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.

Moygara

Tom Joe Mullaney’s up by Lough Gara
on a late Saturday night – more shop than
pub…but with Guinness Jamesons Babycham

on sale as well as shelves of chocolate,
tinned fruit and ginger biscuits. A room with a table
pushed back once the musicians arrived,

so the farmers in tweeds and wellingtons could
dance – thundering Irish dancing – no emerald satin
or ringlets – until the lights went out and we all –

my parents and my aunts – ducked down – warned
by T.J. that the sergeant had cycled the two miles
from Gurteen to check what was going on.

Stifled giggles – the shaking of the front door
as he tried the lock. Then silence – silence over
the willows the alders the sedge and rushes,

the sleeping swans and ospreys, coots and mallards,
the crannogs lifting up above the black water,
the unending silence of the castle, abandoned,

empty since Oliver O’Gara came home from
Aughrim, called it a day and fled to France.

The Hibernia leaves Holyhead 1956

The first and only time we had a cabin – third class.
I am in the top bunk, my little brother has the lower.
Our mum, when ready, will sleep in a chair beside us.

For a while she is busy getting us settled in, under
the heavy British Railways wool blankets – for all of us
it is a grand adventure. The ship’s engines start,

a small, round blue light glows over the door –
the magic signal that at last we are setting sail.
I’m very sleepy; I feel like a warm kitten close

to its sleeping, purring mother as the Hibernia
comes to life, building up soft growling sounds
as she shifts into the movement of the water.

When I wake up, I think, we will be near Ireland,
loving the gentle roll as we are all carried out into
the waiting salt darkness of the Irish Sea.

Then I thought we were facing forwards – that
the ship’s prow was heading directly into the night.
But now I have learned that the Hibernia always had

to reverse out from Holyhead dock, and all the noise
was a determined massive effort from the engines,
that seemingly gentle purring advance

was actually an enormous thrust backwards; that we
were all facing the wrong way, were facing back
towards Britain, not looking towards the West.

Teresa’s flat

It was the autumn they realised their mother was ill.
Mum and I went alone – the only time we did that
when I was little. Teresa, my youngest aunt,
was working as a health visitor in Sligo town;
she had learned to drive and even had a car.

We stayed with her in her little flat in John Street:
an old house, the whole first floor – a small kitchen,
a table with a checked cloth and a gas cooker. It was
the year my mother had a craze for Knorr dried
vegetable soup boiled in a tin saucepan for lunch.

Do you like my flat? Teresa asked me and of course I did –
she was so proud of having a place of her own.
One darkening October day she took us for a drive
round Lissadell – tall horses in the front field,
the lane curving round the shore under black trees.

And…maybe the same day… we went to Drumcliffe to
Yeats’s grave. I was far too young to know his work
but that icy line Cast a cold eye on life and death.
Horseman pass by touched my mind and stayed forever.
Now they are all gone. And the cold eye eludes me still.