The poetry of Ruth Ennis


Bad Eyesight

 

My friends were miniature and talkative

We used to save worlds and run investigations

Whenever my mother asked where they lived

I couldn’t explain the concept of imagination

 

Those whom demanded respect when they spoke

Talked down to me with a blank smile and a vacant stare

They asked about my hobby but would not laugh at my joke

When I realised if I didn’t ask about them, they didn’t care

 

I used to see the souls of objects bursting from their skin

I would squint my eyes, to dim out the surrounding light

And witness blurry outlines; things externalising what was within

This little view I held was revealed to be my bad eyesight

 

Some children try to escape the world of propriety, but instead

Grow up to accept, spreading the word; “Peter Pan is, in fact, dead”

 

 

 

Response to Feedback

 

“It’s formless and pretty wordy”, you noted.

Fair and honest, as irrational

I responded to your criticism.

After the nine months I have doted

Upon you, it is inconceivable

That, not through the medium of film,

 

Prose, song or poem, I haven’t divulged

The cliché, sweet, long and painful tightness

You pierce my chest with ev’ry single day.

So, in perfected form and pace, I mulled

Over this, the piece I name for you, less

Than you ever deserve. I wish I lay

 

Beside you when you awake, or rather,

When I wake and you watch my unfocused

Eyes search for you, instinctively longing

To see the mountains in your iris or

The sweet surprise, your lips I’ve boasted

To be the best I’ve known, the dawning

 

Sun interrupting our rare time alone,

But I don’t condemn it, as it’s the sign

Of another uninterrupted day

With you. You kiss my skin to reach the bone

That you shake inside me, remind me mine,

mine alone, are your hands. This is to say

 

I respectfully appreciate your

feedback, but also, my desire for

A life with you has no rhyme, rhythm or

Reason.

 

 

 

 

Tusk Tusk Tusk

 

When elephants hold hands they can’t hold legs. That’s just silly.

They have big heavy rocks for toes and tall wide trees for knees.

Their knees are kind of immovable.

That’s a sort of irony, isn’t it?

 

So elephants hold hands with their trunks.

They are small and slender and nice and sweet.

They wrap around and around and around until they headbutt each other, but no no,

they need to be careful they don’t pierce anything with the sharp bones.

 

Your hands are the tusks. Cold and immobile.

I can wrap myself around them, and around and around and around.

But they stay the same. Indifferent. Quiet.

But they’re what the hunter wants. So I’ll destroy the trunk to feel the bones.

 

 

 

I am a Bachelor of Arts student in University College Dublin, having studied English with Drama. I write mainly for theatre and short film, although I have a passion for prose. Poetry is a new venture for me; a field I hope to expand in by learning from others. Themes I cover include children’s literature, personal development, retrospection, regret, human and animal rights.

 

https://www.linkedin.com/in/ruth-ennis-360260147/


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