THE KILKENNY INVOLVEMENT CENTRE AND RECOVERY COLLEGE SOUTH EAST HAVE PRODUCED A WONDERFUL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY AND PROSE. ‘WHITE TWINE AND OLD SUITCASES’ COMPRISES OF 128 PAGES AND 60 AUTHORS AND IS COMPLEMENTED BY SOME WONDERFUL PHOTOS AND ARTWORK BY TASK CAMERA CLUB. IT IS PRINTED BY MODERN PRINTERS. IT IS DEFINITELY RECOMMENDED READING FOR ALL LOVERS OF POETRY. THE KILKENNY OBSERVER IS HAPPY TO RUN THE POEMS EACH WEEK TO PROMOTE CREATIVE WRITING AND TO HIGHLIGHT THESE WONDERFUL CENTRES. AVAILABLE IN ALL KILKENNY BOOK SHOPS. €10

Ivory

Apprehensively,
My hand hovers over the off-colour keys.
Contemplating whether I face the sorrow
That I’ve been fearing for so long now.
I place myself onto the stool
Slowly moving my fingers towards the rustic looking piano.
I struggle to find middle C.
Knowing that you would glare at me,
Laughing afterwards,
Encourages me to swiftly place my thumbs on the keys.
In a desperate attempt to beat out a waltz
I find myself reminiscing on the days where we would sit,
At this very piano.
Your hand lingering above mine,
Steering me in the right direction when I inevitably drift off course.
I would marvel at your ability to make such technical pieces,
Look
And
Sound
So effortless.
‘Practice’ ‒ you would repeat.
‘Practice’ ‒ a word I hated.
Now,
I know that it’s true,
Although too late to realise.
I gradually come back to reality,
But with foggy eyes
As I remember, you’re not here.
And that these thoughts
Are merely memories.
(For Deirdre)
Kassie O’Mahony

Workhouse Child

Your bones, your body’s structure,
lie here.
And I am in awe.
To kneel down and touch
What was once your face
Would be a transgression.
With eyes closed I imagine
I’ve put you back together,
Not as you were back then
But how you would wish to be.
I dress you in white lace.
With baby’s breath and roses
Entwined in your red curly hair.
We walk around Kilkenny
Your hand clasped in mine,
When a sudden downpour
Scatters the crowd
Your laughter is contagious.
Still standing at your grave,
I open my eyes,
Reach down and touch
What is now your face.
Saoirse, you are immortal.
Rest well my beautiful girl.
Kathleen Phelan

The Bridge

As I walked down the road,
I can see,
A very long bridge,
Right before me.
Fear, sweat, agitation I feel,
I hate crossing bridges,
The nerves I feel.
I panic, scream and shout,
As I scurry over,
Hoping to get to the end of the bridge,
A breeze blows,
I feel like I will fall over.
A bridge can feel
A lot like life,
The feelings I feel on this bridge,
The stress and the strife.
But in the end you cross over,
You feel acomplished,
You feel relief,
When you get past your hurdles,
When you get some self belief.
Suzy Phelan