New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

4 poems by Amy Wyatt

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Amy Louise Wyatt is an A Level Lecturer, poet and artist from Bangor, N.I.  She founded the Bangor Poetry Competition and regularly facilitates workshops and exhibitions. Amy has been published in Edify and FourXFour with Lagan Press.  She was a finalist in the 2016 National Funeral Services Poetry Competition and a finalist in the 2017 Aspects Festival Poetry Slam.








My heart has been boiled hard and dry as bone.

Sahara dust bowl; baked sand sculpture; more than


thirsty; cusp of extinct; cup of ash. Willing time to spill

itself; alone and it alone will follow suit. My heart,


an arid sacrifice eaten with bread and wine.

If only I’d kept check on ebb and flow. Tides


like dancing witches soaked in magic foaming

at the moon worship at the corners of the earth


where each god hides. A magnet could not keep me

here; I am parched beyond revival. Dead as bone.





Holy Ground


We are the only cowboys on the road at noon

surprisingly hot for Donegal-

a Jekyll and Hyde in the sun and the gloom.

‘We’re passing through Indian Country,’

he said, as he always tells me Peggy said in her day.


Cold white stone cracking through the mountains

like in a western it would; or the perception

of another world; the epics; or the stone age.

Piles of unbuilt houses on the left; cabinets and fire

wood rooting from the ground; and a lonely foxglove-


pink in all its glory hovering in the wind blessing itself,

waiting on holy water to wash it taller tomorrow.

Appearing in the gruff- a bright blue Mary peeking

through the grass with prayers; fervent whispers

in the breeze from pilgrims in search of moody skies.


A feeling you could be anywhere in the world,

a thousand plays on green and many other colours-

the landscape burnt and quenched.

The chameleon effect.

Holy ground.








I spoke in words I’d heard my mother use-

that until now had not been mine to claim.


The twenty seventh day delights in flame

singed by the boiled first breath. My muse,

my little muse.  You cried a womb-won

battle cry and felled upon my side

still tied; battle scarred; wrinkling into life.


‘We won, we won.  We won just one.’


Your face was mine. Yet yours. Yet his.

How can a babe translate the language of

those who chose him without knowing?  Cast off,

cast on- we dropped a stitch and you are this.


You speak in words my mother heard me use-

you claimed my spot and I claimed hers, my muse.





In Autumn


In autumn wingless red breasts will take to the air

no longer territorial or alone,

turned coats lining the park in unruly procession.


Fallen yellow bellies, black wet undersides glistening,

pinched crisp by autumnal nip,

curling in thirst, soon sodden mulch and skeleton leaf.


Shards of veined copper plate charging in the falling sun,

furled palms bridging the park one side to another;

heaped in rows kicked into line slipped to the side.


Trees weep as kin crunch underboot-

soon they will be filmed in white or glass

naked and proud- flagellated by the cold.








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