Premier Writing: Susan McPadden

Premier Writing showcases poetry, essays and short fiction by new and emerging Irish writers. This week’s featured poet is Susan McPadden from Mayo.

Poetry

December Moon

A dark sky holds
a cold December moon
and under it, you lay.

It seems unfair
that your heavy blanket
of fresh soil
brings no warmth or comfort.

My white, warm breath escapes
through parted lips
and I watch it float away.

A fox screams.
Its cries shattering the silence I have created.

Vivid memories keep me company
replaying over and over
Protecting me.
Numbing me
as the cold night air
nips hungrily at my skin.

Hours earlier,
I had gripped a heavy handled shovel
thrusted the rusted metal of the blade
into grass and weeds and roots
and for you
I made a small and shallow hole.
A plot chosen with purpose.

I said a prayer
as I replaced the dark, thick wet chunks of clumpy soil.
Your little limp body
covered in fur
wrapped in my soft scarf
slowly disappeared
under each shovel of bedding.

The moon hides from me now
behind acres of black cloud.
I face the sky, I make a wish
for you to come back to me.
But I know
only too well,
even under a cold December magical Moon
such things do not happen.

The Artist

You are an artist.
So paint me a sea.
Five folds of turquoise.
Layers of curves,
dried and faded
by the touch of your hand.
Paint me a sky.
Dirty white. Grey strokes lingering over
acres of washed out blue.
Paint me a boat.
No more than spec, on a level line. A horizon so lonely
it fills me with dread.
barely bobbing up and down. Lost, untethered
and waiting.
Paint me a gull.
Wings wide. Body sleek. Following my journey. Never leaving
me alone.
Paint me the sun.
In the distance she rises. Warm and wise and rounded.
Constantly, colourfully, watching.
Paint me a shell.
Small enough to hide, in the palm, of my hand.
But strong enough, to be wished upon. And then let me wish.
Paint me the moon.
And allow its white glare, to light my way, as I sail, far away, on the calm waters, you
have created
for my boat.

Mossy

I want to be like Mossy.
Mossy climbs ladders
on wet, windy days.
Freehand, unaided.

No props, high vis or helmet.
He ploughs through safety red tape
like an unmanned diesel tractor
leaving behind a smell of fuel
and a plume of toxic smoke.
Magically,
aisles of neatly finished jobs appear from nowhere.

On a chimney breast
forty feet above the ground, harness free
he renders crumbling, broken brick.
But that’s not enough.
A selfie photo follows
a grin so big it threatens
the grey, low, looming clouds
circling his red, round face,
poking into the sky.

He doesn’t walk, he swaggers.
Mossy, he owns the world.
Work pants, loose and beige and roomy
never alternating in colour or style.
A shirt covers a belly filled with beer
and probably good food.
That man can tell a story.

He pays in cash, for everything.
No card, or plastic, no digital apps.
His wallet never empty,
Mossy pays for every round.

He has no firm destination.
Venturing, as far as the eye can see,
is all.
Every day, a good day.

I want to be like Mossy.

About the author:

Susan McPadden was first published in Poetry Ireland Review over 20 years ago, and has since gone on to contribute to magazines and anthologies both in Ireland and overseas. She has also published children’s books, and is a multi-award winning poet. Susan lives in Mayo, in the West of Ireland, surrounded by mountains and sheep.

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