To My Little One

If I could bargain with time,
I’d give you more
Or trade you some of mine

I’d give you the best of it,
Summers filled with sea and sand and sun,
Fairgrounds, and endless hours of fun

My years gone by I’d give you,
A blur of tears and hopeless cries;
The years ahead I’d lend you,
Outstretched like never-ending skies

I’d give them in an instant,
To have again with you just one.

…………………………………….First Published in Quarryman Literary Journal

**

First Tattoo

Sitting in the tattoo parlour,
Waiting to get my first tattoo,
I was presented with a giant folder
And a myriad of possible designs

I could choose something biblical
Like a prayer or a line of scripture
Or something prophetic and futuristic
Like a cosmic symbol or a star sign

I could inscribe my favourite place name,
A date that holds some private meaning,
Or write the name of a past or current lover,
A celeb crush, or just someone I admire

I could go for something soulful like a verse
Of poetry, a song lyric or a movie quote; or
I could pick something fun and playful like
Paw prints or a picture of my spirit animal

Faced with so much choice, I could not decide,
What to have inked on the blank canvas of my skin.
Growing impatient, the tattoo artist waved me off
The chair and said: Darling, you can come back again,
But first, you must get out there and LIVE!!!

…………………………………….First Published in Swerve 2

**

A Diary for Christmas
for Marjorie and Laura Rigby

Yesterday, I heard an interview on the BBC with an English
Great-grandmother named Marjorie Rigby, describing how,
Each year, when gifted a new diary for Christmas, the first date
She enters is 3 September, her stillborn daughter Laura’s birthday
Every year for 70-odd years

For 76 years, Marjorie never knew what happened to her baby,
After the birth, she was taken back to the ward and left, never
Knowing what happened next. Finally, thanks to the charity
Brief Lives Remembered, she discovered Laura had been buried
In a little coffin in an unmarked plot in Stockport

Marjorie described feeling big relief and a sort of peace having
Found her daughter’s resting place. On her first visit to the grave,
She laid down flowers from her garden, and prayed. Back in 1946,
No one visited Marjorie in the hospital to help her with her loss,
She was discharged two weeks later, as was standard practice,
And was just expected to get on with things and carry on

So that’s what she did – she returned home, raised her family,
And watched it grow. Filled the pages of her yearly diaries
With moments from her day, and plans for the months ahead.
All the while, leaving one page entirely blank, save for the
Black ink mark of a date on a pristine, white new page
Every year for 70-odd years.

…………………………………….First published in Burrow

**

A Trip to Garnish Island

All her life, my aunt was superstitious
She swore blind by old wives’ tales and well-worn piseogs
And she placed blind faith in the universe to send her signs

Whenever she’d spot a lone magpie outside her window
She’d tense up and say ‘one for sorrow, two for joy’
And frantically scan the garden for another

Dates too held a special meaning for her
Believing them to be the auspicious portents
Of momentous happenings or major life events

She’d make a point of noting significant dates in her diary
Or on her kitchen calender, such as relatives’ anniversaries,
And her nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays

A few months after my aunt’s death, my family and I
Took a trip to Garnish Island, one of her favourite places,
To mark what would have been her sixtieth birthday

After a steep climb up the Martello Tower
We sat down on a bench in the Italian Garden
And to our delight a robin perched beside us on the ground

It never left our side as we sat for an endless moment
Taking in the paradisal beauty that surrounded us
And the view of the sea and mountains just beyond

…………………………………….First published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal & Cork Words 3

**

Parisian Reverie

Like all young struggling artists,
I’m going to move to Paris

I’m going to rent an attic studio
& become a true bohemian

I’m going to dress in black &
philosophize in French cafés

I’m going to read the classics
in Sylvia Beach’s bookshop

Like Hemingway, I’ll spend
my weekends in museums

& learn to write like Cézanne
painted

Like the flâneurs, I’ll roam the city
& hang around the Latin Quarter

I’ll attend the opéra & ballet,
I’ll go to jazz clubs & cabarets

Maybe then I’ll make great art &
learn to live wth panache & flair

As all the greats say: If you can’t make
it in Paris, you can’t make it anywhere!

…………………………………….First published in Reverie

 ————————————————

Jeanna Ní Ríordáin is a translator and writer from West Cork, Ireland. Her poetry has appeared in Quarryman, Cork Words 3, Drawn to the Light Press, Swerve, New Isles Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Burrow, Reverie Magazine, Alien Buddha Press and Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal among others. Her chapbook, Stirring to Life, was published by Dark Thirty Poetry Publishing in March 2024 and is available through Amazon.