Róisín Ní Neachtain

Róisín Ní Neachtain



the poet

Róisín Ní Neachtain is an autistic Irish-Scottish poet and artist now based in County Kildare, Ireland. Though mainly self-taught, she was briefly educated at NCAD and Trinity College Dublin, before studying for two years under Irish artist Gill Berry. Róisín is creator and editor of online literary and art journal Crow of Minerva, and has had her poetry featured in a number of digital publications. She's currently at work on her first collection.

the poems


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I held my dreams in my palms

Though they were bleeding

A soft tremor against my skin

Some were shallow

Some like a cave

Some pricked my conscience

Their threads tethered to my flesh

And I chewed their weights to set them free

My teeth wore down

I fell in a haze through our memories

When a hollow sound echoed in my mouth

And fell past my lips

You bit my tongue and hummed

The ebb of nameless laughter

A cadence of sorrows

Spinning a steep melody

Now I am unfearful of pain

A slow praise of closeness

Breathing blue

In midnight songs

Tightening my pulse

Fingers twisting in a frenzied dance

To unworded lyrics

My last need stilled

Remembering Without Believing

00:00 / 01:44

Remembering without believing

The stars appeasing

Against their obsidian abyss

Heat and light unseamed from dust

Remembering without believing

Questions pressed in psychosis

And promises which feel no shame

Illegible hypergraphic promises

Of love and empty rooms and symbiotic existence

And undivided sounds and realities

And reproached pain and laughter

And dissonant dreams

Which lead to my repossession

A petty heresy of Silence

Look at this earth embedded beneath our nails

Our language measured by prayers

And lumen a measure of their glare

Look at this skin scored by hate

Their unfamiliar eye

Rooted in fear

All truths unchanged in time

The Edge of Reason

00:00 / 01:44

A room

Like a trite cage

Between these four walls

Where prodigal sons and daughters return

And are rejoiced and bound once more

A spiel read like a dead poet

A bastard pain

The object of such a conclusion

Perhaps an accidental gale?

Swept and tendering our bones

Archaic songs of sorrow

That lull us in their readiness

Black on white

Black on black

White on white

Letters made barely visible

And nonsensical

A few steps closer to the edge of reason

A past and future arrested in a photograph

What will happen if we awake again

To see these passings going beyond that edge?

To the beginnings of someplace?

Someplace more of a sedentary mind

A hollowed space in each Man’s chest

Publishing credits

All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb

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