Amy Redmond

Weekend Release

I wrote this poem - an imaginative attempt at what might be happening to someone who is feeling suicidal - it may be distressing to read.

Cut grass

In the past 
Sweet smell
What fresh hell
Weeds now. Sour sallies. Nasturtium. Parsley gone to seed. Sunflower gone. Wizened head. Broken pot. Empty crates. Green burst through dead cement. Recycle bin. Regular bin.

Rusty bike. Yellow brick. Broken gutter.
No doorbell. There is no doorbell.

Inside now. Peep through blind. Keep it closed.
Light getting in.
Need blackout.
Need sleep.
Must sleep.
No rest.
Wicked.
Hotbed. Too hot. Big heavy hot sleeping mass. Not tonight Josephine. Move over. I am the mover overer. Moving mass. Snores subside. Few minutes’ ease. Reprieve. Forehead decreases. Weight comes. Bearing down into pillow. Snoring reignites. Awaken. What now. Growling engine outside. Middle of night. Airport run. Fucking taxi man. Fucking thin window. Engine rattle. Brain revs up. For fuck’s sake. For fuck’s sake. Turn it off. Fucking up now.

Bathroom mirror. Swollen face. Dead eyes. Pins in a soapy sponge. Wash out your mouth. No need. No witness. Recurring thoughts. Can’t put into words. Hate words. Hate thoughts. Hate face. Hate body. Hate noise. Hate food. Hate. Hate. Hate. Love sleep. Love silence. Love water. Shower. Bottle. Swim. Sink. Water in sink. Razor in sink.

Go away world. Go away snoring mass.
Go away moon-faced nurse reeking of stale beer.
Go away arrogant doctor, leaning back, not listening.

Red.

Red.

All red.
Redness.
My redness.
My royal red. My bed.

Haiku for Denis - R.I.P. 2015

I used to always meet Denis for coffee and cigarettes at outdoor cafes in Ranelagh and all around Dublin city centre.  He'd always been listening to something. We'd discuss all sorts of things, his love of music and his hero, Michael Collins.  He was a great lover of the arts and of Irish history. On Bloomsday, he'd be dressed in his linen suit ,swanning about Davy Byrne's charming the ladies with his mischievous one-liners and towering good looks. On a few occasions I was present when he played the guitar and sang. What a powerful voice he had. On good days he was a gorgeous presence. On bad days, he shunned the world and wouldn't answer the phone.  He struggled so much. All he wanted was to feel useful and to be loved.  He was so kind and supportive to everyone he met. I loved him but I never told him. I wrote this Haiku for him.

Dirty ol day now
Boy in sleeping bag looks up
Our eyes meet, I pass

Browsing in the shop
I spy with my little eye
Something beginning

A sense of this man
who will not bend to pressure
He is on the road

Thought it was NCH
National Gallery
Full Irish Breakfast

Making the effort
Was something that killed him
The effort to live

Reads of Nassau Street
Expert fears of overspend
€19.96 in books

Watching his own life
Quietly taking  his pills

Too much in the end
My sensitive, handsome friend.

In memory of Ciara - R.I.P. 2018

I have two things that Ciara gave me - an elegant powder blue hand-knitted collar she made for me one Christmas. I was blown away by her artistry and skill. It's precious to me. I look forward to wearing it at some big event in my life. She was so gifted and creative. She could turn her hand to anything, She also once bought me a cute little painted wooden love heart to hang as a decoration in my house in Dublin. I treasure these items.  I recently moved into a new house in Co. Wexford where we both grew up and when I was unpacking, I noticed that my wooden love heart had a handwritten inscription on the back that she wrote that I had never seen. It stopped me in my tracks. She wrote, "To Amy - 15 March 2012 - here's to a drug-free Ciara. Thanks for feeding me". I remember making her one of my salads and she was so happy commenting on eating the rainbow and how good it is for us. She was excited to finally try to talk to doctors to get off all the medications they had her on. Sadly, she did not succeed. It frustrates me how many pills are prescribed, how little say the person has. She tried so hard to be well. But she lost the battle. She couldn't remember things. It's not right. This is my opinion, no-one else's. R.I.P. beautiful Ciara. I'm sorry you can't call down and come for a walk on the beach with me. I miss your laughing eyes and your funny turn of phrase.