Elaine Kiely is a poet and writer from Cork.
She has written poetry since she was young(er) and recently completed the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Limerick.
In her poetry, she likes to explore womanhood, mental health and our connection to each other.
Ireland: Two Weeks of Summer
I. Pagan Gods
A country swollen, white-hot sun
on pallid shoulders, twin moons set in opposition
the shock of flesh beneath our winter coats
ham-hocked, corn-beefed, chicken-skinned
varicose bodies bulge like pufferfish
bloated with smoky burgers and ice-pops
we rescue sunglasses from a kitchen drawer
apply sunscreen only once
in green-skimmed waterways, we submerge
an ablution of abandon, offer a fiery pagan sacrifice
of clavicle, scapula, sternum, ascend to feel the liquid high
sunshine pummelling our veins, scorching our skin
by tangerine evening we dance at Laharn
crossroads, salute Lugh on white horseback
our arms cast like swords skyward
at night, open windows admit unwanted visitors
a thousand flayed bodies sleep beneath thin sheets
immolated, blistered, pig-necked
our oblations rendered in fidelity
of the same again, next year
II. Christian Gods
late sun glazes the horizon in candy
colours, swirls of peach, lilac
it dips behind neat hedgerows
shades bells and spires of each town
ceremonial whites – cottons, silks, wools
wait in wardrobes, cleansed with steam
rigid with starch, to blazon the young
with their innocence and purity
an almost bride checks the weather forecast
her mother unwraps a Child of Prague
entombed like an ancient pharaoh, bound
with yellowed newspaper, brittle elastic bands
first communicants taste the body of Christ
melting on tongues, sticking to palates
they parade the streets, hands twined with beads
reciting holy words they don’t yet understand
fresh babies are clothed in ancestral robes
shrouded in wool, joining the flock
of a god they have not chosen
parents offering as they, themselves, were offered
a thousand proud grannies recite evening prayers
rest in the cloak of tradition
III. Gods of Science and Knowledge
Heat thickens in stale gymnasiums, dust whorls in a slant of sun
students fettered by neckties, waists shackled with woollen jumpers
adolescence festers in a shirt’s damp armpit
the deities are different here: Newton, Pythagoras
Boland, Meehan, Heaney, Richter, Collins, Markievicz
speaking high truth, beauty
equations recalled for the last time
quotations stored for a few more hours
to be summoned miles away at a jubilee or deathbed
dates soften at the edges, verbs decline like childhood
a pen catches the light, magpied eyes follow
imagining gold clasped in their claw
tomorrow tucked inside, safe passage promised
a thousand candles light the dusk
ahead, the future lies
Ode to SSRIs
I’ve taken many pills in this not unhealthy life (just the legal variety). I’ve had the off-the-shelf, over-the-counter and only-on-prescription pills. The pain-killing ones: oblong paracetamols for headaches, sugar-coated ibuprofens because we didn’t use seatbelts or caution in the ‘80s, one that made me feel kooky after a wisdom tooth removal. All the womanly tablets: Ponstan from the doctor who said it’s just period pain, Feminax vomited up outside a gaming shop, more than a decade of mini-pills, never-again progesterone-only pills, folic acid for existing and non-existing babies, iron to replenish motherly stores, constipation-combative fibre, morphine post-C-section, a blissful confection of natural and narcotic post-natal highs, tongued droplets of luminous vitamin D, triptans for migraine, time-release magnesium for energy. Once, a pharmacist regarded me from behind a dispensary counter, scanning for blue tinges at my mouth, pinprick eyeballs, before awarding me the soluble ones with codeine to treat a throat infection. Another time, I endured a bombardment on the dangers of addiction from a box-fresh graduate who I imagined practising the speech in her bedroom mirror, left with a bottle of TCP. Gelatinous pods, philterous drams, convex rounds rattled from sepia bottles with clicky white caps, blistered packs, redundant leaflets scrunched in boxes. I am versed in directions, half-lives and caveats.
But if I could choose only one pill it would be you, my ten-milligram half-past-nine dose of antidepressant. Deliciously Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors. Mmmmmmmh. Unceremonious, casual, mellow like a cardiganed community worker or milky cup of tea. A timely comfort. And, now, as our prescribed separation begins, I regard you like my childhood friend who moved away. The girl who lived in the house overlooking a graveyard. She wore pretty lace-collared dresses, had real Barbie dolls. We played on deep-piled carpet at the foot of her bed with her twin-like younger sister. Almost never-ending afternoons stretched across headstones in grass, our childish glee unsettling bones. Smartly dressed skeletons, our guardians. Time, now, pulls at recollection’s loose threads, fraying the clean whites, warm yellows but in the dusk of memory, essence is whole. Our friendship fulfilled. I remember her fondly but at a distance, in the past.
Ambidextrous
For my daughters
Bark turning brittle, trunk fracturing with your hungry cries,
unable to bifurcate I turn to the maternal store within,
mouths find root, honeysuckling to satiation,
I siphon from the sap to mother you both.
Sweet milk-breath, lulling eyes,
my arms branching, your tummies bulge.
I study the art of balance, sing lullabies,
tear sinews, build muscle until left equals right.
In a room of strangers, I soothe you,
devour the marvel of single-infant mothers
withholding their help to witness our spectacle.
I am masterful, mighty oak of these woods,
transformed by your infant insistence,
formed as mother of twins, and you,
the expression of my new nature,
one left-handed, one right.
The Galway Review 