Poetic Sounds

1974: When we were young…

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Numero Uno

 

Numero Uno

 

Do you think

those who

always insist

on entering first,

 

ever open doors

for others,

offer help when

it isn’t needed

 

or look back ~

except to bask

in their own

reflection?

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2002

 

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Senses

Senses

hear

tender words
questions answers
your current reality

see

furtive glance
visual dance
clever hands and fingers

touch

tentative press
to shy flesh
still clothed in other loves

smell

breathe you in
where’ve you been
through all my loves and life

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2007

From my book “Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey” published in Cork, Ireland, 2003

 

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POEM: The Folly

 

Co.Cork.  Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

The Folly    

Gaeltacht – Irish-speaking area.

Teanga – living language, tongue.

 

My Gaeltacht friend explained  ‘Ye should go t’ see the folly…’

So, like tourists, my man and I actually took a clear-day,

no rain so far drive. A determined scenic dalliance

in sunny  sections flashing green and historical grey.

 

Eventually – with no clear direction, journeying

quite far out of our way…  we appreciated the Anglo

interpretation on the road signs, because as foreigners,

we don’t speak the traditional language of Ireland.

 

Not wanting to barstardise or pronounce phonetically

in error, ‘so’.  We enjoyed the lilt and musicality of her

tumbled, seemingly conscientious explanation – story-

telling at a 100 miles an hour.  ‘Ah well  ye know, ta

 

get t’da place dat ‘tis, you just go along dis

road, don’t ye know, ‘tis a sort of a wind-y road, den

up t’ hill, don’t ye know and dere’ll be a turn off t’

da right – de left would it be, no, ‘tis definitely

 

da right…  but don’t you be going dat way, d’ye know

‘cos dat’ll get ye into all sorts a troubles, sure

t’ will and all…’  Pictograms pointing to a past not

forgotten although many have tried to suppress their

 

uniqueness… The soft emphasis or not.  A language

echoed through 400 years… the charming emotional

push of Ireland.  ‘So’, we go on death-defying strips

of beaten earth, slicing through fields, carelessly carving

 

up gently rising hills dotted with dwellings, puffing

grey smoke evidencing crisp cold air, we journeyed

on by-ways bordered by stones. Intrusion bands – neatly

trimmed piles of manual labour carefully selected and placed

 

one on top of the measured other… in spite of  wars and cars,

surviving like the teanga, rebelliously, resolutely, knowingly

employed at home in private, upright and proud though sagging

in some areas, often bent by forces who moved on and forgot.

 

Those walls still exist in places – repaired now, to allow

journey. Showing a path around a sparkling gem waiting…

We chanced intrusion of some one’s private personal space,

a rutted homely driveway – questions of culture, seeking

 

an un-shy, proud demonstration of Celtic heritage. We

wanted a clearer vision of soulful insistence – difference.

A sculptural acknowledgment, including the heroic past,

clear evidence of resistance – of residence.  The Folly!

 

 Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

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Begorrathon: Vaccuming

St Mary’s Road, Midleton, Cork. 2003

Vaccuming

 

With every pull toward your body

you expect obedience.

Expect each tiny micron of dirt

to be sucked up and away.

Look at the attention you give stairs…

 

How do I become like stairs?

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

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Clare Road Repairs

 

Clare road repairs

 

On a hill, Celtic crosses and angels wings

gather.  We approve the view, weed and go.

 

Suddenly, unattended in a quiet Irish lane,

Temporary traffic lights blink red.

 

Surrounded by green fields, we’re forced

to queue like country others, and reflect.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

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Furnishings

CastleRedmond Court, Midleton, Co Cork. 2003.

 

Furnishings

 

listening to shower

water rhythms

 

then silence as you

shave sans mirror

 

wafts of Gillette

down the stairs

 

zing straight to

my wanton womb

 

I mouth blues

chopping garlic

 

you appear saying

‘For some reason

 

I am suddenly starving!’

  

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

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Begorrathon: Poem

Roadside E30, Co.Cork, Ireland.

 

Fetal naked at fifty.

I’ve followed signs to Yield in Ireland

when I’m used to an Aussie Give Way. 

 

I put on red lipstick, tell you stories

of Africa when we were both young

and watch my words seduce you again.

 

You remember young Chianti;

full and round, ruby red, peppered

with berries.  I remember

a Hotel in Kitwe – Blue Nun. 

 

You say your taste has matured,

you now prefer an Aussie Shiraz;

sharp, punchy, still youthful

– allowed to ripen with time.

 

I imprint your palate with my being

so no other will satisfy – am absolutely

involved in strong pulsing waves.

 

You suddenly stop

and fold my legs over

so I lay fetal naked at fifty…  

 

you lean forward to whisper

my tongue is sweet.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003 

 

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Moving in…

Moving In

 

“The teaspoons go

in the first section

of the drying rack

and don’t get put away.”

 

Like whores with their

sex on display, they’re

used often so

why keep getting them out?

 

 Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

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Play me…

My handsome hubby and I are celebrating our anniversary today ~ 11 years since we finally said ‘I do’; almost 2 years after he found my name on the net;  28 years after first meeting in 1974.

Thank you for finding me again… I love you more now, than I ever did.

Play Me…

I am so hungry.

My lips crave the taste

of your skin ~ your lips.

My body wants to spend

days ~ years forever

wrapped in your strength,

safe and warm, held by

familiar arms, touched

by tender hands, played

by musical fingers ~ let

me be your piano!

Play me…

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

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