Premier Writing showcases poetry, essays and short fiction by new and emerging Irish writers. This week’s featured poet is Margaret Galvin from Wexford.
Poetry
Neighbours
(i.m. Jimmy and Mary Lonergan, Cahir)
Every September: boxes of apples on the doorstep,
the litany of varieties, exotic to us,
Cox’s Pippin, Bramley, Worcester Pearmain,
a foamy simmer and sweet froth in the saucepan.
luscious spoonfuls,
that green and red blush of the orchard.
Hessian sacks of potatoes at the door
when the harvest was in,
Roosters, Kerr’s Pink and Golden Wonders,
floury flesh bursting from skins.
our lust for the savoury bite
of butter and salt.
Every time they killed a pig: boxes of pork on the step,
Pudding, dense black with oatmeal and spices,
Rich in our frying pan.
I wondered at their fruit trees and their drills,
their fluent generosity.
our thanks waved away.
A Far Cry
The women in the Jacuzzi agree
that their morning in the spa,
part of the mid-week break for seniors, is a far cry
from ‘a dip in the barrel after a day in the bog.’
They smell again the turpentine tang
of Sloan’s liniment kneaded into their child limbs
as Magdalena from Warsaw applies essential oils,
jasmine and lemongrass.
The women in the Jacuzzi remember
the soft lap of rainwater on bog dust and sunburn,
relief for muscles crippled
from twisting the sleán to lift the sod.
Recall the prayers offered for good drying weather,
sun and wind to harden the turf
the Bishop’s dispensation to work on Sundays,
and they, John Hinde postcard children, stacking the creels.
The women in the Jacuzzi, massaged with whirlpool water jets,
look forward to their flat whites and cappuccinos,
but long for milk in a chef sauce bottle
kept cool in the coppery pools of bog water
and the last mug of tea drank
beside the Aga, turf smoke carrying the smell of heather
into the night time kitchen,
the crickets chirping in the lingering heat.
Holy Spirit
Mary Whelan, the draper’s clerk, assured
my mother she had purchased well
when we bought my confirmation outfit,
a coat and frock in ‘petrol blue.’
She pointed out the good stretch that allowed for growth.
I was soaked
in the word ‘petrol,’ in awe of Mary’s knowledge,
the ability to distinguish refined shades:
petrol from teal or turquoise,
the blue-green palette she recognised like an artist.
I was well attired
to meet the Holy Spirit in Mary’s costume,
vested to receive his twelve fruits:
Joy, love, patience…
his seven virtues: wisdom, counsel, knowledge…
The Bishop, regal in red,
august with mitre and staff,
observed the rubrics
and administered confirmation
according to doctrine and decree.
But it was Mary, the unassuming
widow, who inspired.
Fruits and virtues evident, in every patient step
from her house in Blind Street
to the drapery shop on the Square.
About the author:
Margaret Galvin’s most recent collection is Our House, Delirious from Revival Press, Limerick. She regularly contributes memoir essays to RTE Sunday Miscellany. She facilitates creative writing workshops is social care situations, in cancer care and enduring mental illness. She was awarded the 2025 Francis Ledwidge Poetry Award. Margaret is a native of Cahir, Co. Tipperary, and is a longtime resident of Wexford.
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