Live Encounters Poetry & Writing 16th Anniversary Volume Four
November- December 2025
Imaginarium Aquarium, poems by Eileen Casey
Imaginarium Aquarium
(for librarians everywhere)
Imagination is a pod. A hammock strung
between pouches of juicy yes, dry no.
Pomegranate tinted, treacle sweet,
Cardinals flit above to a mating mantra;
can’t or won’t. Maybe.
Gelatinous flesh scoops out,
spins into clouds. Seeds sprinkle
over golden stars in a midnight pond;
hatch lily-livered pads for side-stepping
one decision or another, inches apart
on a pathway carved by Gaudi’s great
aunt’s uncle. Twice removed.
A woman with candyfloss hair rules
such sugar-coated kingdom.
Mistress of suspense; she stalls
princes at the gates, glassy-eyed
slippers held aloft, questing the One,
the Right One. Will she or won’t she.
A lullaby of light prickles through
her needle, sieves colander size
entrance or exit in thick, pithy, luscious
outer layers, muffling sounds to a low hum.
She knows imagination’s code,
tick tock workings of a cuckoo clock.
Pendulous chimes swung
east to west, right to left.
Green skies with cumulus frogspawn
hover over cities of derring don’t or do
on the outskirts of a forest where trees,
stand tall, free as an undressed moment.
Hillsides wobble like jelly moulds;
shimmer blushed blue or raspberry magnolia,
depending on the weather.
Itself depending on the weather.
A brook speaks in tongues;
rosy, polka-dotted blow-mouthed fishes
babel in a large aquarium,
once a lake where Arthur left his sword.
It flows into a river of wishes seeded
by tomorrow never comes shaded thrushes,
wave upon wave; guilt or regret
washed up on the shores of today,
tomorrow, next week. Sealed safe,
within the covers of a book.
At the heart of the Ridiculous
Vapour rises. Clouds part, invisible
portal stepped into. He won’t be long.
November, season of mellow
forgetfulness.
No explanation. No note.
No-one sees him leave, no trace.
No snapped twig. Neighbours fill-in
blank spaces. Graft leaf onto bare branch.
Acorn grows to Sequoia. They give him
jingling bellbottoms. A song;
Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple.
A full pack of cigarettes, a comb
for raking through kinks.
Straighten his thick cow’s lick.
In his pockets,
a perfumed scarf. Whiskey smells
in a Willesden pub. A lighter flicked
like a penknife. A wallet stuffed with silver.
Thirty pieces.
In his wake, his wife and children fade,
walk the town like ghosts.
Leaves
Falling leaves, autumnal thieves
Daylight grieves, no reprieve
Sleeping bees.
© Eileen Casey
Eileen Casey is originally from Offaly. Widely published, her poetry received many awards, including The Oliver Goldsmith Inter-national Prize together with a Katherine and Patrick Kavanagh Fellowship. Author of seven poetry collections, she’s also published short stories, essays and articles. A commissioned play (Creative Ireland, County Laois) will debut in November, 2025 by Ballyfinn Players.