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Damien B Donnelly
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the poet
After 25 years as a pattern maker in the fashion industry, Damien B Donnelly is now Head of Programming at the Irish Writers Centre. His poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous journals, and he's the author of two pamphlets and two collections – most recent of which is Back from Away. Genial host of popular long-running poetry podcast Eat the Storms, he's also editor-in-chief of its sister title, The Storms: a printed journal of poetry, prose and visual art.
the poems
The Retreat, Early On
First day of school, first glimpse of what it’s like
to be eaten, slowly. There is no room for insecurity
in the playground. You must learn this quickly
but no one will tell you this until it is too late.
There are beasts in the jungle of the yard, hungry
to swallow up all the others haven’t learned has value.
By lunchtime, you will have taught yourself
to remove pieces in order to preserve. As poet,
I start with the mouth, in order to hone words.
By the second day, wear only one eyebrow,
drop the left eye below the right, remove both
ears – anything that can be a hook or can hear.
Paint yourself with the yoke of a stale egg,
banish any hint of perfection, too young to know
you’ll never be able to reclaim this upon release.
Hook
After Sun in an Empty Room
by Edward Hopper (1963)
He locked the door, after she left, after that time she never spoke of
but the disappearance of her scent from the sheets in the days that
followed, twisted itself around the truth of her no return.
He locked the bedroom door, hoping to catch her shadow, particles
of skin that had fallen, a droplet or two of sweat cycle saliva or
one of the many tears he knew she’d expelled in the dark
behind his back after he’d cum & she, while in situ, appeared to
depart. He spied, at times, through the keyhole, how the outside
light slipped in, how it cast a door upon solid wall from the shut
window and he imagined her frame, unfading into focus,
coming back for things she’d left behind like the ring
that he hoped would hook.
In the End,
Light Filters Down
to a point beyond projection and on the side lines;
all we sidelined
mother father friend,
the things we took
and the time that was taken from us
that we could never take back.
There were tracks
but this desert had no desire to be soiled,
swept away all we had scuffed.
We prayed but for Gods’ sake nothing was permanent.
We were building blocks in others' hands we didn’t see growing tired
whose tongues never knew the taste of our own thoughts
which, like flames,
were only bound only to ash.
When the light fell
it was sand, not sky,
we are corroded from birth like the coast
not destined to the constellations – not plough nor star.
We formed words fucked words flung words
but the language was never ours to comprehend.
We were bits, in boxes yokes –
scrambling to be something other for someone else.
In the end, all we leave is a howl a haunting to rattle
through a space that never really held us in place.
Publishing credits
The Retreat, Early On / In the End, Light Filters Down:
exclusive first publication by iamb
Hook: Fevers of the Mind (Apr 13th 2022)