The Kitchen

An unpublished poem by Mícheál Moley Ó Súilleabháin

The Kitchen

Oh there were nights in that kitchen

when mustard walls reverberated

with Dooley’s harp, nail plucked.

That CD rotated day and night

into its fourth trimester,

taking on a life of its own,

seeing its own patterns.

The music surprising itself,

realising it is its own body.

Its own entity in the world.

There was a léacht if you wanted one,

And a léacht even if you didn’t.

Poems are still shoddily taped

inside some kitchen cabinets.

Theological quotations from pope Francis

and popes before him, half glimmers of hope,

half cynical evidence of echoes of empty promises.

Benign dictators of institutions adrift.

There’s a piano there painted circus colours.

Oh, how one room can shape our mind.

When I listen to Elgar,

I think of my father.

*Léacht - (pron. Lay-akht) Irish language for ‘Lecture’.