mary
mulholland

some poems

My Mother’s Daisy Ring 

I never knew its provenance, never saw her wear it

but that day when we divided up her jewellery

I took a ring, old yet new, held it to the light.

A daisy head of seven diamonds, sparkling, as she did,

for sun she craved and colour, as if afraid of night.

I never knew its provenance, never saw her wear it.

O the tales she would spin of her magic colonial past, 

of her childhood where bad things never happened. 

I took this ring, old yet new, held it to the light.

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My sisters urged me hurry as I wrestled with my choice, 

tempted by more familiar amethyst, rubies, gold – 

I never knew its provenance, never saw her wear it.

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Unguarded, she had at times a hooded silent look,

or I'd hear her sing, her voice soft and low.

I took her ring, turned it, held it to the light,

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slipped it on, a perfect fit, my mother’s solis oculus,

her petals furled at dusk, containing what we cannot know.

I never knew its provenance, never saw her wear it, 

but I will wear her ring, shining new, hold it to the light.

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The General’s Widow

The world sees only her public face, 

all pearls and smiles, but once he’s gone,

she locks the door, busies herself 

on their once-shared bed now covered 

with a pink satin spread, starts making a 

cast of her husband’s head. She’ll paint it 

bright to adorn the mantelshelf, replace 

those snaps of his sons and ‘himself’. 

Still she can smell his cigars in the air

as she sits at noon in his fireside chair, 

contemplating her scarlet masterpiece.

The funeral’s over, it’s such a release,

she’ll spend the night making paper planes,

hurl them at his red eyes, nose and brains.

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Breton Girl Spinning

                   after Paul Gauguin, 1889

She came out of the breadfruit tree,

a breadfruit body, 

fruit of the bread, the wine, a Breton girl

She wants to spin a path to the sky,

calls her angel to send her wings -

wings to match her apron of rose,  

wings like the russet sails of fishing boats.

She calls for cinnamon wings to fly her away

into the lapis-blue sky of her dress.

Then she'll leave the cowly dog, the dogged cow,

the thatched roof and the narrow fields

with their orange and brown, creams and greens

she’ll leave the shadow of her breadfruit tree. 

Red Door Poets

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Red Door Poets was set up in 2015.

We are a closed group of established

poets who meet fortnightly in London

and give periodic public readings. 

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Chris Hardy

Gillie Robic 

Katie Griffiths

Matthew Paul

Hanne Busck-Nielsen

Elizabeth Horsley

Tom Cunliffe

Beatriz Echeverri

Mary Mulholland

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