What’s in a word?

This poem, by Anne Mullane, is a bit like ‘I’d do anything for love’ by Meatloaf.

The Word

We are mesmerised by the word.
That word
The one you just said.
In this brightly lit café
It lies between us
Acid sharp, it flays the table.
And the future lurches
And you are placed apart
Cut off from the herd.
You look at me, expectant,
But I cannot help you
I don’€™t know how,
I wasn’€™t expecting
That word.


A poem for a lazy Sunday…

This one is from our ‘leader’, always the voice of reason in the trees of madness, the wonderful Anne Mullane…


As if forgetting were an option,
As if memory could hold you
We spent that night in a hushed, humid garden
When a summer storm broke, we ran,
Took temporary shelter in an alley,
Heat-held and safe we kissed under a sapling.
Its ceiling of luxuriant green a talisman
Against rain and time and loss.
You gazed up,
Caressed the slender trunk,
Contemplated the restless canopy.

€˜Look at this tree,
A fucking fine tree.€™
And a decision was reached.
€˜Before I leave, I have to climb this tree.€™
But drunken resolve is easily distracted
And as you swayed under its leaves,
Amazed by your future
I held you and prayed to whoever listens,
€˜May there be someone
In his bright new life
To gently dissuade him
From climbing trees
When drunk.€™