Gerry Mc Donnell was born and lives in Dublin. He was educated at Trinity College where he edited Icarus literary magazine. He has had six collections of poetry published and a novella. He has also written for stage, radio, television and opera. His writing has been translated into Breton, French, Russian and Romanian. In 2022 a collection of haibun, haiku and senryu, called A Kiss was published by Alba Publishing. His latest book called A Life Reclaimed, is a selection of his writing over the last thirty years, published by Alba Publishing  in 2024. He is a member of the Irish Writers Union.

Admission

By Gerry Mc Donnell

Losing more than his hat, crossing the freezing river; more than his hat lost, floating, forlorn under bridges and out to the night bay. Over to the asylum. Not mad, only stricken! Taken from the world’s gutter, door after heavy door, banging shut. Where am I? I recoil before and aft. ‘Are you going to cooperate?’ Am I in a madhouse, a ghastly circus with a firm but kindly Ringmaster? ‘I never heard it called that before!’ What is this little cell? For the long dead, diminutive, old fools and mad of Dublin? ‘Jonathan Swift got it built for you.’ I’m no fool! I’ll trade you. ‘Yes?’ I’ll tell you three things I have told nobody before, if you let me go? ‘Let you go, back to the gutter?’ I awoke one night, three identical demonic faces on the clothes horse, nodding over at me, ‘we know, we know.’ Now I can’t sleep for what I might wake up to. Crossing another river, three tall, bony men, frothing green, sunken cheeks, sunken eyes with heavy locks, passed through me. I must have been in famine times. Another time I was overcome by the colours of tulips. I felt compelled to eat them. Oh, and I ate grass and clay and drank thirstily at the river Lethe. Can I go now? ‘Lie down and rest yourself.’ I have taken up the prone position in life, next to death. ‘Get into the bed. The doctor’s coming.’ ‘DT’s, doctor. He’s afraid to sleep.’ I’m not mad doctor, just stricken. ‘How long is it since you last slept?’ The visions are waiting for me. ‘I’ll give you something to help you sleep. We’ll talk again in the morning.’ Who is that tall, majestic woman at the door? ‘Relax now.’ I walked entranced/ Through a land of morn/ The sun, with wondrous excess of light/ Shone down and glanced…* Will I return from oblivion, to a skeletal tomorrow? ‘Look in on him during the night. If he wakes, call me.’ The party departed, locking the door with a jingle, jangle of keys.

* Lines from the poem, A Vision of Connaught in the 13th Century by the Irish poet James Clarence Mangan. (1803-1849)

Gerry Mc Donnell June 2025