четвер, 8 серпня 2019 р.

Patricia Walsh - 5 poems

Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland.  To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals.  These include: The Lake; Seventh Quarry Press; Marble Journal; New Binary Press; Stanzas; Crossways; Ygdrasil; Seventh Quarry; The Fractured Nuance; Revival Magazine; Ink Sweat and Tears; Drunk Monkeys; Hesterglock Press; Linnet's Wing, Narrator International, The Galway Review; Poethead and The Evening Echo.





Immaterial Culture


Driving away from home, fifty miles or less
incarcerated in this care for its primary destination,
a rarity of form peppers the conversation
drinking the recidivist pints on a homecoming,
relieved at the mindset, no embarrassment yet.


This nondescript Limerick, a regular grid
mere hearty directions, the sat-nav redeemed,
grateful for larger mercies, the destination course
watching through smart-phones for the unholy grail,
getting comfortable in a haze of shorn grass.


Pearls, the more fake, the better, on a débutante's neck,
walking on wind, a safe place for imprisonment,
promised the directorship, before any experience
passing over preferment, staid in multiple sites
pat on the head solves volumes, at least for now.


Creating one’s own joy, over the cigarette butts,
strewn like a blanket, for the kingdom’s own come,
complimentary massacres hold the fort, abiding,
trying to be a man in the thick of it all,
always about oneself, failing that, cardboard stilts.


Waiting on the hate crime to re-begin the unworthy,
feeling elitist in a covert mission to begrudge,
Purgatorial in its hardship, in a lonely situation
food on a table for the excellent troubadours
persuaded to fall through a blackened tongue.


***
Many Are Called, But Few Are Chosen


Stuck in a speeding whirligig, a sexual sneeze,
eluded by some in a calculated mess,
escaping through a borrowed vehicle, awhile
footwear a studied denial, at church
own car not lasting the distance, of course.


Not drinking through a premise, foreign all the same
scripting the following day like a small clock,
not getting up for less than €60 an hour,
waking up is useless, purpose blowing away
hitting on abuse, the regular the better.


Not looking through windows on what lies ahead,
the walls of the bedroom provide enough scope,
scrapping the sense of duty to  an adopted nation,
studied indifference mars none of your efforts,
the quest for destination repeatedly runs dry.


Not the time to act nutty, dissed perfection,
wholehearted crack while the going was good,
repeated forays to check on paying guests
returning to first love, at a selected price
mere promises on the same regalia incessant.


Thankfully never married, wishes abiding,
the dingy establishments provide excellent care,
on what is followed, the white car prowling,
the scathed property, meagre though it may be,
selectively poor, paying no dues anymore.


***
Insurance


Suitably wound up, to a higher calling,
siphoning words from an emergency exit,
small mercies punctuate the glorified stance,
rarity of form as long as it’s fashionable,
a trend of sorts unhorsing the higher self.


A regular saviour pushes the ignominious button,
fear of want wanting, holding the forte,
generosity at a price, gloriously staid,
embarrassment of riches at the next turn,
heartfully waiting for the bartered finale.


Concerned out of turn, sympathies misplaced,
mere withdrawals abide where none before,
coldly laying facts in front of deservations 
this other fence calls upon a sarcasm,
not knowing who called, screaming indifference.


“Help me, I’m a bug”, called upon to desist
from every small tear, asked for or not,
rocketing through other people’s homes,
punished in recital, unknowing where reserved,
hitting on a vulnerable, still needing correction.


Mutual dissonance crawls over the shoulder,
tidying up for tomorrow, another inferno,
a return from a hold shrine is comfortable
name-changing, name-calling, banks still hungry
not worrying, still, premium at a premium.


***
To The Very Sweet End


This standard accent, laying waste the tea,
of another hurtling ball curved into nothing,
accepted as one’s own problem, where none is,
discarded clothing remains hanging,
in the gracious balance of harder times.


Resisting temptation to unlock the doors,
cardboard laughter at expense of exploration
taken home latterly after much persuasion
difficultly and opportunity redefine standards
troubles never over while the local girl sings.


Looking through stained glass, associative pain,
simple explosion complicating cosy times,
cleaning the apartment since it is a necessity,
drunken speeches pave way for repetition
walking up to corridors of diffident concern.


This video camera, recording various stances,
radiation sickness longs for the din,
the next door’s pipe band legislating for space,
the cleanest type for decades, kissed like betrayal
watching the gardaí detectives follow suit.


A hard to follow lover, money siphoned off,
mere recognition a cause for immediate concern,
sleeping like the faultless, debt recollecting,
it only being money, replaced awhile,
regurgitating housework in a virtuous life.


***
On My Way/On My Mind


Temptation to do good, varying through forces,
placed where none called for, euhemerised,
a neat little metre contains the highly esteemed
tax and returns pressurises the slip-road.


None of us is truly alone, in our estimation,
stars in our underpants remain like this.
Complicated literature heats the derisory,
a solitary chair remains over-static.


A small fortune from detritus, hang  on there
goldmines and gold-diggers setting the pace,
voluminous writing coming to nought again,
certain massacres deserve safe-keeping.


Exiled from the common good, celebrations abide
the luxury of inclusion doesn’t pass muster,
intimate conversation in a breasted eye,
cheated by home comforts a repeat exercise.


Let down by handwriting, this common grip
loving to derision the proper order,
the bleeding heart calls on tender mercies
a prior engagement barbs and tears its prey.


Siphoning off an equal beauty, a bold call,
ears still burning from dissident friends,
pining for promotion on site, still elusive,
the grail of inclusion eschewing troubled good

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