Nuala O’Farrell is a late-emerging poet who has dedicated her life to both medicine and literature. Having worked as a General Practitioner, she now teaches “Narrative Medicine,” a field that beautifully marries her dual passions. Nuala finds inspiration in the hills of Connemara, where she and her late husband spent countless joyful days walking the mountains and cycling the bog roads of Galway. Her poem “The Last Sheep Farmer” was published online in the magazine “Gypsophila” last year, and “The Perfect Egg” was featured on Sunday Miscellany. Nuala’s latest work, “The Laird of Roundstone,” continues to showcase her poetic talent.

Ruhamah

We three small ones had to hush and hide, bide our time
under the long flowery tablecloth, while Mammy waited in the bedroom,
waiting for the knock, in her pretty kitten heels and party frock.
When, with puckered lips, Gran let him in,
well then, our baking could begin.
We would crawl out and climb on kitchen chairs to help
Gran crack the speckled eggs and yelp,
watch her whisk the butter and the sugar in
her big fat yellow baking bowl, as neatly as a pin.
She whacked and battered up that messy dough,
until the creamy lather was just so.
She beat and bleat and battered it until,
it was a sticky, pickey, finger-lickey, thrill.
Yes, she said, yes, yes, we could take our turn,
to sieve the soft white flour, and while away the hour,
and save our sticky fingers from the burn,
as sounds of cries and thumping, made their way,
into our baking, bumping, celebratory day,
Gran would pound that butter batter like a whirling witch,
her strong arms hammering, louder and louder, with every switch.
Then we three would hug around the oven’s warm embrace,
our vanilla-flavoured, always-favourite space.
Granny said, just once… like… saving face…
It is really no disgrace, that Mammy has to work,
To keep us all; to keep us, in this place.

VOICELESS

Only the victors have voices,
narratives recounted by grieving relatives,
cleaving together in public tragedy,
their eyes glistening with history,
their lengthy epitaphs underlined
by tears.

Only the vanquished are voiceless,
their lives undocumented, nameless
in bomb detritus, their faces negated
by a butter smudge on a camera lens,
mangled bodies shrouded in white, rancid
with fear.

Who can count those horrifying numbers,
who can bear witness to the silent shrieks
of the amputated streets, rubble corpses
haunting the shameless air, hunger
competing with the sordid stench
of defeat.

And which shy child will erupt upon
the fertile future, pregnant with accusation,
burdened by her disbelief, to sing
her vicious history with curdled blood
and scrawl upon the city walls
Her final fury.

Egyptian Queen

Is it fair that you should be bedecked
with jewels, while my ears go unadorned,
my neck pitted with wrinkles, while yours, studded
with priceless diamonds, precious gems, twinkles,
even in the dim light seeping from the weeping
earthen hole, uncovering your ancient tomb.
your sarcophagus discovered , glittering
with excitement, your youthful beauty
immortalised, in solid gold.

Is it fair that your loveliness should have caused
Pharaohs’ heads to turn; towns to burn; armies
to group upon horizons? Is it fair
that kings and princes fought to own you,
Queens dethroned, wars postponed, gladiators deboned
In the effort to possess you?

Never having access to a mirror, that still morning
pool, reflecting your immense beauty, must
have triggered a terrifying premonition,
a sudden lethal recognition that you…
you were the chosen one, the belle
of Alexandria, the warning to all future
Queens, your heart the unrequited bride
of Dionysius; a dubious human sacrifice
to the greedy Gods.

Did you tear your lovely hair, scream
at your serene, reflected face, scrape
your flawless skin with talon nails? Did you
cut your luscious lips with jagged thorns, bleed
through the perfect whiteness of your pearly teeth?
Did you rip the robes of silk and gold, and turn,
to shabby dress; a cloth of sack and ashes,
attempting to avert this trembling
harbinger of death?

I touch the priceless gems, coiled
around your neck, like evil amulets. Your golden
stare, glaring down the ages, in perpetual accusation.
You are the tongueless voice of a thousand years,
staring death straight in the face, screaming,
in eternal denial, of female silence.