Jamie’s aunt once introduced a melody to our solitary home. This music would inhabit a fragile disk, springing to life from within a box. I was utterly persuaded that the eerie voice of Dionne was indeed hers. After she bade us farewell to voyage back to London, I found myself standing next to the gramophone, uttering her name while the moist days would unfurl in a monotonous procession. There would be a lapse of several months before she would make her return to Wexford, an event which always marked a transformation in my mother’s countenance. The duo would fill our grimy kitchen together, their mirth resonating in the air and their lustrous hair swaying. I would veil my eyes, intune to the chime of a bell that would sound the arrival of the fairy’s gift – a surprise they would devise out of the odds and ends within their grasp. Presently, my mother remains alone. She has moved forward, leaving behind just a resounding memory of the enjoyment they shared and the heated battles they waged. This bond that could never occur to unravel. This piece is from Katie Donovan’s latest collection, “May Swim” published by Bloodaxe, which comes after a series of other collections, including “Watermelon Man” (1993), “Entering the Mare” (1997), “Day of the Dead” (2002), “Rootling: New & Selected Poems” (2010), and “Off Duty” (2016).
The poem we are exploring today is taken from Katie Donovan’s latest anthology, May Swim, published by Bloodaxe. Her past works encompass Watermelon Man (1993), Entering the Mare (1997), Day of the Dead (2002), Rootling: New & Selected Poems (2010), and Off Duty (2016).