Gordon Ferris was born and raised in Finglas, a North West suburb of Dublin. In the early eighties, he moved to Donegal where he has lived ever since. He started writing in 2014 and has had many short stories and poems in publications including Hidden Channel, A New Ulster, The Galway Review, Impspired Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Live Encounters. He has also won prizes in the summer 2020 HITA Creative Writing Competition for his poem ‘Mother’ and was joint winner in the winter competition for his poem ‘The Silence’. Poetry Ireland awarded Gordon a, Poetry Town Bursary in 2022. In January 2023, Impspired published his first book, Echoes, a short story collection. In December, Impspired published his second book, A Mirror Looking Out, a poetry collection, under the brilliant guidance of the late Steve Cawte.
Granny Gordon’s farm
Her waving arms were visible
as we drove up the driveway
towards Granny Gordon’s farm
after our long journey from Dublin
We stopped in the town of Castledermot.
Where, from a distance ( with my bad eyesight )
The straw-covered water pump
took on the appearance of a beautiful blond-headed woman.
Before even exiting the car
Granny ordered my sister and I
to go looking for our bone-idle grandad
Who was working out in the fields.
The first field of the outside toilet, nearest the house
and a friendly donkey
Who came to the door
Every time you were inside
But no sign of Grandad
The second field had goats,
aggressive goats at that,
We didn’t wait long
to find out how aggressive,
But no sign of Granddad.
In the third field
There were five stacks of hay
evenly spread throughout the field
furthest away, we could see a plume of smoke rise
and hear a faint snoring noise
It was Grandad, with the cap down over his face
With a burnt-out Woodbine stuck to his lip,
He was indeed very busy at work.
Isolated flower
This tree with
leaf in bloom
This flower with
colour you can smell
This swan snow-white
That glides across the still water
This beauty around me
enables my preference for isolation
The Silver Spoon
Today, I was reminded of a stream
As a child, I used to jump across
on the way to Concor Hill
a stream long gone underground
like a lot of our old beauty
disappeared to become
a thing from our past
a thing that was our everyday
now a vague reflection in that flowing baby river.
In the centre of a forest
I was reminded
of an ancient ruin
transformed in my child’s mind
to a jungle where our
War games were played.
All gone underground now
replaced by houses, factories
or places that generate finance
No place for wandering childhood
Escaping the adult world
or to hold off the demons
that inhabit the grown-up world
The demons etched on the faces of all who have left their childhood behind
and marched onwards
towards the shadow of
respectability and responsibility.
The Galway Review 