Poems by Patricia Walsh
Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Mourneabbey, in north Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology in 2000. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Too Well Away Journal; New Wasteland Magazine; Quail Bell Magazine; The Poetry Collective; Quiver Review; Blazevox Magazine; and The Rational Creature. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and a further novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina will be published in late 2021.
Getting this party started, put out the lights
the dead don’t need the money, a conservative guess.
Drinking to enlightenment, foot across foot
intelligent factions held to the extreme.
Excellence in form, scathe to one’s foundations
an eyeball to radio another safe bet,
realising certain values, prayed for indefinitely
softening stances where none left to go.
Reading taking its time, tripping off the tongue,
illicit beer fashions a weekend away
reading into briar’s eventual crown,
behold the off-scouring of the world, detached.
Gainful employment, declared through song,
spoken word will eventually have its say,
editing through colouring the lost notebook
hurtling over policy realised through effort.
Resurrecting crass mistakes, prayed for solitude
cascading the bonfire of vain performance
cleaning up nicely at a haggard expense
eating without ensure a golden deity.
Washed and dried away, beloved by many
coffee in an instant shrills the purgatorial
declarative in fear of another’s inkling
coldly going where none has gone before.
Going for long walks, a timetabled loss
wishing for relief in this hard sun,
awards ceremonies under dint of industry
like to like seething in take-away glory
transport coldly selling the sporty spices
local honour dispensed with invaluable literature.
Looked at askance, prodigal offspring,
apologised for blows from far behind,
watching the pints accumulate, then drunk
knowing the situation before its fruition,
insanity to be unleashed on the world
kicked into touch, a job as good as any.
Travelling, promises of good behaviour, not to wash
believing own stupidity a cause to redeemed
events as family days, drinking aside
easy on alcohol for fear of embarrassment
ironside soul hurting from loss of belief
advertisements showing and telling the wares.
Experienced, knowing what this is like,
dark individuals flicking through textbooks,
good as useless, earning another living
award-winning magic over perfunctory coffee
here or take-away, under pressure to perform
beloved, as always, in a collective soul.
All in proper order, recognising through distance
sister institutions call a continuous halt
drinking through figurines distributed wisely
maddened phone calls colour the atmosphere
recycled notices carded through an aperture.
Blessed through occupation, paid or otherwise
bid the drag queen adieu in the summer sun,
unshaven, after fashion, loved for evermore
superannuated newspapers hit the wall screaming
jumping through hoops for a finer order.
Questioning tenets of a comfortable spirituality
once fed through a loving spoonful
trinities and the Virgin Mary jettisoned as fake
god knowing what you want before you ask him
treacherous on this occupation, nailed up again.
Do as you’re told, being cheeky is anathema
jumping ship over a useless crush, for sakes
taking opportunity in both hands, all mine
grateful for the chance to deserving strike
tears and laughter pepper the memories.
Assassination morales pirouette around favour
no thanks for the privilege, a menopausal destination
windows of failure eating through the disuse
a certain line count makes all the difference
meaning a proper order, excellence eschewing.