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Book Review for The Man Who Stole Father's Boat:

Subterranean Blue Poetry

Volume I Issue V

Talking with "The Hag"

Last night the old hag

sat on my chest as she's

done many times before,

this time I spoke to her,

I asked her quietly

if she bothered to think

about how she sat on

fishermen's hearts in

our dark waters

who wanted to wake

at five,

she answered in her

subtle voice that she

wanted them to

move her down

the sheets placed

over her mouth for


I asked her why she

visited their daughters on

cold winter nights,

she told me

it was the treasures

masked in down turned

eyes she wanted un-silenced,

when I pressed further about why

she sat on Nan's chest

she could only answer,

her wool was too grey for

nights and hated the dead birds

filling her pot,

when I asked her about

uncles who fell off ice pans,

she screamed in my ear

to tell me it was her that kept

them floating for one more hour,

I asked her why she didn't sit on

the blonde woman who told me

on the mainland we had homes

filled with ten children who

brought in cheques,

she told me

her chest had no sound or ocean

making her stay,

when finally I asked why she came to

me so often,

she took the small of her

hand and placed it on my breast,

told me the poet of words

drew her on me,

she would stay with the

wolf with darkened teeth

until it has finished,

it slept near my

bed, she combed its mane as babies

played in white

and nuns called me Catherine

as they wore helmets with spikes


Irish soil

on horses

I could only dream of,

I asked her not to

come again, but she yelled

all my lines were

her doing,

if I wanted to tell the

merchant who I was,

the middle class where I wanted to be,

I had to keep her with me,

I rolled over and told her to

get off me, she pressed me harder in the pillow

until I caught god for a breath,

I told her if she stayed she'd

give me every word I looked for

and make all the oceans she

travelled over stay inside me,

if she woke me up

I would meet the voice of

her in my head and

her eyes would see things I needed,

she sat with me,

she combed my hair and

whispered every line I wrote

and the little girls were freed of her.

Subterranean Blue Poetry


© 2012