Poem
Medbh McGuckian
From the Dressing-Room
From the Dressing-Room
From the Dressing-Room
Left to itself, they say, every foetusWould turn female, staving in, nature
Siding then with the enemy that
Delicately mixes up genders. This
Is an absence I have passionately sought,
Brightening nevertheless my poet’s attic
With my steady hands, calling him my blue
Lizard till his moans might be heard
At the far end of the garden. For I like
His ways, he’s light on his feet and does
Not break anything, puts his entire soul
Into bringing me a glass of water.
I can take anything now, even his being
Away, for it always seems to me his
Writing is for me, as I walk springless
From the dressing-room in a sisterly
Length of flesh-coloured silk. Oh there
Are moments when you think you can
Give notice in a jolly, wifely tone,
Tossing off a very last and sunsettey
Letter of farewell, with strict injunctions
To be careful to procure his own lodgings,
That my good little room is lockable,
But shivery, I recover at the mere
Sight of him propping up my pillow.
© 1984, Medbh McGuckian
From: Venus and the Rain
Publisher: Gallery Press, Oldcastle, Co. Meath
From: Venus and the Rain
Publisher: Gallery Press, Oldcastle, Co. Meath
Medbh McGuckian
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1950)
Medbh McGuckian was born in 1950 in Belfast where she currently lectures in Creative Writing at the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry at Queen’s University. Her association with Queen’s has been long and fruitful; as a student she was a contemporary of Paul Muldoon and took classes with Seamus Heaney, receiving her BA in 1972 and MA in 1974. She taught English at secondary level for some years be...
Poems
Poems of Medbh McGuckian
Close
From the Dressing-Room
Left to itself, they say, every foetusWould turn female, staving in, nature
Siding then with the enemy that
Delicately mixes up genders. This
Is an absence I have passionately sought,
Brightening nevertheless my poet’s attic
With my steady hands, calling him my blue
Lizard till his moans might be heard
At the far end of the garden. For I like
His ways, he’s light on his feet and does
Not break anything, puts his entire soul
Into bringing me a glass of water.
I can take anything now, even his being
Away, for it always seems to me his
Writing is for me, as I walk springless
From the dressing-room in a sisterly
Length of flesh-coloured silk. Oh there
Are moments when you think you can
Give notice in a jolly, wifely tone,
Tossing off a very last and sunsettey
Letter of farewell, with strict injunctions
To be careful to procure his own lodgings,
That my good little room is lockable,
But shivery, I recover at the mere
Sight of him propping up my pillow.
From: Venus and the Rain
From the Dressing-Room
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