Her Names are Many
Look, there she goes. Dressed in her finery for a Gypsy Rommer.
Black leather boots, long purple dress gold around her neck and a feather in her hat,
She’ll mingle with the guests, drink wine until she’s skimmished.
She’ll hitch her skirts up. Dance like the young ones.
Just before she leaves she’ll give order and sing a song
that nobody knows but everyone loves and then she’ll disappear into the shadows
into the dust that rolls along the empty streets and never settles.
Rommer – wedding; Skimmished – drunk.
Dark is the Forest
Dark is the forest and deep, In times gone past it’s where we’d sleep. Under the oaks or the Hawthorn tree, drop our covels, our minds roam free.
Dark is the forest and deep, for dukkering, our malts will keep, a small gold ring tied with string, around their wrist or in their fist.
Dark is the forest and deep, where foxgloves grow and deer do leap, our plans are spun and boar will run. We take our time, we ‘ave some fun.
Dark is the forest and deep, we pass by patrins for those who seek, to keep in touch with folk that are dear and pass on news of birth and fear
.Dark is the forest and deep.
The title is taken from a poem No 131 – Poems 1916 by Edward Thomas.
Romani words (jib) Covels – belongings; Dukkering – fortune telling; Patrins – signs left along the way, can be leaves or string.
Then the Day Came…
I remember your body lying in the darkened room,
the smell of stale air and socks.
How you had become ghostlike,
silent, creeping about the house.
I missed the boy in you, the joy in you.
In the afternoon you’d come downstairs,
go into the office where the computer sat.
You moved your fingers on the keyboard
at the speed of light as you played game after game,
not stopping to eat or drink.
There were two sides of you.
The quiet one, soft voice, sad face,
eyes filled with longing.
The other, set like stone, words forming sharp arrows,
wounding me, wounding you.
Then the day came,
when I felt the weight of all that you were holding onto,
and I wondered if you could hold on any longer.
On that day I kissed your forehead
as you lay in bed, the voice of Michael Jackson
on the radio singing Billie Jean.
A sharp memory of you aged five dancing,
shouting ‘OOW.’
When I returned home late that night
and saw you in the kitchen, you were making scrambled eggs.
You were dressed, you were calm,
your eyes looking straight at me
and you said. ‘Hi Mum, how did the workshop go?’
Raine Geoghegan is a poet, prose writer, playwright and storyteller living in the Malvern Hills. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Forward Prize for Best Single Poem and Best of the Net. Her work has been published in print and online in many countries and some of her work appears in a documentary film, ‘Stories of the Hop Yards. Her two pamphlets are published by Hedgehog Poetry Press. She is of Romani, Irish and Welsh ancestry. Her first full collection will be published in Marsh 2022 with Salmon Poetry Press.
Fevers of the Mind 