All posts tagged: Audrey Molloy

A celebration of Irish Women Poets on Bloomsday 2019

“Yes” by Afric McGlinchey (after Molly Bloom in James Joyce’s Ulysses) …yes and then I touched my finger to his lips to stroke away the cider, and put it to mine and our tongues went plunging – such a lush sweetness – the grass so springy-soft on the cliff and the waves crashing below and I had to catch my breath and the night’s perfume drowned that tang of lamb and I thought of my first kiss – what was his name? Johnny? – yes, his tongue so unexpected, wriggling like an eel, but this time it felt different, and even his silence didn’t matter when he stared, stared at my breasts and I let my hair slip loose like that Cape Town girl, and you have moonlight in your eyes, he said so I took him in my hand and he whispered, would I, ma petite phalène, he said and I thought I may as well, as well him as another, and the sea was swirling below us in a froth the sky gorgeous …

“A Gradual Eden” and other poems by Audrey Molloy

A Gradual Eden After the lava had cooled, hardened like a carapace over the fresh-earth graves of our marriages, nothing happened for a while. Sure, you and I still talked all night, once dared to walk arm-in-arm like a real couple to the Vietnamese restaurant with the string-bead curtain and napkins folded into swans. I had to learn the basics: I only knew your every thought, but not, for instance, how you took your coffee, how you swam at five each day, leaving me to wake alone. Nothing grew on the hard-baked basalt of us. Ditches that had defined our highways vanished, once-shady trees now jutted like antlers where the lightning had struck. When the strawberries were gone we ate dandelion and fiddle-head ferns. You were an inventive chef, but I was sick of roots and leaves; I wanted Passiflora (or violets at the very least). Once, longing for old comforts, you peeked back under the edge of the rock-crust for a glimpse of green, but the lawns were mustard and thistle-pocked. Twice I peeked …