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New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

5 poems by featured poet Kate Ennals

Kate Ennals is a poet and writer and has published material in a range of literary and on line journals (Crannog, Skylight 47, Honest Ulsterman, Anomaly, Burning Bush 2, Poets meets Politics, The International Lakeview Journal, Boyne Berries, North West Words etc). Her first collection of poetry At The Edge was published in 2015. She has lived in Ireland for 25 years and currently runs poetry and writing workshops in County Cavan, and organises At The Edge, Cavan, a literary reading evening, funded by the Cavan Arts Office.

Before doing an MA in Writing at NUI Galway in 2012, Kate worked in local government and the community sector for thirty years, supporting local groups to engage in local projects and initiatives. Her blog can be found at kateennals.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Parents Wedding Photo

 

I gaze at this photograph as a child

feel that something is not quite right

 

They (is that really you?) stand, arched

Before a church door

Slid shut but for a three-inch black gap

 

(letting monsters out?)

 

Unaware of such, they (you) stare down at their wedding certs

Both dressed in beige (how do I know, it’s a black and white photo)

Single breasted suit for Da

Waisted jacket, matching pleat skirt for Ma

(Not at all like what you wear now)

 

You told me

 

In front – unseen – stand your parents

 

One from Saffron Walden

One from Walsall

One from Paris

One from South Wales

 

Mistaken pairings, you said with a sigh

 

You, the Groom and Bride

Stand, side by side

Looking down

Not touching

 

On my wedding day, I will kiss my husband with gay abandon

fling my arms around him, hoping to break with tradition

and keep the monsters away. I decide. With certainty.

 

 

 

It’s all Relative

 

His hair is diarrhoea from the arse of a gull
That he blow dries into corn doll drills
In his hamster cheeks he stores cake
Dolly mixtures swimming in soft poached egg
He has the look of Abe, a whiff of Dave, the feel
Of Hades. He wanks with divine precision
In an obsequious manner

He wears Ralph Lauren in bed, Paul Smith in the kitchen

His aniseed eye reeks a lofty derision

“Of what rhyme you now?” he sits back with a sigh
“Of you, my dear,” I say in reply.

 

 

 

Baby daughter                       

 

Slowly she drank in my innocence and youth

Supped at my strength, tasted my truth.

With vigour, she gorged on my intelligence and wit

Tiny fingers grabbing my tit.

 

She enjoyed my humour, gagged on my pride

Vomited my inertia, savoured my style

She relished my passion, dribbled my cries

She gazed at me with wide open blue eyes.

 

She imbibed my loyalty in fits and starts

Spat out my cruelty, at my love she laughed

And when finally she milked me dry

I fed her motherhood and apple pie.

 

 

 

To My Grown Up Daughter

 

 

Plucked strings of panic fret your voice

As if you have gulped a botched B flat

And ripped it back from a constricted chest

I don’t understand what you gabble, but I hear

The clink of fear, stilt and stress

Hiccups of violence. Sharps of anguish.

 

I am sad I have no lullaby to sing

But, I know you are too old to listen

And I too unfamiliar with modern grieving

For, with age has come ignorance of youth

Instead, I’d like to be a poem for you

to show, not tell, the gift of living

 

 

 

 

Sweet Mirror

 

My eyes squint like bulls eye sweets

My nose has the shape of a chocolate flake

My ear is fashioned like a pink jelly bean

I have hula hooped cheeks

A chin that peaks like swirled ice cream

 

When I look in a mirror and see my reflection

I see a crumpled bag of delectable confection

 

My neck quavers over jubbly boobs

Nipples like gob stoppers, over chewed

My bazooka bubble-gum tum is a grand old joke

Wriggled with ‘sweet and sour’ jelly worms

My thighs have the consistency of soft caramel toffee

My knees are twisted like aniseed drops

My shins are gnawed sticks of pink seaside rock

My ankles are sharp like extra strong mints

I have feet to be sucked like a sherbet fountain

My middle toe is long like a string of black liquorice

My body is sweet heaven, yours to be cherished

 

 

 

 

 

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