Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Five November-December 2024
Full Circle, poems by Mary E. Ringland.
Full Circle
You look like the father of you, caught up
in the furrow of your brow. A soul trapped in
solitude, A soul lost to my history.
Once my focus on a faraway shore. Revisited
after an eternity. After a lifetime – nimble
as a nanosecond. Collapsed. Caved in. We
regroup. We rifle through the rubble of memories.
In search of gold – nuggets of connection.
Finding names in faces. Faces in memories. In
photos, dogeared and dreary – reviving
the lost ones, the lonely ones lost in the ether
of everyday forgetfulness. You show me your scars.
I keep mine hidden. They are not snow white.
Not hot. Not healed. I am not as happy as you
to travel through time, through years – forty
in four seconds. To a far-distant past. To look
through the recycled glass of this hospital prism.
At the girl in the red dress. And back again full circle.
To the near-distant future. To a woman
who looks like the mother of me.
Trouble and Toil
i.m Teresa McAllister (grandmother)
She led me into a garden bound by bitter Celandine,
through the mechanics of a clockwork morning.
I helped her Mansion Polish the work-worn step,
put spit and shine on tarnished brass knobs.
I watched her wring every last drop of energy
from sheets, through a mangle – panting. I joined
in her mop and bucket frenzy – dizzy on ammonia
while she meditated at the ironing board of life’s creases.
I kept apace with her five-thousand-step expedition
to the butcher for bacon and the baker for Barmbrack.
I mimicked her furrowed brow and flinched
from the sting of hot fat spitting – forever
from a pan full of working men’s fuel – waiting
for the Angelus Bell to herald their return.
I listened for the hungry thud of hobnail boots
ready to ravage our sacred space, ready to send me
in search of sanctuary under the stairs – to suffocate
under the soft-scented sighs of her crumpled dreams.
Found and Lost
I found you on a high, on a bar stool
breaking all the rules – drinking – bitter.
The cowboy on the red pack – smoking – hot
looking for a cowgirl to wrangle with,
eyes fixed on the Guardian speedy crossword,
a sure sign you had a brain in there – somewhere.
I wrestled with clues, gave you the come on
and we clicked over one across and two down,
snuck off to the fells for fun – falling fast
into the heart of a town drenched in drizzle,
to amble – aimless, and drink pints of Wainwrights
on smitten velvet seats – saturated in wrongs
and the whiff of stale pale ale. We listened
to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon – full – steam ahead
dreaming our lives away – drowning in desire
and false promises – pitted – with hope and hatred.
I lost you on a low, on a barstool
drinking like a fool – acting bitter.
© Mary E. Ringland
Mary E. Ringland is a poet, prose writer, and therapeutic counsellor. She has travelled far and wide but now lives on the Antrim Coast, close to Larne. Her poems have been published in The Bangor Literary Journal, The Belfast Community Arts Partnership Anthologies (2022 & 2023), The Storms Journal (2023), New Isles Press – Issue 3 (2023), The Morecambe Poetry Festival Anthologies (2023 & 2024), and previously in Live Encounters Poetry & Writing. Mary has recently completed her MA in Creative writing at the Open University, and her debut collection is due for publication in 2025.