This poem sprang out of our ‘voices’ Poetry ID workshop at the end of February. Thanks to Luisetta for sifting that topic from the ether that evening.




The first time I heard your voice

it touched me so closely

I almost hung up.

Who was this stranger who spoke to me?

My voice hid in the business of practical detail,

peering out from behind the leaves

newly aware of its nakedness.

Now we converse, sometimes

cloaked in familiarity,

sometimes skin on skin.


Ríonach Aiken



A bell chimes,.
Midnight. The kids
long since wrapped
around their artifacts:
a hairless doll,
an orange bear,
a mushroom-coloured monkey

And now inside
their amniotic dreams,
they whir and mutter.
In the gunpowder dark,
a thin caul of years
hoods each head,
a fragile membrane.

My years orbit
like great birds
looking to roost.
I only sense their drift,
but I catch their wind.



when I remember

I’m sitting on a window ledge
looking out

I see the green gardens
in the next town

I keep one eye open
for the girl two doors down

crooking my neck
I catch the thump thump thump of the railway track

framed in a picture
bent like a question mark
I’m waiting for my dad to come home

I’m sitting on a window ledge


No Bells


A poem from our writing workshop last night. Thanks to John Gohorry and the group for coming up with the stimulus.

No Bells

Even though I know what ails me
I push on.
One foot,
then the other.
One short breath.
One more.

Fingers clench, gnawing at each other.
Even my toes curl and squirm.

Across the road, trees huddled
in their winter coats of ivy
fumble in their pockets
for the woodwind notes of pigeons,
a secret code to summon the lost.
Children’s laughter floats
and is swallowed by silence.

There are no bells anymore.
Everything real is melted down
to fuel the virtual.

It’s simple.
Just breathe.
One breath.
Then another.


Ríonach Aiken