ANGELA MCCABE - POEMS

Angela McCabe lives in Ballinamore, Co. Leitrim, where she works as a Neuropsychologist. She won the Listowel Poetry Collection award 2016. Her poetry is published nationally and  internationally
Her first book of poetry ‘Honeymoon in Coalisland’ was published by Alba Publishing, London 2014. She has published her second poetry book ‘Battenburgs and Lemon Drizzlers’ with Alba and  is currently working on her third poetry book.   

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                                       Sunday Night
 


A Victorian bedsit in London,
the three of us undress
as the gas geyser dribbles
hot water into an oversized bath
big enough for us all to wash in.
 
We rearrange the armchairs,
the two single beds
with pink candlewick spreads,
the TV, the record player,
put five shillings into the electric metre
and take the Bakelite phone
off the hook.
 
Underwear and light garments 
flutter on the clothes horse
by the wall heater.
Our bodies sink into bubble bath
washing away the impulses
of Saturday night,
 
laugh about the Bierkeller,
dancing on tables,
wandering off with boys
too late for the last tube home,
stranded in St. James Park.
 
We take turns, wrap each other
in warm towels,
brush hair, tease the tattles
of past hurts
from blonde, black and red locks.
 
For now we are safe,
my nurse’s uniform ironed,
my turn to sleep on the floor.
 
 
                            Three Girls: Summer 1966
 
 

After a day swimming in the Lough,
and singing to Radio Caroline,
 
we walked home sunburned.
Danced at the Carnival.
 
Late night snack; sandwiches,
licked salad cream from fingers.
 
Fell into a double bed,
thighs between thighs.
 
Kisses on shoulders, neck and breasts,
lips on honeyed lips.
 
Drunk on a sea of frenzied disquiet,
we shushed each other, then laughed.
 
Moaned our last soft moans,
bodies limp with pleasure.
                           
Eve lit a Benson and Hedges,
blew circles of smoke in the air.
 
All lay back, everyone having a drag.
watching blue floaters in the moonlight.
 
 
                                                Natural
 

Dark clouds block the light,
bar one entire field on fire
from a single ray of sun.
 
A minx waits till the trees turn,
then steals through dewy grass
taking a red hen’s companion.
 
She swells her burnt umber breast,
about to give up eggs and feathers,
attempts to fly on broken wings.
 
But there is a knowing,
day cannot be night,
and rivers flow one way.

 
                                                    A Visit
 

 
Father - man of the house,
you rise before dawn,
feed animals and birds.
At night polish your shoes
by the fireside.
 
You built a stable
home for us.
Now in the kitchen you listen
to the news from Athlone,
your tweed jacket outdated
yet smart.
 
The teapot is ‘draws’ on the range.
You ask, do you want
long tea or short tea?
as you pour 
in an up and down motion.
 
The stirring spoon wakes me.
In a muddled moment
I reach for the cup.
 
But touch instead
my window filled with stars. 
 
 
                            Battenburgs and Lemon Drizzlers
 
 
Ladakhi women in tall hats,
long plaits and turquoise capes,
grind all day the nuts
into pure almond oil,
sing Hoi Cho Cho Lay Song.
 
Now yellow cream caresses my face,
transports me to a time
when we chopped almonds,
made marzipan for Christmas cakes,
Battenburgs and Lemon Drizzlers.
Irish women baking in floral aprons
and A line skirts.
 
Drop by drop of measured time,
my friend’s skin
welcomes the healing liquid.
Effleurage
down the deep curve of her spine.
Me singing the song
of the Turquoise women.
 
My hands dance along her buttocks.
Knead, roll, pummel,
arms, legs, feet glisten.
Her long plaits tied up.
Me wearing a Ladakhi amulet
and a Claddagh necklace.