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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.

Entry Wound

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.

Family Soul

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.

Local Renaissance

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.


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