Enda Conway is a Galway-based writer of poetry and fiction. He also has a strong interest in art, having completed a degree in Fine Art in Sligo IT, his hometown. He writes both poetry and fiction, on a wide variety of themes.
Three poems by Enda Conway
Dark Flesh
Chestnuts rise from teary soil,
Rolling in the mist.
Pretty black hands strike matchsticks
To light the mouse-hole
As grave diggers wait on the worm.
Warming to the sky, Arjuna seeks his God.
He raises a sword and cries: “It’s hard!”
His former friend, the poet,
Stabs a series of full stops
Onto an empty pile of skin.
Actors pose by the rope-laden tree,
Heads turned away from the brute.
One smashes his fist through the camera lens,
Stands like Galileo at the edge.
It should be clear.
I sit with legs crossed
And read the news.
May
May is the cruellest month,
Mixing warmth and memory.
The winter logs kept us from the ice,
Burning into the late hours.
I’ve forgotten the snow
But it comes around every year,
Here in this little life.
Autumn surprises me with its showers.
We found shelter under the trees
And took our wet clothes off,
Eyes open,
And drank from the hot cup,
And talked while the lighthouse kept an eye out.
Who is this who once walked beside me?
Ah, the rope snapped.
The mouse squealed.
We gave life to the frozen birds,
But the door was open.
You were built with light from the sun.
Can I still stroke the fires back?
Or smell the familiar smell?
Of a woman who does not exist.
The seasons have come and gone,
A glove on my hand.
Twenty seven seasons passed
Since the fire- place fed.
Time. Fly Away
I’m waiting for rain by the hot gates.
Though young,
I have heard the old singing.
Tell me if the past has gone
Into the evening
Or the crying morning.
You say
Night is too dark, my journey over.
I will take the stars from the night
And kisses from the street.
I’ll bring them to another place.
It was one o’clock.
I came to the city,
Saw a woman, her head in decay,
Slow moving grandfathers with hips swinging.
Eyes swimming in a puddle.
Men do not need Sundays
Men do not need a home
Men need bells.
December,
Water’s dripping,
A glass in every hand.
Taste the breeze,
Drink each other’s words.
Throw away your lamps
There is light here tonight.
The Galway Review 