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An unpublished poem by Mícheál Moley Ó Súilleabháin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’.




Made me feel like I was in that kitchen … beautiful 😌
How lovely. Thank you.
Though contextually different, I'm reminded of a song by a music friend and retired college professor, Dan Bergrren. Sittin' in Your Kitchen. https://youtu.be/MS3cnDf7jTQ?si=_VpROnIQIKuD7Rqq