poetry

Callum Featherstone

Pósadh Dothuigthe

As the sgriob climbed up,
my thirsty, croiméal bristles,
I was tickled, and, teased,
by the uisce bheatha.

Fuisce gazed, pining,
for what was yet to be.
Gingerly, it beckoned,
first, my cerulean súile,
then, my scarlet beola.

Orange and blue, plumed,
transfixed, like a; rabharta.

Generously I supped,
and, slurped. Whilst my spirits,
were lifted. Entering and exiting,
betwixt, my séanas.

If my súile are the windows to my soul,
then, my séanas is the drawbridge.

Several hours went by…
filled with raucous laughter,
craic and gargle.
Plus, the giving and receiving,
of tall, meandering, unruly scéilíní.

The world was put, well, to rights.
Agus, I also recall a grinn jóc,
about hearing a zombiefied,
Mick McCarthy, caoin,
by, Roy Keane’s, graveside.

Aduantas, go leor.
As I rose, in the camhanaich,
beside, an empty bottle of Jameson’s.
The bottle as green as my gills;
my fate, had been decided,
with every glass, poured, and, d’ól.

My God, my geis!!
Some say, the devil is dead,
and buried in Killarney.
I say, he’s waiting for you,
at the bottom of a buidéal fuisce.

Now, I’m due to be married,
to the rothar sráidbhaile,
in about a week, or, so…

‐———————————————————————

Glossary of Irish words in the context of this poem:

1 Pósadh – Marriage

2) Dothuigthe – Unintelligible, abstruse, enigmatic.

3) Sgriob – The itchiness of the upper lip just before taking a sip of whisky.

4) Croiméal – Moustache.

5) Uisce bheatha, Fuisce, – Whiskey.

6) Súile – Eyes.

7) Beola – Lips.

8) Rabharta – A spring tide.

9) Séanas – A gap between the upper front teeth.

10) Scéilíní, singular Scéal – Stories, story.

11) Agus – And.

12) Grinn jóc – Funny joke.

13) Caoin – Keen – a wailing cry, usually, at a funeral.

14) Aduantas – The angst that comes with being in an unfamiliar place and among unfamiliar people (especially following a night of heavy drinking, in this case).

15) Go leor – Galore – To sufficiency, In abundance.

16) Camhanaich – Half-light; early morning twilight.

17) D’ól – Drank.

18) Geis – Taboo, prohibition; injunction; something you do (or don’t do), upon which your life depends, or which defines your life.

19) Buidéal fuisce – Whiskey bottle.

20) Rothar – Bicycle, bike.

21) Sráidbhaile – Village.

Callum Featherstone

Make me, and, break me

Make me work,
for another man’s,
dream.

Dreaming,
of fulfillment,
whilst numb,
and, insentient.

Make me bleed,
sweat, toil, cry,
and, scream.

Screaming,
into a pillow,
stuffed,
with emptiness.

Make me want,
for my needs,
and, need,
for my wants.

Wanting nothing,
but enough dough,
to knead.

Make me insatiably,
thirst for all,
knowledgeable,
fonts.

Fonting illiterate words,
that are unable,
to read.

Break me; into edible smithereens;
to feed your ego.

Break me; into smithereens.

Break me.

Callum Featherstone

Melancholy Matters

My patchwork, blanketed tapestry,
of maudlin melancholy, is;
uncomfortably trapped;
tightly, tucked in, and, staring,
at the inside, of my outside,
or, is it, the outside of my inside?

Pricking the panes, of my soul-destroying,
eyelids.

While praying,
for the luminescent,
Phoenixed beacon,
of level-headed, neutrality,
to become incandescent,
burning brightly,
in the present,
switched on.

Memories make my maudlin melancholy,
weave evocation, with nostalgic fabrics,
spinning universal yarns, of Seanchaí stature; all past;
pastimes, pasta dishes, pastures new discovered, pastures not so green on the otherside experienced, pastiched poems, pastilled aromas, pastille sweets, pastels of watercoloured lives.

All, varying in emotion, strength, sentiment, shape and sizes.

Each and every thread,
intertwined and sewn,
into my self, spirit and soul.
Elucidating knotted,
uncompromising needle,
and thread, bunched,
fibers untangled,
and impressively unfurled,
then eternally, stretched,
and stitched on…

and, on…

and, on…

Callum Featherstone

the amputee

he’s sewn up,

sore.

and, missing;

something?

some things?

or,

somewhere?

missing.

missing; somewhat?

or, is it, someone?

a jigsaw piece;

minus it’s edge.

a garden hose;

but no hedge.

a windowsill;

without a ledge.

this fascination

with forbidden lust

is an –

amputee –

both arms;

taken;

forsaken.

and, with that being said,

he’s; still;

besotted

with a pair of gloves.

but, nevertheless,

trustily supported

by two good legs.

epiphany;

disregarded.

for, what one lacks,

sore,

one doesn’t

necessarily know

not to need

in these

matters of amour.

and,

regrettably,

one should never

overlook;

what’s beneath,

when able

to take a ride

on

romance’s

intimate see-saw.

nor,

turn their backs

on

true love’s

magnificent stampede;

in boots;

inconsiderately worn.

Callum Featherstone

Proverbs 0:Z

none slept forward
too little sleep back

the setting sun
clocking off early at 4pm
chuckling to himself
knowing the plight
of the insomniac

a bed in the hand
isn’t worth two hours of hush

darkness tarries
inside and outside
from cigarette marred lung
to disbe-lief falling from trees
mourning the loss of lush

don’t judge a bed
by it’s cover

laying sombrely
lower than any shadow
cast out into the wilderness
surrounded by every dream’s
jilted lover

the snore
the merrier

envious glares
at those yawning, stretching cunts
whilst keeping copper coins
on my eyelids – forced shut
for the stygian ferrier

you don’t snooze
you are a loser.

Callum Featherstone

An Ode to Triton

To be, within,
the, effervescent;
feminine, phantom grip.
Of; Neptune’s aerated,
overhanging, fists. So,
steep.

Cascading, satellitic columns,
of, wintry sediment,
that, can only, pray, to one day;
bless with wet,
those rectangular, ninety-degree,
vistas.

The; Neptunian duress, on; Triton-
ite; spousal, symbiotic, yet, seperate;
stress. Create, angular, plumed L’s.
Of, frozen gas,
and, dust; that, dryly;
weep.

Causing; cosmic, cupped,
cloying waves, of, crested ice.
And, entombing, ferocious tides.
Betwixt her, turquoise knuckles,
and, her; cerulean-shadow-
fingers.

A frozen, and, gelid,
atmosphere, of the; unruly,
and, the unruled. Immovable fixtures;
unpondered, unthought of.
And, without-sound;
asleep.

Shifting backwards, in orbit,
twirling, as though; an iced-dream.
In the, pitch-black, twilight.
Above; unabashed hues of blue. Before;
a bitterly-vexed, desolate, and, lonely; ice-
mistress.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Turning Grey

The ubiquity – the binary,
the ones, the zeros,
the good, the bad…

The heroes, the villains,
the black, the white,
the yin, the yang…

All commit,
to knit,
together.

To explain,
the sharp magnolia;
pleasures,
of, a collaged existence,
by, comparatively,
interlacing;
obsidian, blunting; pain.

But, life on Earth, is…

A rich tapestry;
woven darkly,
by the Unseen’s,
sons and daughters.

Hung, from,
the bountiful, terror-
cotta halls, of, vast,
avocado continents,
that lay.

It conceals,
the sodden, famished,
fabric prism,
of; the drowning,
and, the starved,
the unprincely, and, the paupers.

And, obscures,
those – rooted to,
the blue, depressed,
weeping bedrock.

Beneath, a global mosaic;
of grey.

Callum Featherstone

Awakening from Egypt

Listening,
to the droning,
lullaby, of a,
heathen’s speech.

Tuning his billowed, whistled,
preachy, presence out.

I mimic,
the closing lids,
of Tutankhamen’s,
shutting eyes.

I turn over,
now, under.

Pyramids,
and, pharaohs,
dance by the Nile,
underneath, my feet.

Fluting, willowed kisses,
sweeten, desert drought.

Soaring. I’m attempting,
to catch,
stomach entombed,
butterflies.

I fall slower,
from unfound, slumber.

Crashing.
Into, a sarcophagus,
of, unforgiving dreams,
and, bequeathed unsleep.

Spooning, pillowed rivers,
and, streams, of, unweathered doubt.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Sin-Eater

A crust o’ bread. Pastries o’ lead. Any’hin’, tae line the coffin; I call’t a stomach. Fae a brimmin’, ale-filled tankard cup. And, nae longer cawin’ crows in me hands be worth twa, and, sixpence, flush.

Eatin’ sins, before the Lord,
frae a sinist’r, smorgasbord.
Me gnashin’ gams, offer, bless’d relief.
Tae the dearly, and, sometimes,
nearly, depart’d. Distasteful reminders, o’ the ugliest natures, we be seldom confessin’, tae tak part in.

It’s a piece o’ cakie!

Ev’ry morsel, I have nestled,
in me decayin’ spaghetti-faced beard,
is givin’ solace, to the pious, and, unholy,
the kind-heart’d, and, fear’d.

Fae each, flagon o’ hate, I imbibe,
each, transgression, I consume,
a burden rises, like a baker’s loaf, frae inside, them. And, descends deep in tae me graveyard guts; a Hadean plume.

Shunned, and, sheemed, by those bitin’ begrudg’rs, sco’ned, and, defamed. Doon, Hansel, and, Gretel Lane, I’m trudgin’. Followin’ that doomed crumb-age. Me heart’s in me mooth, each mournin’, bludgeon’d, as I chews the fat o’ those snarlin’ judges.

Ye tho’ I warks, and, stalks,
ca’ throu’ the valley,
o’ the scarrow o’ death.
Youse ken the smell,
o’ each fall, frae grace,
ev’ry vice, on me rott’n,
rank, reekin’ vagabond breath.

© poormansdreams