The following three poems are written by Chris Jones and are inspired by the exhibition "Pay No Attention To That Man Behind The Curtain" which is running in The Complex Gallery (21-25 Arran Street East, Dublin 7) from December 3rd to December 16th
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One
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Do you remember your name? - asks the yellow girl
Yes, I lie.
This is the room of lost and forgotten things
Gold…Cinnabar…Ivory…Jade
A bed, a dresser and a straight-backed chair.
The green nurse shimmers
her dress hissing
she is made of stone.
Do you remember the storm? - asks the yellow girl
Yes, I lie.
I remember nothing only bright whiteness
the whites of uncle’s eyes
my aunt’s teeth shiny as apples.
Leaving the hospital again…. not broken but empty
the moon trapped in my bones.
Don’t...you...know...that…eggs...are...poison? - asks the yellow girl.
I am blurred at the edges, searching the frozen room for lost days
vomiting glitter and paint.
No, I lie.
Two
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A gloved hand.
A copper hand.
A tin hand.
A hen’s wing.
Three stick fingers.
My own hands are empty songs with nothing to follow.
There is a brick in my belly.
I wish my mouth was a cave where I could shelter safely.
Ask the mirror - says the yellow girl.
I see the tumbled rose of her hair
eyes as black as burnt stars, no longer telling their stories.
Is she empty like me?
We are the same- says the yellow girl.
The meadowlark sings from the other side -
We
We can’t
We can’t go
We can’t go home
We can’t go home again
We can’t go home again
We can’t go home again
We can’t go home
We can’t go
We can’t
We.
Three
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Soon it will be dark, and the demon will come
quiet as a wintering lake
to watch me with a new head
silencing inside what now can never begin.
Does it hurt? – asks the yellow girl
you’re bleeding
I don’t know
Blood pools in my slippers
pounding against my heart- wall
Crimson or Ruby
like the doctor’s ring.
I don’t know
I keep spinning.
Blessed art thou amongst women - says the yellow girl
I take off my slippers and stand in the whispering river
taking root - growing taller
wild as a scarecrow in the wind.
I have become a riverbed of stones
glittering like rain caught in streetlamps.
and later if she asks, I’ll tell her that I had no fear
in my eyes, only the madness of tomorrow.