Live Encounters Poetry & Writing September 2026
Rituals, poems by Martina Tierney.
Rituals
I’ve rehearsed my childhood memories of you
again and again
trying to cling to the pockets of time we shared.
Blurred, dreamy, sometimes unreal,
but I hold on,
it’s all I have of you,
nine short years.
Sitting at the wooden kitchen table
on a Sunday afternoon,
blue, crisp airmail paper waiting
for the thank-you words—
our annual, quiet ritual
to your sister Etta.
Spelling out the message to send across the sea,
a note of gratitude for my birthday gift.
In my child’s mind
I pictured the destination:
a world distant, out of reach,
alive only in my imagination
I am wearing the emerald ring you bought at the Mission—
you didn’t need to entice me to sit.
This was my time with you,
a cherished moment.
Fresh sausages wrapped in brown paper
tied with string,
a treat from the Friday market.
I perch timidly on your knee,
the few Friday whiskeys
revealing a warmth you keep hidden.
Large, rough hands
skin like leather from daily toil,
strong but light of touch.
Cracked around the knuckles,
I never felt the weight of them,
only their strength carrying the white enamel bucket
from Felly’s well.
Holding your cap like a basket
full of eggs gathered in the hay,
climbing over straw bales
in search of the hidden ones.
A rope of twine knotted round your waist,
your practical belt.
Reaching into your pocket
for a sixpence mixed with straw and dust,
a parting gift for me on my way to school.
I skip away,
lighter now,
something to boast about.
Your heavy body half supported
on a three-legged stool milking the cow
for our daily ration
The gentle rhythm of your strong hands
making it look easy,
pumping out the milk
I stand half in at the byre door,
I say “Let me try.”
The stool is my size, the warm udder feels soft,
but no milk comes,
the cow holds back at the strange feeling
of my small hand.
She swishes her tail
telling me to go.
No River
Red flames and smoke rise over the hill
I hold her hand tightly
Will it reach us?
‘There’s a river to cross’
My mother’s words.
Next day,
The fire is subdued.
There was no river.
© Martina Tierney
Martina Tierney is a poet who grew up in a large family in rural Ireland. She is the thirteenth child in a family of fourteen. Her poetry reflects her lived experience with home, family, faith, childhood, love, loss, and the people and places encountered along the way. An occupational therapist for more than forty years, she is also an author, educator and entrepreneur, and the founder of the family business Seating Matters. Her previous books include her autobiography The Stairway of My Life, The Clinician’s Seating Handbook and The Power of OT. Martina is a mother and grandmother. This is her first poetry collection.
Beautiful !