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Mistletoe<\/strong><\/p>\n There were men with fat wallets I played good daughter I slip away to hunt for brothers\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 but the cold wall I back into is small relief <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Bobbie Sparrow<\/strong> is a poetry writing Psychotherapist.\u00a0 She was long listed for the Over the Edge new writer\u2019s award 3 times and short listed for the Galway University Hospital Poetry Competition 2016. Her poems have been published in both national and international journals including Orbis, Picaroon <\/em>and Skylight 47.<\/em>\u00a0 Bobbie was the Featured reader at the Over The Edge open Mic August 2017. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Fairytale of New York<\/strong><\/p>\n Thanks Ma for the twenty Christmases For the drive home to Dun Laoghaire For the rasher and sizzling sausage breakfast, For the sneaky hot ham sandwiches after For the fruit cake topped with almond icing For soaking the plum pudding with whiskey For saying that Christmas began as soon Fairytale of New York used to remind <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Frances Browner<\/strong> grew up in Dublin; spent twenty years in America, and now resides in Wicklow. Stories, poems & memoirs have appeared in magazines, journals, and anthologies; short-listed for competitions and broadcast on radio. She tutors creative writing & history.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Christmas Morn, Dulwich Irish Club<\/strong><\/p>\n Shortest session of the year, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Mike Gallagher,<\/strong> an Irish poet and editor, has been published and translated worldwide. He won the Michael Hartnett Viva Voce award in 2010 and 2016, the Desmond O’Grady International award in 2012 and was shortlisted for the Hennessy award in 2011.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Mistletoe There were men with fat wallets in our Christmas eve kitchen they sat with legs spread\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 hands in pockets caressing car keys\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 their laughter competing with Frank Sinatra on vinyl and the clink of ice in Gin they would see two roads on the drive home I played good daughter to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[82],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-15369","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-twelve-days-of-christmas-2017"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15369","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15369"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15369\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15514,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15369\/revisions\/15514"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15369"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15369"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15369"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nin our Christmas eve kitchen
\nthey sat with legs spread\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 hands in pockets
\ncaressing car keys\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 their laughter
\ncompeting with Frank Sinatra on vinyl
\nand the clink of ice in Gin
\nthey would see two roads on the drive home<\/p>\n
\nto make parents proud\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I went
\nto pour and hand\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 smile
\ngaze drops from eye<\/span>
\nto breast <\/span>
\nto waist<\/span>
\nto knee<\/span>
\nfamiliarity an excuse to put a hand on lower back<\/p>\n
\nturn to see him grinning under mistletoe
\ntoo polite to run\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 too young to make a dance of it
\nI see my fear in his sweat
\nHappy Christmas!\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 his alcohol lips assault<\/p>\n
\na punch line bursts my shock
\nraucous roars swell from the kitchen
\nas he returns to the party<\/p>\n
\nShe lives on the shores of Lough Corrib, Co. Galway with her husband and their two fine sons. Bobbie finds a good poem to be a good friend.<\/p>\n
\nYou rushed forward in Arrivals
\nWhen I burst through the sliding doors.<\/p>\n
\nThe two of us like chipmunks chattering
\nThe sky a fiery gold.<\/p>\n
\nThe hot water bottle and electric blanket
\nToasting my bed.<\/p>\n
\nMidnight Mass and a surprise under the tree
\nLong after Santa stopped coming.<\/p>\n
\nThe sherry trifle shivering on the sideboard
\nMince pies flaking in pastry.<\/p>\n
\nAnd lighting a match to see my face glowing
\nIn the blue flame.<\/p>\n
\nAs the Pogues were played on the radio
\nAnd my flight was booked.<\/p>\n
\nyou of me
\nThis year, it will remind me of you.<\/p>\n
\nthat gathering between twelve and two.
\nQueuing up for opening time,
\npilgrims from afar; a brother,
\ndown from Manchester, a sister
\nfrom Dumfries; Danny’s estranged
\ndaughters, all the way from Birmingham,
\n‘How’s your Mum – tell her I miss her;
\nAh, no, I wouldn’t expect her
\nto have me back’. Paul’s father,
\ncrosses the city from Stonebridge Park,
\nlike every other year, see the grandkids,
\n‘My, oh, my, how they’ve grown’.
\nThree wise men from Cavan came,
\nbearers of no gifts,
\nbabes in swaddling clothes, their first showing
\n‘Aw, isn’t she lovely’ or
\n‘He’s surely got your dimple!’
\nBridie’s two, home from Uni \u2013
\n‘They’re doing great’, says she,
\n‘If only their father could see them now’.
\nThe gathering of the Hickey clan,
\nThe Boyles, Hartney’s, O’Keefes
\nO’Mahonys, Gallaghers, Ryans,
\nold stock, came off the cattle boats,
\nsecond and third generations now
\nmore Irish than the Irish themselves;
\nJoe Thornton in the corner; ”Do you know
\nMulranny at all – my grandfather came from there,
\nsettled in Yorkshire; amuses the kids
\nwith his now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t
\nmouse-in-a-hanky. Tralee Patsy
\nreminisces on a town of horses, carts
\nand Black and Tans – never went back;
\nyou remember those who have gone,
\nand those that you have left behind.
\nFrank Becker speaks of crazy times
\non the road with the Pecker Dunne,
\nsings ‘Sullivan’s John’, Henry plays
\nthe box, lashes out some mighty reels
\nwith John and Mary, a military two-step
\nfor Micky and Peggy – I see them still,
\ngliding across the maple floor.
\nBut only in my dream. All gone now;
\nThe Jims, Shannon and Burns,
\nhave shooed us out the door one last time,
\n‘Let’s have your glasses, boys and girls’.
\nNo home from home to go to, anymore.<\/p>\n