2 poems by Diarmuid Cawley

early days

falling backwards

lost my grip

trying to show you

that I could climb

you were talking

to your colleague

beside the truck

the one you drove

a summer night

insects and bats

under floodlights

in the storage yard

a feeding frenzy

i leapt onto the rung

rigid metal ladder

climbing I felt your

gaze and slipped

time-slowed whoosh

flat on my back

stones in my elbows

air-rushed lungs

still don’t know how

your large soft hand

cupped my skull

just before impact

called me pet

lifted me up

embarrassed

winded and shook

ended that chat

the bats swooping

only visible

in flashes.

Afterlife

Swam out to the rock

thrashing in lake water

to tie a long line

with many baited hooks—

my father says you were a great swimmer

but that you once almost drowned.

In the morning, the olive-green eels

whipping for their lives, and later

still bending on the pan with butter

nerves pulsing after death.

We all almost drown once or twice,

in memories, or dark bodies of water.

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Diarmuid Cawley is from Sligo, Ireland. His writing often focuses on the physical environment, memory, and historical events, while highlighting food as a social glue. More recently, themes on the emergence of statehood, borders, and the significance of buildings and institutions have also developed in his work. He is widely published in Ireland (as well as the US and UK) and is working on his first collection.