These poems are part of TN2’s ongoing poetry series, “Line Break”. Line Break aims to give a platform to exciting new poets from Trinity. If you would like your poetry to be considered for publication, simply submit it to literature@tn2magazine.ie, along with your name and a one-sentence bio.

 

 

Say Nuttin’ (Pears) by Rebecca Gutteridge

 

Pears.

          Not what you’d expect from Tinder.

 

You piggybacked me to them, 

so that my feet wouldn’t get wet,

(I’d abandoned my shoes at the door)

only to shower my hair with drops

when my head hit foliage.

 

“Say nuttin’”, you said: entreating 

to impress,

as you, with the weight of two

crunched, squashed, squelched

pears underfoot;

I played my part, gave 

girly squeals of delight. 

 

“Pear jam,

pear tart,

poached pear;

there’s so many things you can do with pears…”

 

Who taught you to flirt like a 70’s cookbook?

 

All the while, flesh

     decayed around us.

 

I wasn’t listening–

It felt good to be enmeshed

in your masculinity, 

after all–

you didn’t notice.

 

 

“…Nature’s bounty; my Nana used to make a great pear tart.”

             

‘Say nuttin’’ had very clearly been lost on you.

 

“…Do you know how to tell if a pear is perfectly ripe?”

              

Who knew you could mansplain fucking pears.

 

“…You remind me of her a bit, my Nana. She’d have loved all this.”

  

Bingo.

                                                                                                

The pears watched on,

impervious to me

willing the impossible 

survival 

of something digitally sourced 

in their organic world.

  

But, not to worry; 

you gave me a tour

of how your Nana changed 

the hierarchy of photo frames,

based on who was this month’s 

favourite.

 

(I felt compelled to iconoclasm

as you prepared to slot me in 

amongst them).

 

On an unchanging threshold

of lace net curtains 

and a familiar, familial odour,

we forged an unspoken understanding;

 

trauma starts at home,

when matriarchs play chess

with a two-dimensional collective 

   of smiles.

 

And by the fireplace, 

freckled hands found their prize;

you, not fully formed–

Hurler of the Year 2006–

enshrined with gappy teeth, tie and stick.

 

It struck me that you were still not fully-formed.

 Are men ever fully-formed?

 

 

 

Orange Light  by Gale Aitken

 

And it’s fading crawling clawing

at the shaded line morphing all into sock puppet

semblances of their former selves

flickering dancing on the wall of a cave back

lit by fire, pyre of the dying day.

 

And it always seems to be

here diurnal, hesternal, nocturnal, no matter in the

air a smoke haze of the sodium lamp glazed

light polluting obscuring taking the auspices from view

cloud sobs orange on pavement grey.

 

And in the morning it drips

in through the slit of the unbolted window

tainting carpet with its liquid bright

ferity molten creature drops a match onto

my eyes hair skin set ablaze.