Mary O'Dwyer

Fear Of Birds

It’s the sudden appearance of a moving force,
Unexpected fluttering of wings;
Feathers tightly packed, yet easily removed.
It’s the powdery fluff that dust-traps my eyes
As the wings part their aerodynamic arms.
Curved beaks open when eyes see me,
As the vultures I saw at Regent’s Park Zoo—
Claws, jaws, haw-haw.
The screech of impending death.
Clumps of fresh meat strung on trees.
Dumb pigeons dropping shit-bombs on my head.
It’s the claustrophobic
Air aerobics
Closing me in wings.
Hawk eyes ogling down from above.
Where’s the peaceful dove,
Sleeping like a book?
If I had seen robins or wrens,
Heard the music of nightingales,
Surveyed the gentle soaring
Loop-the-loops,
Jet-setting in carefree swoops,
I would love birds.

Music In The Nursing Home

Without music I’m like a crumpled tissue,
smelling of sweat, wee and poo.
I’m strapped in a wheelchair
with nothing to do.
As time ticks by,
my useless cells die.
My body’s bent over
like a dying flower.
I stare at my footrests.
Everyday,
I face the same square of carpet.
I listen to mutters and primal screams.
I have nothing to say.
Then someone puts on a record:
I spin my body around
like an out-of-control windmill,
singing like a nightingale—
I have come alive
for half an hour.

Mary O’Dwyer © 2010

These poems are excerpted from Mary O'Dwyer's
debut collection A Coat of Blanket Dreams 
(Creative Future, 2010)
www.creativefuture.org.uk

Clouds

Clouds are sliding by:
Long, drawn-out milky shadows;
Puddles in the sky.

Balloon

Full of expired air
A pin-prick from sudden death—
An empty stomach.

A Storm In A Tea-Pot

It’s an Earl-Grey sort of day:
A steamy, dreamy, beastly day.
From dusk to dawn,
The winds sharp as tusks—
Charged up.
A swinging pendulum
Sprouting forth an elephant
(Tail-end gripped),
Lets rip throughout the morning
Its thunderous trumpet.
The kettle rumbles:
Hiss, hum, mumble, grumble,
Upsetting the crockery
With wolf-whistle mockery.
Raindrops squat like bubbles,
Wallow in the sun
Infusing in the kitchen
With hot-cross buns.
An uproar of tea-leaves
Unsettles the dust,
Foretelling the future
Of the warm-blooded creature
So cosy in his overcoat.
Milk plops in a giant cup,
The sugar cubes crumble up.
The spoon stirs up a final whirl.
A gulp. Red-cheeked, a wholesome girl.
Misty, saggy bags, half-winked,
Twinkle in the sink.

Mary O’Dwyer © 2010