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Poems from |
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Coddle and Tripe |
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by Teri Murray and Liam Mulligan |
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Teri Murray |
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Rembmbering Stephenson’s |
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‘From a Railway Carriage’ |
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Years later, I remember the poem, |
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breathless sentences |
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chugging towards the three-o’clock bell |
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as rain streked the schoolhouse window. |
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I knew nothing of Stephenson then. |
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Later, buttressed by nylon shopping bags |
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stuffed with sandwiches, a bucket, a spade; |
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a rubber ring deflated by winter, |
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Slainte lemonade; |
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the first glimpse of Howth, that year, |
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snaking past the train. |
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Years later, I remember the poem, |
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breathless sentences |
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faltering in my tearful swell |
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of goodbyes through a rain-streaked window. |
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And I knew about leaving and Stephenson then. |
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The Shoemaker |
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He kept St. Crispin’s Day; |
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Monday’s early closing, |
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whiskey under the bench. |
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He shunned leather aprons |
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instant solutions, |
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and saws that gouged the teeth of keys. |
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He probed layers of the soul, |
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pared with callous hands |
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embedded stones and hieroglyphs from heels. |
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He mourned the last of his ilk, |
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the ways of women, |
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tongues tightly laced by endless knots; |
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binding me still to the shoemaker, |
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my father. |
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Aunty Acid |
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Is it pepper |
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mixed with okra |
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blocking up my yellow chakra |
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or is it last night’s curry |
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causing pain? |
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Is the yeast |
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from Guiness froth |
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fermenting where it ought, |
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or is my peptic ulcer |
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acting up again? |
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Is the tannin |
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in the wine |
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being mixed with terrapine |
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and sending secret signals |
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to my brain? |
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These are questions |
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og great worth |
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as my tummy |
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really hurts - |
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Ouch! - I’d better |
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take the Bisodol |
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again. |
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Liam Mulligan |
