Sinéad Nic Síoda studied English, Theatre and Film at Swansea Metropolitan University; graduating as a Bachelor of Arts in 2002. She was a Secondary level school Teacher of English in the UK until 2010, before returning to her place of birth in Co Clare. Sinéad is a member of the Poetry Collective, formerly known as Three Legged Stool Poets, and is the proprietor of the Record Break Café and Arts Venue, in Ennis.
Journey
Lanterns glimmer the snows. Deserted street.
Wandering 2am on Warschauer Platz
Deep tunnel’s dark in hollows obsolete –
A Cold stone arch. Sudden shadow moves fast!
Bounds out past us centre road, frosted earth
Berlin fox beautiful bold sharp fearless..
Faced toward charcoal skies, barks carries forth
Distancing into winter night’s egress.
Days where white foam footprints roamed on rivers,
Bán bird wings spread wide ‘cross the ripply ridge,
Gently surfaced as the cold Spree shivers
Past the gallery, Underneath the bridge.
And on, the S Bahn, a giant red sun-
Such perfect immaculate circumference,
At Alexander Platz beyond the cranes,
An Art on Berlin canvas – God balanced.
And nothing, nothing could be more right
The fill of it, everything is as it should.
‘Til back at the hotel, forthwith, phone lights-
Facebook flirtations. Post their hearts of wood.
Spree tears flowing fast free, storm blowing wildly.
No night stars – my pathetic fallacy!
‘Til Virgin Mother’s blue gown, crowns sky’s dawn
Venus burns white voluptuous flame -See
Sun still sleeps. And that rogue red fox long gone.
Winter
Infinite azure – cable, scarred trim.
Thick in snows tranquilizers, sedated.
Impertinence ignites a familiar flame
And I feel defiant, liberated.
Horus opens an ingenuous eye
Danced cross sea blue stage, in flamenco red,
Arbitrary love in a perfect sky.
Still moon’s great dumb Wallflower head peers seen
Shied, pale and as sad as waif snowflakes shed,
Shadows this twirling crimson gypsy lien.
She should say goodbye lest desperate clinging
As delicate webs frosts trembles the days draft,
From frozen lawn laurels, crotchet stringing
Firmament veins bled mocks the spiders graft
And the hills finely dressed in last night’s ghost
She should say goodbye and let Horus host.
The Galway Review 