Helen Pinoff lives in rural County Leitrim, where there is plenty of inspiration in the landscape and the cultural heritage. She writes of the everyday – with often a little surreal weirdness thrown in for zest.

Her poems are in publications including The Cormorant broadsheet. They have been longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize and shortlisted by The Stinging Fly and Frogmore Papers. This year her poems were featured in New Irish Writing in The Irish Independent. She is working on her first collection.

Trouble

he burnt the guesthouse down
we watched it from the field, the hungry flames
my little brother set the house alight
we hid behind the hedge and heard the wailing
he said he made a train, he tore the breakfast cardboard
into seven ragged carriages

nine sisters jumped from windows
fire lapped the crackling curtains, as they folded, fell

he linked the cards with sticky-tape
the train was like a bendy snake, he drove it round the carpet edge
making stupid engine noises

nine sisters held each other
we heard their mother howl, father roar
a tableau all alight, some sort of dance in hell
a family in County Cork in nineteen sixty-five

he flew the train through outer space
then drove it on the cliff-top mantlepiece
engine hooting, chuffing, heading for disaster
– there it goes – hanging from the precipice
he sticky-taped it dangling down before the fire
the four-bar red electric glow, its fierce heat
and in his head the passengers were screaming out for help
swinging over streams of lava
he was thrilled
the carriages began to singe, the plastic melt, the flames to catch
the train to fall, the fiery flakes of cardboard drifted to the floor
and there it all began
we ran

nine sisters in a photograph, black and white
all lined up in descending height, in their Sunday best
they couldn’t know what happened next

I dreamed up this tragedy like a jealous curse
he was in serious trouble and I wished for much worse
only the rose-patterned carpet was burned
a vicious black hole – paid for –
our parents packing, frantic
for the long road north

Overheard in the Patisserie

No, she’s just texted
Oh My God look at this
She says she’s not coming out
for a drink
on Saturday night

But it’s our last weekend

No listen
you won’t believe this
she says
over the break
she like totally found Jesus
so she has to get up
on the Sunday
for church

Unbelievable

Dry Stone Wall

Built of hilltop limestone, the tough hard history,
blasted, hammered, barrowed, rattled home
on the blue farm-cart.
Sorted size-wise and fitted together stone upon stone.
Men searched for shapes to fit each awkward space,
melding layers and strong lines.
It looks centuries old – settled and rooted, solid,
as if risen, gleaming wet and cold from the earth.

Now there is lichen, – maps of graffiti on rock.
The wall wears a cloak, furry moss
hanging shaggy, all drenched with mist.
Voluminous ferns nod like burlesque feathers,
sedum spreads over in lush green and bronze,
flowering bright white and pink, lively and humming with bees.
Ivy-Leaved Toadflax clambers around, a delicate filigree
haphazard and wild.

Behind the leaf-curtain are crags and crevices,
rainwater seeps through a maze – tunnels and passages,
miniature caves. Here is a rocky edifice of refuge
where they come to sleep and shelter
– whiskery shrews and scuttling insects,
beetles, earwigs, centipedes.

A quick wren darts through the quivering leaves
to peck and forage, then performs an interlude
of silvery song. At dusk a young fox on patrol
walks boldly on top of the wall, as light as a cat.
Then a breeze passes through and the ferns lift
and billow a little
– shrug – then settle in shadow of night.

Invisible Woman

From the gaping school gates
shoals of blazers, rivers of rucksacks
streams of life with dazzling teeth
Bumping and bullying
the hordes swarm into town
no place on the path for me
no room for an old ghost in grey
I’ll squeeze through, I’ll drift home
No one will notice or care
if I’m here – or there

I pass through the station and glance
in the dim-dark window-glass
Can’t find my face in the crowd
bumping and bullying
No-one asks for a ticket, I can’t find a seat
we speed through tunnels,
we glide past the concrete

Queuing for a coffee
I can’t catch the eye eye eye eye
of the two golden girls who
giggle at gossip – they’re not ignoring me
– they don’t even see me

I’m lost in the hoards, the shoals, the masses
the beauties, the bullies, the energy rushes
disappeared, camouflaged, miniscule, dust
How long has this gone on?
Could be for months or even years

Perhaps I died – but didn’t notice
It must have passed me by
– this passing on
All is as it was before,
but there’s a body in the bathroom
and my feet don’t touch the floor