2 poems by Diarmuid Cawley
- Editor
- Jun 18
- 1 min read
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.
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