Ronnie McGinn's Poetry Page

A poet's art is often a matter of some mystery. There are those who say that it is not an art, and that it is bad in the sense that nobody else can learn it. But those who admit it's existence and see the art of a potent artist, see crafty writing as well as inspired, are often at a loss to say what they mean. With a good poet, of course, there are effects which cannot be explained. Nor should one desire to explain a poet's power with phrases.

Poetry is a fresh power, an originating power, and as such is as strange as the equivalent thing in any art. Such a way with words is never to be understood. It is miraculous, and must be let alone.

All the way from Scotland, Patrick Holloway, originally from Crosshaven in County Cork, and is currently studying to complete his masters in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow, is the author of this week's poem.

Apple

I remember you
dropping
a slice of an
apple
to the
floor.

You
bent
over
like folded paper
to pick it up.

I winced as you
ate it while
mum rinsed the
dishes of disappointment.

'Waste not want not.'

I threw half an apple
in the bin the other
day without thinking.
The bin was empty
and I reached
through dark to
pick up the fallen
moon.

I ate it all and
I'm sure I tasted
exactly what you
did. This grit. I
let it sit upon
my tongue like
a fully formed
memory.

© Patrick Holloway