I’m Michael. I’ve been an on/off member for some time – I’m quiet & I doubt if anyone here has heard of me. I’m not sure if this is suitable as a blog post, but here it is anyway.
I was saddened to receive Vanessa’s email about the death of Simon Trewin & I know many members attended his Zoom talks. I never did – I’m quiet. It moved me because my sister died within months of being diagnosed with a brain tumour in 2017. I was profoundly affected by her death; within the family she was my soulmate. We were brought up in Belfast’s Ardoyne district, a place that was a frontline of The Troubles.
She was called Hilary, a former Antrim camog, and was a senior manager in the 6 Cos NHS, but she was also a staunch Union rep & fought many tribunals etc for herself & fellow workers. She was a good friend & comrade of former Socialist Party TD Joe Higgins. I wrote this poem in her memory; it has been long/short-listed several times.
Today, 1st August, is her birthday, although years ago she changed her birthday to whatever day International Women’s Day fell on! I always post this poem somewhere online on August 1st. I miss her.
Moon Child
The Moon is waning
moving now through a new, a deadly
firmament, like an ebbing tide she diminishes and
my tethered tears must remain stilled
The Moon is waning
bright-eyed she, ever on the wavelength of
the Strange, the Universe, Nature’s Inquisitor,
her wonderings never quenched
The Moon is waning
we have broken glimpses, reward
for patience borne and visualise olives,
weeping blood for her, our own battered Guernica
The Moon is waning
a scimitar sliver now, full argent lost,
yet her comrade heart will be
eternally red and true to all who bleed
The Moon is waning
Lúnasa’s* blue sky-child, their summer arrival,
urgent for life, urgent to
learn, to wonder even at clouds
The Moon is waning
Lugh** brought this baby girl, a bounty,
a harvest babe, born when low mellow moons,
warm and fruitful gently gilded indigo horizons
The Moon is waning
us toddler brothers gazed on the cot’s new babe,
heard her murmurings, gentle baby words mumbling
strange little mantras as she slipped to sleep
The Moon is waning
eclipse beckons, a bloody lunar veil,
dark crimson is dimming her, terrifying our
caring, wondering, harvest child
The Moon is waning
we hurl wails at a black sky, remembering dark
suited men of Mars shrinking before her victories,
justices wrought by her fragile yet prevailing Venusian courage
The Moon has left the sky
And I am terrified for you. For us.
And so angered.
Deeply angered at this waste of you!
*Lúnasa >Irish for August **Lúgh a God> origin of Lúnasa
(c) Michael Coleman
