Subway Elegy

Submarine sandwich
waiting for the subway
listening to those homesick blues.

Missing the old country,
living in the big city
waiting for a small miracle to get me where I want to go.

Peeling paint behind me,
behind that old poster ,
showing the latest movie which I think I saw a last year.

Wondering why I'm here,
why he's never there,
and why I can never catch the L on a Friday morning.

Train pulling in,
pulling people pushing out,
with me on a platform standing still.

A half-eaten sandwich,
a head full of Dylan
and a pocket full of tokens I'll never use.

Dogstar

I let you enter my orbit
you, the dogstar
firmly under my belt -
not Orion's.
You were mine - the brightest and most obedient
circling me
making me luminous.
I chose you
and you made me enchanted,
even rivalling Venus
a planet at that.

What could I do but hate you?

Offering me no resistance,
no friction, no burn.
I felt I hadn't earned you
Nor you my patronage.
So I gave you my crown
and left for brighter galaxies.


Hannah

I watch as she plays on the breezy shore,
dancing in her ilet dress.
So at one with summer
this child of autumn
ravished by the sun - her friend.

Dappled skin, streaky hair and
a pair of hopeless gumboots -
the awkward blossom of childish grace.

As she continues to play, I allow
myself to resume idleness.
Sand erupting and oozing between my toes -
the majesty of small mountains.
While she with driftwood as a sceptre
and hope for a crown,
traces lines from castles in the air.

Morning Coffee

No need for the gas heater,
I suppose,
Next to our feet.
Only for atmosphere
As we quietly sip our coffee
Across from one another
Searching for nothing to say,
As we're already saying too much.
I'm glad you can't hear my thoughts
amidst the clamour of our awkward jabber.
You can hardly deal with your own,I know.
That's why you fear me
The feminine arm of empathy
longing to assuage the poet
with her tender strokes.
You chide my knowing,
my understanding,
preferring to keep me at arm's length,
across the table,
sitting here,
quietly sipping our coffee
amidst our empty words.

Salvation

I saw raw angels bleeding light
licking blood from the wounds of Christ
and I thought I could taste salvation.

The fug of succour from His breath
made me welcome the promise of Death
and I thought I could see Forever.

But as I struggled to hear the minions sing
under the shroud of a crimson-stained wing
I choked on the pain of Halleluia.

Ebb and Flow

She is a fickle mistress,
an aqueous dominatrix
with a liquid whip,
lashing at the shore,
untainted by remorse,
reminding her prisoners of that which they can never possess.

La Morta

She wears tragedy so casually
as if despair were commonplace

Hair cast loosely like a shroud
about her shoulders -
revealing nothing but an alabaster smile.

Dressed so consciously for death -
Supreme in the legacy she has created for herself,
she ceases her silent mourning for no one.

The Park

We watched the swans and said nothing.

I talked endlessly of how they reminded me of my
childhood, of Yeats, of my sisters, of how they
symbolised beauty, purity and elegant sadness
but said nothing.

We couldn't escape the fact of the matter
tangled in the whisper of a November breeze,
waiting helplessly to be released.

We walked further along amidst the rustle
of small animals scuttling through the
undergrowth and said nothing

- yet saying more than we ever could or ever would.

Beyond Words

He half-stands,
hunched defeatedly over the radiator
searching for poetry amidst
this suburban prose.

High rise apartments dressed in concrete
provide little inspiration for a vagabond soul.

The silent space which wavers between us
begs to be filled with the meaningless rhetoric
of friendly advice

Instead I do nothing
as he half-stands,
tracing patterns on the window
with shards of breath,

leaving me speechless
in a situation beyond words.

Breathless

If only I could breathe you
I'd have you inside me

Instead of next to me,
in another world

Ignorant,
as I stand here breathless.

Ready to Go

My own Lazarus
risen from the dead.

Here to remind me that ghosts do exist.

Offering me his hand,
then slipping through my fingers.

Phantasmagorical.

Set to disappear again for another three years.


Solitude

I spent an hour wandering within myself
finding nothing but unfinished paths and forgotten shortcuts.
Wishing I could doubleback,
feeling forced to move forward,
I stood still and finally did nothing.


The Park

We watched the swans
and said nothing.

I talked endlessly of how they reminded me of my
childhood, of Yeats, of my sisters, of how they
symbolised beauty, purity and elegant sadness
but said nothing.

We couldn't escape the fact of the matter
tangled in the whisper of a November breeze,
waiting helplessly to be released.

We walked further along amidst the rustle
of small animals scuttling through the
undergrowth
and said nothing

- yet saying more than we ever could or ever would.

Mourning Glory

I mourn for your death
even though you are here in front of me,
exasperated by animation,
hardly able to contain yourself,
remembering a time when you were alive.

All Works © 2001 Annmarie O'Connor

Feedback: pete.garbett@ntlworld.com, 17th December 2001

Feedback: This is some of the best lyric poetry I’ve read from a new author in a long time. “Dogstar” provides a stark insight into female psychology. The ending of “Hannah” (“While she with driftwood as a sceptre and hope for a crown, traces lines from castles in the air”) is a haunting and memorable image. “Solitude” delivers a punch to the reader who immediately identifies with the problem and “Mourning Glory” is beautifully ironic (and reminds me of several acquaintances). I love every poem in the collection, although I must confess that I don’t understand the last line of “Salvation”.