Bronagh Mallon from Belfast, who is the December 2024 selection for New Irish Writing poetry
Bronagh is a Belfast poet and a retired primary school teacher. She has been shortlisted for the Troubadour International Poetry Prize and the Plough Poetry Prize. Her poems have been included in ‘Skylight 47’, ‘The Angry Manifesto’ and several anthologies published by the Community Arts Partnership (CAP), Belfast. This year, she was selected as a Community Poet by CAP as part of their Good Relations award project.
The Visitor
He came in silently and sat taking his place between us, you folded neatly in cool cotton layers crisp white, precision creased, sharp-cornered and I, on the upright chair designed for older, frailer occupants, slouched from weariness, numb from the hardness of sparsely cushioned upholstery. We ignored him, you and I, though both of us knew why he had come. You were not yet ready to acknowledge his legitimacy, his rightful place. Taking my cue from you I cold-shouldered him not my place then to give him credence when your incredulity made clear he was unwelcome, his visit untimely. And so he sat, neither speaking nor giving sign that he was listening in on our chat merely bearing witness, biding his time, there to sow the seeds of his presence, make us aware that he was a component of this room, intrinsic as the antiseptic aura that coated everything, integral as the hissing tubes, insistent pulsing lights, imperative as the door’s ‘Do Not Disturb’. For days we feigned ignorance of him, passive as a prayer on mumbling lips, inert as a flagging dog on stone cold floor, averted eyes refusing to glimpse the wisp of his shadow. Lulling, luring us into resigned acceptance until you turned and eyed him square on — saw him for who he was, what he was to you and told me you were ready.
I Remember Stealing
I remember stealing my mother’s attention mewling over minor injuries, wincing at my own weakness.
I remember stealing into her bedroom soft socks on thin carpet quietly breath caught to hide myself.
I remember stealing beneath harsh heavy blankets from the lower post of the bed furthermost away from her.
I remember stealing incrementally like an unwanted slug flattening out my body dropping my back and scraping, shuffling through the length of the bed.
I remember stealing the heat of her body and warming myself against her, not daring to touch or alert her.
I remember stealing the emptiness beside her and the private victory of claiming it.
I remember stealing the flat, hard pillow smelling the freshness of disuse.
I remember stealing exhales of her deep dreams as exhaustion made her heavy to the world.
