Live Encounters Poetry & Writing April 2025
Night drive, poems by Eileen Casey.
Night Drive
‘Maybe I should drive,’ you say and force a smile.
But it’s too late, too late perhaps for words.
This harvest moon puts us both on trial.
‘Wait until the engine heats,’ you say, without guile.
Holstering my belt, its clunk is quite absurd.
‘Maybe I should drive,’ you say and force a smile.
I fix the rear view mirror, seeking a denial,
what’s left behind on bitter roads.
This harvest moon puts us both on trial.
Key in the ignition, the engine stalls a while.
My arms are folding like some flightless bird.
‘Maybe I should drive,’ you say and force a smile.
The windscreen wiper grates across our miles,
chipping off some more from icy hoards.
This harvest moon puts us put on trial.
We sit here crushed behind these shiny dials,
silences adding up our scores.
‘Maybe I should drive,’ you say and force a smile.
This harvest moon puts us both on trial.
The Lost Boy
In the dream;
we’re by the sea, high summer.
Ocean waves curl to shore, plump fingers
slacken in my hand.
Lured by some shiny mirage,
I’m given the slip,
left holding empty air.
Frantic, I scan before
and after,
those terrible in-betweens
clutching at straws.
It should be winter. Frost coating
earth, resisting pecking beaks.
Instead, sea water glistens
like melting ice-cream; dream skies
mirror your blue eyes.
When the dream dissolves, I wake
to your grown up presence. Find
no trace of dimpled smiles, nothing
but an ache, a memory of touch,
the taste of salt on my lips.
Window Dressing
Behind drapery window, brittle yellow plastic
shields stock from direct sunlight. Dusty fabric
swirls around a tailor’s dummy; its bald head
half-hidden by a synthetic wig losing its grip.
Shredded nets dress both sides,
fall in folds; funerary for dead bees, belly up.
No living relatives to gather them, provide
decent burial. Or tear down worn pelmets
draped corner to corner. Boxed corsets
stand upright. Boned. Embroidered. Pink
laces snake through eyelets. Tightening
winter flab when summer finally arrived.
She knew what farmers’ wives would buy
or women from nearby housing estates;
who could afford to pay her prices.
What lies beyond mildewed window-frame,
out of sight in living quarters, is anybody’s guess.
Worldly comforts? Or a cobwebbed woman
veiled in a town’s dying memory?
© Eileen Casey
Eileen Casey is originally from County Offaly, based in South Dublin. Poetry, prose, short-fiction and journalism are widely published. ‘River Songs,’ her seventh poetry collection, appeared 2023, a Creative Ireland funded project. Individual collections are published by New Island, Arlen House, AltEnts and Fiery Arrow. Work is anthologised in volumes from Faber & Faber, New Island, Arlen House, The Stinging Fly, Abridged, Salmon, The Nordic Irish Studies Journal and many more. Her work is broadcast on Sunday Miscellany (RTE 1). A Hennessy Award winner (Emerging Fiction), she also received the Oliver Goldsmith Award and A Katherine and Patrick Kavanagh Fellowship among others. ‘Treasure,’ a short film featuring Casey’s bog poems features on Peatlands Gathering. Two of these poems, ‘Peat,’ and ‘Bog Wish,’ were set to music by Composer Fiona Linnane and featured in AnCór’s repetoire during their Christmas programme at Limerick Cathedral, 2022. They also provided the main inspiration for ‘Metamorphosis’ (Longford Lights, 2025), Artistic Director Caroline Conway.