Words to Tie to Bricks Page 4

  Maybe this is my home.

  Haiku

  HANNAH O’BOYLE

  Inkless white paper.

  I cannot think of the words

  to bring you to me.

  To My Redo Button

  EMMA SHEVLIN

  I don’t know how I found you,

  Hidden among the trees.

  We’ve started our new journey,

  And must follow the gentle breeze.

  It carries the pieces with it,

  The shards that are my heart,

  Over to greener pastures.

  I’ve come back to the start.

  A beginning where I am whole,

  A canvas awaiting the paint

  To give the plain some colour

  Even if those hues are faint.

  Fly with me among the clouds,

  We’ll soar and twist and turn.

  We’ll dance among the shining rays,

  Be careful not to burn.

  Off to the Right

  EMMA SHEVLIN

  There’s a spark down deep inside,

  It pricks as sharp as pins.

  It makes me feel alive for once,

  Lets me forget my sins.

  This feeling rushing through me,

  Ignites my every cell

  Because for these few minutes

  I’ve broken from the shell.

  I’m not the one called stupid.

  The little girl known as innocent.

  I can be the one you’ve wanted,

  A moment’s bliss ...

  That has been spent.

  Because I am alone again,

  The moment has gone by,

  But I won’t crumble to pieces.

  I would not dare to cry.

  I am like a jam jar

  With the lid screwed extra tight,

  Locked up in a cupboard

  Somewhere to the right.

  I’m better off out of sight.

  Dust on the Tracks

  CAELEN FELLER

  We see a sea of faces,

  Their features pressed against the glass,

  Dulled eyes lost in monotonous grey.

  We move so fast on this train.

  But we must shut the Doors tightly

  To keep the faces out.

  For an unsettling truth is descending.

  The windows are fracturing,

  The hinges rusting.

  The Doors are opening.

  And their fingers are what pull

  And pry them apart.

  Dust gathers on the tracks,

  It catches in the wheels.

  Immortal Jellyfish

  ANDREW DUFFY

  IT’S QUITE ROMANTIC, ISN’T IT – the idea of immortality? The notion that one individual could, in spite of all odds, withstand the test of time and live into infinity. Think of all the glorious wonders you could achieve. You could change the world. Heal it, improve it, teach the countless generations you would live through how to build a utopia. Or you could go down the path of control and domination – due to the lack of knowledge and experience that mortals suffer from, you could easily control the planet for the everlasting duration of your lifespan. You could control anyone; you will certainly encounter enemies but you will also possess the time and knowledge to punish and torture them.

  But perhaps the one who suffers the most in your infinite lifespan is you yourself. All that you grow to love and cherish during your time will wither and die while you remain fit and alive. The music that comforts you will only play for several decades. The sports and games you have developed a fondness for will eventually change until they are almost unrecognisable. The languages you acquired during your endless travels will become gibberish in several hundred years. All these vast changes will occur until you are left feeling alone, empty and helpless, adrift in the currents of time. There you will be in a cold ocean of infinity where one can truly say, ‘I am alone.’ Believe me when I say I know. You don’t make friends when you’re an immortal jellyfish.

  Give It To Me Straight

  AMY CAMPBELL

  Your eyes wide with the question,

  But I don’t know what to say.

  There’s no right way to phrase this,

  It wasn’t meant to be this way.

  Each second we are silent

  Drops off of us like rain.

  I really should say something,

  You must think I’m insane.

  I try and fail to make something up,

  But to lie you must be calm.

  I gibber out the awkward question.

  ‘Oh,’ you laugh, ‘I am.’

  Check the Box

  ORLA MCGOVERN

  ‘I’m a girl.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I’m neither.’

  ‘I’m both.’

  ‘I’m Catholic.’

  ‘I’m Protestant.’

  ‘I’m atheist.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m homosexual.’

  ‘I’m straight.’

  ‘I’m asexual.’

  ‘I’m bi.’

  I feel like I should know

  Which label’s mine.

  On the Other Hand, Flowers

  (An excerpt from a work in progress)

  CATHERINE BOWEN

  DECLAN SNIFFLED AND WIPED HIS running nose into the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His damp clothes hung off the fire guard behind him. He sat hunched on the stones of the hearth with his back to the flames. His mother had wanted to run him a bath but he was too stubborn to ever willingly take more than one soak a week, even while shivering. He began to regret this decision as a tickling feeling started to crawl up his throat. He knew he was getting a cold.

  The idea of being sick over the weekend irritated him. This occurrence would normally have elicited a feeling of outrage from Declan. Normally, however, there were things to do at the weekend.

  It had been raining and sleeting continuously for a full week now.

  Every lunch and break time, the teachers kept the students locked inside. Not that the girls minded. They giggled and coloured and were generally as annoying as usual. Meanwhile Declan and the other boys clutched their hurleys and pressed their faces mournfully up against the glass of the windows.

  By Friday it had reached the point that the boys had run off at the end of school to the field by the river to play. The rain had eased into a drizzle which clung to their jumpers in droplets. The river was close to overflowing and the field was saturated. The ground glistened and a pond had formed by the hedgerow.

  They were about to try to brave the sodden earth when Joe’s mother found them. The boy was dragged away by the ear while his mother screeched in it. It was a grand total of two minutes before the others were given the same treatment by their own parents.

  After Mam had finished reprimanding him, she had left him here to wait until his clothes had dried. Or possibly until he died of boredom. Rose sat opposite him on the couch, writing into her hardback copy. The books from her schoolbag had spilled out around her feet and he could see an old essay covered in little red markings peeking out from her English book.

  Declan never wanted to go into secondary school. Homework at the weekend! What kind of monsters would do that?

  Any other time he would leave Rose be. If she wasn’t talking about some boy with ‘dreamy eyes’, she was prattling on about makeup and neither were topics he had a smidgeon of interest in. Then again, his trousers were still dripping onto the stones and he was going to collapse if he didn’t do something soon.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, cutting through the silence.

  ‘Homework,’ she replied without raising her eyes. She coughed into the back of her hand and kept writing.

  ‘What kind of homework?’

  ‘I’ve to write an essay for English.’ Her eyes were narrowed in suspicion as she answered. He knew that she was questioning his motives.

  ‘Read it for
me,’ he requested, flashing a smile. When he was younger, he quickly learnt that little boys with big smiles were generally considered ‘cuddly’ and ‘cute’ and had turned his grin into a work of art. The dimples of his cheeks never failed him.

  Rose sighed, clearly feeling put upon, but began reading nonetheless.

  ‘There is a sense of anticipation as –’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  Her glare was icy and he threw his hands up in surrender.

  Rose cleared her throat and started again.

  ‘There is a sense of anticipation as winter ends.

  ‘Snowdrops force their way up through the hardened soil to act as standard-bearers for oncoming forces. The sun begins to linger in the sky each day to watch as legions of daffodils gather. Their bright petals pay tribute to the sunlight.’ She seemed quite pleased with her choice of words there and Declan tried not to mock her hand gestures as she spoke. ‘A tension builds and animals cautiously venture from their hideaways.

  ‘With the war cry of a bird, it begins. Buds fire open. Frost sweeps over fields at night and chokes the life from new sprouts. Hordes of rabbits,’ Rose paused to turn the page, ‘pour out from their burrows. An icy wind brings blankets of cloud to keep the grass from growing. After countless battles between flora and frost, the land is painted green. The forces of spring rejoice as their enemy is forced back and finally banished.’

  The door opened and Mam leaned through. ‘Tea, anyone?’

  ‘No thanks, Mam,’ they chanted in reply. She smiled and shut the door, sending a wave of cold air through the room.

  Declan shivered once and waited as Rose searched for her place.

  ‘The armies rejoice in their triumph. Grass reaches to the sky in exuberance. Flowers burst open as fireworks of celebration and foxgloves serve as bells of victory. Honey bees are messengers of the good news. The landscape brims with life. Plants stretch and bear fruit for a banquet. The scorching sun now remains astonishingly long in the sky to watch the festivities.

  ‘However, with time its interest fades. The ethereal witness,’ – the smug way Rose said ethereal didn’t sit well with him – ‘grows weary and drifts from sight earlier with every passing day. The warmth it provides slips away and the growth of life slows.

  ‘The lush leaves lose their brilliance. Cold mists flow over hedgerows and cling to the ground each evening. A howling wind warns of an inevitable defeat. As a farewell to a time of plenty, the leaves turn golden and branches hang heavy with nuts and berries.

  ‘Frost returns, hungry for retribution. Soon leaves fall to the enemy and the animals retreat. The trees become dormant, waiting until they can once again reclaim the land.’

  Declan frowned, unsure how to feel about the piece. On one hand, it was war, which he liked. On the other, it was about flowers. Why ruin the fighting by making it all girly? And if she was going to make it girly, why didn’t she just make it all about kittens and rainbows and dresses?

  ‘What do you think?’ Rose drawled out, getting up to stoke the fire.

  He stuck out his tongue in reply, causing her to roll her eyes and smile as she threw a turf briquette into the flames. She sat back down, switching copies and taking a calculator from the bag at her feet. He returned to checking his trouser legs every few seconds. Why were they taking so long to dry?

  Unrequited Love

  SAMUEL H. DOYLE

  I laboured all night long,

  Hunchbacked, hiding in homely robes.

  My eyes strained, pupils dilated with the depth of the darkness,

  Striving to express the extent of my emotions.

  Hurrying hands growing cramped,

  Crooked fingers curling and clenched.

  The inky nib scratched irregularly

  As I scrawled, blotching my page.

  My mind loosely rambled onwards

  Towards a completion that couldn’t come too soon.

  A writing wreck, as salty moisture welled

  Within weary eyes that craved for release.

  Beyond witching hour the cartridge ran dry,

  My word-wand’s scribblings forced to stall.

  Arms thrown back, writhing and grasping at air

  Before slamming shut the stained paper sheaves.

  A fiery arrow ascending above the hills,

  The cheering sun, a candle of hope

  Renewing all of Earth’s natural splendour.

  I rose refreshed; confident and prepared.

  Later ... all beliefs found dashed against the wall,

  Splattering, smashed on the brutal brickwork.

  A labour of love lasting all night long,

  And in the end, good for nothing.

  The Routine

  ORLA MCGOVERN

  Wet face,

  Racing mind,

  Sobbing breaths,

  Blade kind.

  Quick slash,

  Sharp pain,

  Short pause,

  Blood fain.

  The Sense of a Meal

  ANDREW DUFFY

  I CAN SMELL. IT IS glorious; the delightful aromas liberate me from the mundane. The smell of home fills my nostrils and floods every hole and crevice of my olfactory system with fumes of beauty and grace in the form of a freshly prepared specimen.

  I can touch. I rub the edges of its space. With every scrape of my fingers over its form I can feel my bones shake with the delight of the feeling, a moment where my skin freezes and I am completely locked in the embrace of this beautiful object.

  I can hear. It is the clatter and banter of those around me, some of whom are too caught up in their socialising to truly embrace the deity in front of them. There are some who take time out of their social lives to enter this world of wonder but tragically only stay for small periods only to return to the dull world of human interaction. Then there is myself, too caught up in my quest for enlightenment to pay the slightest bit of concern to the affairs of the human world.

  I can see. It is bright and brilliant, it is a parade of colours marching down towards my eyes, and my eyes open eager to greet the blessed colours of the day. All of the colours melt together to form perfection right before my fortunate eyes.

  I can taste. That is the best of all senses, for without it I could not appreciate the true joys of this heavenly item. For without tasting it, one confines themselves to the role of a spectator, unable to participate in the glorious triumphs of this action. Honestly, who wants to eat a dinner they can’t taste?

  Young Love (Sestina)

  SAMUEL H. DOYLE

  One night I heard scrabbling paws

  In the dark guided by your sensitive nose.

  A face appeared framed with light whiskers,

  As I ran to you, you began to purr.

  In the dark I could see your eyes shine

  Simply expressing your love.

  The fireside armchair you used to love

  Is now torn and scarred by your velvet paws,

  The tatters as your memorial shine.

  I remember how you sniffed the chair with your nose

  Prompting me to laugh with your purr

  As I teased your ticklish whiskers.

  I still have a picture, your whiskers

  Curled up in the style we all love,

  I can nearly hear you purr.

  There are still mucky marks of your paws

  Along the tracks you followed with your nose,

  Wet and gleaming, a natural shine.

  It’s hard to forget how the lamps would shine

  Brightly upon your silvery whiskers

  Twitching with the movement of your little black nose.

  You were the one pet I cared to love

  With your tiny cute paws

  And the sweet growly purr

  As you grew older you wanted to purr

  The night away in the moonshine.

  You appeared to have no paws

  In the dark that concealed your whiskers

  That wa
s a sight I used to love

  Only given away by your glistening nose.

  Years ago you would nuzzle your cute nose

  Up against my hand and purr,

  Enticing me to demonstrate my love

  By stroking your glossy fur until the shine

  And luminescent glow of your whiskers

  Reflected on your happy pattering paws.

  I remember how your nose in the lamplight used to shine,

  How your purr reverberated through your cheeky whiskers.

  I still keep my love alive though you have stilled your paws.

  Bygones

  ANNA MULLIGAN

  You were just an innocent bystander;

  Just watching a foreign movie

  Without subtitles.

  I’m the one who locked this door

  Between us; but a part of me wonders

  If you ever even tried the handle.

  I can’t forget that when I was most alone

  I was with you.

  You Are Now, Always Have Been, and Forever Will Be an

  CONOR KELLEHER

  A is for the AA meeting where you met her.

  A is for the attempts she makes to get better.

  F is for the friends who don’t have a clue.

  F is for the fears that they have around you.

  T is for the trauma she carries around.

  T is for the times when she can’t make a sound.

  E is for the every day she lives with this.

  E is for the ending you wish could exist.

  R is for the right words that you never knew.

  R is for the reversing you wish you could do.

  T is for the trauma you tried to carry around.

  T is for the times she couldn’t be found.

  H is for the hurt that she knows she’s dished out.

  H is for the hope she has, too quiet to count.

  O is for the optimism that got you so far.

  O is for optional: that’s all that you are.

  U is for the understanding, you don’t know what it’s for.