Posts Tagged ‘Females’

bra

putting her hands
behind her back
to unhook her bra
a gentle struggle
a hint of bondage
supplicant hands
with red nails
turned to heaven

Julian O’Dea

Irish Referendum 2018

“The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned”: Yeats

IRISH REFERENDUM 2018

I saw Ireland hanging naked in the rain
dead to her faith
a miscarriage of justice
scrawled upon her skin,
death by referendum.

Why use long-fought freedom
to ape the English sin?
When “the centre
cannot hold” what is to be done?
A woman with an empty womb
hangs in a muddy sky.
The old country is not a home.

Julian O’Dea

Love and Dogs

TIME WAS

we could conjure

a hearth and

you let your hair

down like a pour

of molten gold

from a jeweller’s

trembling hand

Julian O’Dea


DOG

Flopping on the bed

our friendly white Samoyed

happily blows phlegm

into the air

like a tiny Moby Dick

disgorging precious

ambergris.

Julian O’Dea

Nadège du Bospertus, leaving the stage sidesaddle

Unicorn Blood

A makeup colour.

The girl is biting her lip, a sign of arousal or interest.

FOR THE FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION

FOR THE FEAST OF
THE ASSUMPTION

In Irish not simply Máire
but Muire for the Virgin Mary
like murine for a mouse
in Bethlehem the “house
of bread” bred Christ
to feed the ages then
snug as a dormouse
in a Roman glirarium
fell asleep to rise
from her Dormition.

Julian O’Dea

Yacht

YACHT

 

White sails in her eyes
bandages for blinding
beauty of the cyan sky
waves to toss her fish
seagulls white and grey
clouds to cool the sun
no need to read charts
when you are happy
it is all the same.

 

Julian O’Dea

PENCIL

PENCIL

Pencil thin.
Sharp but untried.
I met you in a tutorial,
your voice first
from down the table,
then the author
of that voice.
The persona. The person.
The body.
Your colours, black
and white, and a grey
skirt. A pencil skirt.
Pencil grey.
A scholar, without
a stoop. Straight. Linear.
Apart from schoolgirl
curves.
How to hold you?
How to fit you in my hand?
To start to write.

 

Julian O’Dea

The Surf

The surf is full of girls:
their seaweed, oysters,
and pink pearls.

 

Julian O’Dea

I remember

I remember those first times
you ironed my shirts for work;
barefoot on steaming summer
evenings; the hiss and curve of
the hot iron; the turn of your 
ankles; cottage industry; hammer,
anvil, heat of the human forge.

Julian O’Dea