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New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

The Poetry of Linda McKenna, Featured Poet

Linda McKenna is originally from County Dublin but has lived in County Down for more than twenty years. She has had poems published in A New UlsterSkylight 47, Panning for Poems  and Lagan Online.

 

 

 

 

 

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Speckless

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was what she aimed for. Speckless floors and
windows but especially sheets, plunged

again and again into water hot as she could
make it, soap and scrub, knuckles raw,

twisting out the dead watery weight of them,
stinging in arms and shoulders; then again

through the wringer. Then watched like a
hawk for the shadow, the sniff of rain.

The inelegant dash to rescue them from
the deluge. Then in off the line to dance

them into narrow folds. Edge to edge, face
to face, hands almost but not quite touching,

chaste  and white and clean smelling.
Something formal, a word you have read

but don’t quite understand,  gavotte or pavane.
Then the disinterring of the  ironing cloths,

grey blankets laid on the table, old linen
smooth and scorched. The good day’s work

of piles of speckless sheets growing and growing
at the uncovered end of the scrubbed table.

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Witness Statements

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They rise up in copperplate the long dead,
With an elegance and sinuous grace they
Lacked in life. Ragged lines straightened,
crooked columns shuffled together,
lower case shoulders, upper case pikes.

They emerge as if from the same hand,
identically stately, invisible margins exactly
the same width, as if some ancient, holy scribe,
his writing box and quill under his arm, had cast
some magical spell over the land.

But of course it is the hand that is inherited.
Passed down from darned and patched tutor,
clergymen with no livings, to these junior officers,
shaking out their cramping fingers, careful not to
blot the pages of  life and death.

The witnesses process neatly across the page,
released from byre and shed, brushed and
combed for the day.  Neatly laid out incomprehensible
actions; travelling ten miles to borrow sacks,
lounging against neighbours’s walls at midnight.

And squeezed small between the marching lines
of traitors and curves of  smoke, some women,
who are reminded of what an oath is and to be sure
to repeat exactly what they heard the men saying.

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Ismene (Aside)

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This is where I am buried, a footnote.
Small printed quibble briefly dragging

your eye to the bottom of the page,
intruding on the principal action,

a what if, on the other hand or some
lesser view hanging dismissable

over the page where you, my always
spotlit sister are centred, weaving

golden circles of verse with the skill
other girls loop ribbons, twist wool.

The lines flowing on from each other
in a chorus we have to follow to the end

then go back and read again, then go back
and say out loud, the words individual pieces

of bright glass dropping onto the stage,
glowing where they fall, singing in your head,

on the street, in your  house so you repeat
them as prayers, as vows, as ritual.

Behind the curtain I am sweeping up the dust
wondering how will we live now ?

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Clearances 

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For a whole summer my father worked
somewhere between a crying shame and

a mortal sin. Riding off every morning
to join the other hobnailed pillagers stripping

and ripping out huge plaster ceiling roses
bordered with ivy and vines, chipping

away at deep cornices and elegant picture
rails, carting off loads of woodworm pitted

mahogany newel posts, sweeping up acres
of chandelier glass and oil lamp pendants.

In the evenings he conjured for us fabulous
tales of spoiled and rotting opulence; brocade

curtains hanging in ribbons, Persian carpets
mildewed and stinking, stained glass bleeding

into skips. Some things he couldn’t help but
rescue; stilts, an improbable rusty sword,

a doll’s house with real wallpaper and
best of all, thick rolls of draughtsman’s paper

where I drew the family trees of ancient
European royalty, Ferdinand, Isabella,

and their not yet doomed daughters.

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