Beau Williams is an American performance poet and the author of two collections of poetry. He is the creator of Virtual Poetry Marketplace where members of the public can commission a personalised poem. Both he and Breda Joyce, whose first collection, Cadence, came out in 2017, graduated from the MA in Creative Writing this year.
Call The Locksmith
Outside, a siren rounds and ebbs through Dublin 6.
Nobody knows what this means.
In the midwest (Oklahoma, Dolly Parton, meth),
that same sound rattles through livestock
and the locals move to cover,
watch pregnant clouds spin-on
as they genuflect and tongue psalms.
The siren climbs our spines,
nestles in our ears,
All the bars have spit us out and
apartments swallowed us whole.
A slender black house cat struts
every sidewalk on the planet.
Links its way through fence posts
and slips through window cracks.
Rubs its neck on every
door knob and neighbour.
Makes us lay one rigor mortis body
between us and every other body.
6 feet is a brother
is a science teacher
is a movie star
is a casket.
This cat has chewed up all our toilet paper,
has buried our soap
and raked our bones.
Has hollered from the street corner
and from every balcony in Venice.
Has drowned businesses.
Has gutted towns.
Has burned chests.
Has washed sounds.
This slender beast has reset the clock.
Has snapped the key in every lock.
No Covid Blues
No one told the daffodils about social distancing,
that they should no longer bunch together;
their brazen yellow heads just nod as I stroll by.
No one told the cherry blossoms not to cluster
in groups of more than two and in the plantation
bluebells defy the ban on congregation.
And no one thought the air would ever feel
this clean, that a teeming choir of birdsong
would welcome in the day. I catch the scent
of hyacinth, wild garlic on warm afternoons.
When sunsets ribbon the evening sky,
a strange light catches me off guard and I dance
around my kitchen. I’ve banished the covid blues!