, it’s what I would have done.
Then slipped into something more comfortable.
Naked as the Snowdrops.
Daily
As a child Cinderella would recoil in fear
from the dentist’s anaesthetizing prick.
How apt she grew up to chase dragons
under the bridge by the river
where nobody cares —
no politicians electoral area.
Sure as a sailor to a siren
her prince will arrive
on his china white steed;
whisk her off to the ball
were she is the belle
reeking of vomit and piss.
This manky princess
a toad would not kiss.
And well she knows
when the clock chimes
Dawn will ride off
with her man.
Legacy
She stands up and stabs me
in the eye with the cut of her figure.
I follow her out for a smoke.
Back between noisy bottles and empty glasses
she casually informs me
what she did as a teenager
in-front of the mirror – regardless
I’ll abort another potential child
onto the sheets tonight.
We laugh, she complains of the weather
then asks: would you like me to come with you home.
She adds with wink pun intended.
Yes, oh God yes.
With the passing of a moon
arrived an envelope,
a stick. Positive —
Thanks for the passport,
Mr. Poet Man.
The Galway Review 