It had to
Come to the fore
I could feel
The tears drop
And drip down
On to my leg
I could count rain
In the still
Stilled mind forge chatter
The sadness had nowhere to go
Canal Walk Home
What is it
About the power
of the water
To heal hurts
Three lads sit on the boardwalk
They hardly look like delicate sorts.
And yet they gaze out
The rushing rippling mottles of the
Can soothe souls.
Car lights are reflected in
Striking streaks, always dappling
Buzzy thrill of
In the most basic of
Edged by banking sycamore leaves
I took one and put it in my pocket
To describe it better.
The smell of its earthy salt and bark
And the bare elegance
Of stripped black branches
Spearing themselves into the night air
Soldered into the genesis
And yes they are
A little further on
There’s a piece of street art says
Only the river runs free
And maybe that’s the attraction
Of this portal into liberty.
And then to gaze down the row
Through Camden Street from Portobello
The multi-potted chimney tops
Sophisticated lego bricks
Pricked by the Edwardian arc
Of ornate street lights.
The red car lights more dense
The further in you go
Speeding up into
Of urban adrenalin
As if in a movie
And the cameras were moving in
Drawing you in
Quick, quick slow
For all your talk
Of dalliances with the dark
Don’t you know that they are
One and the same.
The splendour of the curvature of the
veins in a leaf’s skin
Echoed with variations
Of trickled threads of gold.
Are as a naked woman’s
Waiting for your touch
Nymph and nature
They are one and the same.
Glorying in freedom
In liberated breeze
There is no need for
My soul is saddening.
And crying out to the wolves.
Take me away. No answer.
Take me away. Louder
Take me away. Hysterical.
But while geographically there were many places she could have gone to.
In reality there was no place left to go.
His flinty eyes of malice recognised this.
And licking his lips. Charged.
Through sinew and synapse chomped.
No morsel left to be spat out.
Only her emptiness lingered
He could not wrap his jaws around
What did not exist.
That seething chasm of nothingness
Every second, every minute, every hour, every day.
Swallowing all hope in its midst
And mainlining the remaining smulch into veins of her ill-begotten offspring.
Why, the wolves of course.
Ravenous little critters.
Engorged breasts of black milk
Mewling malevolence howled.
But madre macerated could not answer with a kiss.
Consumed by her own despair.
The Last Day
Gluttonous fat deals
Dripping hot sumptuous on molten train rails.
Mangy dog heels
To whine on his recline on a bed of nails
Hammered by slippery electric eels
And now pedal fast boy on your wheels
See glorious concrete hardened by steels
Wash, wash, wash, but grit you shit under your fingernails
Why, this is what you wanted as the bell peals.
Zap-ting, zap-ting, ting-ting-ting-ting go your microwave meals.
Greasing up your desperate bid to burn on among writers of great tales
But selfie, self loathing, self loving mastery, your progress is as slow as a snail’s
And soon, the filmy transcribe of time, your dignity steals
They say that love heals
But I don’t give a damn, I just want all the feelz.
Sewed into a corner by the bloodied strands – trails of entrails
The mighty man kneels
Consumed and other poems are © Gilliam Hamill.
|Originally from the village of Eglinton in Derry, Gillian Hamill has lived in Dublin for the past 12 years (intermingled with stints in Galway, Waterford and Nice). She has a BA in English Studies from Trinity College, Dublin and a MA in Journalism from NUI Galway. She is currently the editor of trade publication, ShelfLife magazine and has acted in a number of theatre productions. Gillian started writing poetry in late 2014.
⊗ Gillian’s Website