Claire Cotter is an English and history teacher who lives in Co. Cork. She also works in the field of special education and has a particular interest in ADHD. She co-hosts a podcast entitled ‘What’s the History?’ and her interests include writing, cooking, astronomy and film. Claire is currently studying for a Masters in Education. She can mostly be found curled up on the sofa with her cat and a good book.

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Cailleach

I knew a Meabh who was beguiling
Banished to the corner of the classroom
Or kept at the front
To be kept an eye on
Depending on Head Master’s mood
She didn’t raise her hand
But asked questions
Her flame just about to lick the wall
That kept us
I absorbed tales of her namesake
Clandestinely, giddily,
Medb, Macha, Cloidhna,
Scathach, Aoife
And felt it all,
The fear, the reverence,
Envy, Lust

But where did they go?
Banished and then
Forgotten
When we decided a woman’s
Sacred duty is in the home
And not on the hallowed battlefield
She should not shriek or trick or charm
Faded ink to mist
Her shape no longer shifting
Morrigan to Mary
Her piercing cries long silenced and her child ripped from her

She does not wash bloodied armour
But bedsheets
A shameful blood from a soundless battle
That is not for land, or glory, or Queen or Country
But for self-sovereign

A harbinger, then, of nothing,
You surmised
Standing on the fringes of her own folklore
Her broad wings clipped

Until, the clouds rolled
And voices over thunder sounded
Keening first, then singing,
And the flock rose, again.

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The Shoes Against the Wall

They were my favourite shoes but they
Needed a wash
So they took a turn in the machine in a
Pretty pink pillowcase
It was a Tuesday and I had the inclination
They went to dry outside the front door on a
Warm July morning, proudly propped
Against a cheerful wall painted in
Fallow Fawn
And I was glad I did it

They were brilliant white and the laces
Cleaned particularly well
Good as new
Right beside the door
They baked and cracked in a succession of
Lazy afternoon suns and then
When they could dry no more
They sogged in late September rain
And I didn’t bring them in

I walked past them armed with a briefcase
Or a bag of groceries
Or nothing at all
Stealing guilt-ridden glances
And saw them
Start to turn green
And fill with leaves
Then freeze and thaw like a rock
And everyone who passed them said
‘you know you have a pair of shoes outside your door?’

And I’d say ‘oh yeah’ as if I didn’t
But I think they all knew I did
And they would look at them and me and think
‘What a waste’.

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Battlefield

I used to sit and watch you play Battlefield 1
My legs tucked under me as I drew red lines
On the essays of fifteen year old girls
And nodded, knowingly, at angst and sadness
That was theirs and mine

I was distracted by angry German shouting
Shrapnel spitting through the air
Bodies pierced and punctured by a hundred
Year old bullets from rifles I was starting to recognise:
Lee-Enfield, Carcano, Springfield

Willing you, now and then, to look at me,
Even if I wouldn’t know
But you were a sniper picking off enemies
From a distance. An impressive distance.
And you wouldn’t die for me.

Now, someone else is playing your game
Someone else is going over the top,
Recklessly pitching grenades at enemy troops
Maybe he is the same vulnerable, dispensable soldier
Traversing No Man’s Land
Negotiating the unpredictable terrain of the Unknown
But he prefers the Madsen
And when he paused yesterday, briefly,
To move a piece of hair away from my eye
With gentle, precise fingers
I almost cried.

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Happy Birthday

For a period that was all too brief
But anomalistic
I let you be a rare inhabitant of a world
I had long kept secret
Where there were no walls
Only the placable answers to questions
I was too cautious to consider
And revelations I blithely whispered
In your ear
In the stillness after a storm
Where you let me worship with unrestricted fervour
And trust you with reckless arrogance
I was wrong
You plucked my sinews where you found them
And everything I was became a shell
I scrambled to build from the wreckage
A world of possible I tentatively navigate
(Alone)
Learning, again, a juvenile assurance that
The unfamiliar is okay
I am treading on a blanket
Balancing on cotton
While you are a stranger somewhere unreachable
Alive now in someone else’s dream
But happy birthday, I suppose.