Tag: Wordlegs

“The Reading” and “The Back Bedroom” by Sarah O’Connor

April 23rd, 2016

The Reading

In the mock parlour room, people come and go.
No one speaks of Michaelangelo.

The words are thin and the wit is dull.
Arrogance saturates the air. No lull.

The Liffey water turns green, olive, matt black.
The lights upon it are buttered mosaic, forth and back.

The moment of grace is brief and it is bright.
It is sign-posted by no hot spotlight.

I want to drum heels, point and shout:
Talent is here; talent is out.

The Back Bedroom

It lurks lonely, like a figurine
It smells stuffy, like a chintz quilt

The wardrobe full.

Its faded finery, guests long gone
Its pillows thin and soft, clean like powdered snow
Its pincushion, still spikily sharp
Its duckling wallpaper, growing yellowed

The window fogged.

It smells of old, like winter silt
It sings of old, inexorable guilt

The door closed.

The Reading and The Back Bedroom are © Sarah O’Connor

Sarah O’Connor is originally from Tipperary. She studied in UCC and Boston College, and she now lives in Dublin. She previously worked in publishing and now works in politics. She is 34. She is working on her first novel and on a collection of poetry. She has been published by Wordlegs and The Weary Blues.

Sarah O’Connor blogs at The Ghost Station & tweets at @theghoststation.
Poemín and other Poems by Sarah O’Connor

‘Popping Candy’ and other poems by Sarah O’Connor

May 16th, 2015

Poemín

This poem
Will be
Exquisitely short

And

Dinkily dedicated
To you.

Popularity, Personified

Smugness was her scarf,
Inked pinkly, cerisely,
She stroked it smugly.
Smugness was her scarf.

Idleness was her chignon,
Gleaming, burnished, shiny
She fondled it idly.
Idleness was her chignon.

Cuteness was her weapon,
Trigger fingered, ready,
She cocked it cutely.
Cuteness was her weapon.

Blandness was her boyfriend,
Broad-shouldered, dreamy,
She loved blandly.
Blandness was her boyfriend.

For Heaney

The sorrow’s mine and yours.
It’s all of ours. We shake our heads.
Now, when we want words,
We will rifle and riffle
Through pages printed.
We will thumb-skim his volumes.
We will become accustomed,
And forget to mourn, as we do today,
For his bits of the world welded to
Bits of the meaning of the world.
With those new silvered weldings,
Hand-soldered together by him,
Scudding from him to us.
We will miss his missiles of insight.

Tír na nÓg

I saw Tír na nÓg
For the first time
Yesterday.

From the car, while driving
On the M8, before Thurles.

All the plants,
All the trees faced it,
Pulled to it.

I felt the pull myself.
The draw.

And the island?
A mossy green copse,
Saturated in spring green.

On this bright day,
A wisp of mist hung

There. Around.
The rounded island
Otherworldly.

Ah, the longing.
The longing for it lingers.

Offering

I would bring you white roses
And mysterious irises
And open sunflowers
If they would let me

I would bring you sweet port wine
And hoppy beers
And tiny dry Champagne bubbles
If they would let me

I would bring you blissful heat
And cooling showers
And misty hovering bridge fog
If they would let me

I would bring you woven blankets
And intriguing ceramics
And all the treasures of this New World
If they would let me

But they won’t let me
And I just can’t choose
The best offering for you
So my lines will have to suffice.

Please let my lines suffice.

Popping Candy

Your company is
Like popping candy
Fizzing in my head.

Your company is
Like deft acupuncture
Painlessly needling me.

You say something
So unexpectedly funny
That I almost snort.

How long does
Popping candy last?
Does anyone know?

Popping Candy and other poems published here are © Sarah O’Connor.

Sarah O’Connor is originally from Tipperary. She studied in UCC and Boston College, and she now lives in Dublin. She previously worked in publishing and now works in politics. She is 34. She is working on her first novel and on a collection of poetry. She has been published by Wordlegs and The Weary Blues.

Sarah O’Connor blogs at The Ghost Station & tweets at @theghoststation.