Mary Woodward is an accomplished poet whose works have graced the pages of esteemed publications such as Stinging Fly, Southword, and Poetry Ireland in recent years. Her notable achievements include the publication of a full collection titled “The White Valentine” by Worple Press in 2013. Poems from this collection received high commendation in the Forward Prize, further solidifying her reputation as a skilled wordsmith. With a distinct voice and a penchant for capturing the essence of emotion and experience through verse, Mary Woodward continues to captivate readers with her evocative poetry.

Equitime

I put up a tiny tree and
hang on chocolate medallions.
But it makes no difference –
the house is still cold. He still
wants to spend each evening
getting drunk, each evening

to end in punches and shoves.
I run away to the car park in
town. There is a phone box but
no one to ring. I call the Samaritans.
The man there asks me round for tea
and says they’re not supposed

to give advice but if I were
his daughter he’d tell me to leave.
It is as simple as that – to hear

just one person say the word
leave. I wait, and then I do.

August 1976

What led to such a pointless escapade – pointless, stupid and reckless.
We had not met for years. I’d done all the divorce paperwork. It was over.
And then – so drunk he could hardly stand – he’d driven over, demanded
to talk about a reunion. As if. When I went in our cat rushed out and
he picked him up, refused to return him until I agreed to a date.
So I did, grabbing back my beloved armful of tabby and white fur.

The day & time came. I was at work, finishing an evening shift. Rushed out,
and walked miles round back roads finally to come out on the bus route home.
Hid in the bus shelter till at last rescue lurched its green double decker way
towards me. No white horse, no gleaming carriage, no expensive limousine
could have been more welcome than that tired slow shabby bus. I was safe.
That hideous life was truly over. My sister-in-law told he’d rung them, angry.
I still felt nothing but relief, loved the knowledge it was done. No more
conversations. Never again the endless useless exchanges of meaningless words.

Payback

I never thought much of the way he dressed –
the silly Beatle boots and the collarless cord
jacket, all a hopeless year too late. There was
something worrying about the way he said
he thought that he was like Steve McQueen.
In fact, he never looked quite right. But what
did I know? I still thought the Finchley Road
was glamorous. I made allowances, weighed
up what jarred against the many things I liked.
He seemed funny, friendly, energetic, always
ready to drive me somewhere, happy to help.
But in the end, that didn’t cancel out the mad
house of horrors he built up around us, the
times he was where he said he wouldn’t be, or
vice versa, the blank tanking down of alcohol
and strangers, the almost but not quite perfectly