Two Abreast

"Get in," he shouted, "two abreast," the man in the dicky bow.
We giggled as he stressed but we did as we were told.
He marshalled with precision, we heeded and obeyed,
there was no intermission in his grand parade.

Then others joined the line and it swelled across the path
and he nearly lost his mind when 'breast' set off a laugh.
The queue most often reached from outside the cineplex
to Oliver Plunkett Street at two to four abreast.
We wore backpacks to the 'filums' because those were the times
when it was forbidden to consume food from outside.
So, we queued, in rain or shine, loaded up with Tayto,                             
penny sweets, Wham and Dime and Cadet red lemonade, oh,  
it was a production for sure (and that was before even                                 
you got indoors to the sticky floors for the movie screening).                          
No messages about turning off your mobile phones.                                 
Questions about dates of birth, smokers in the rows                                
and speakers that faithfully gave up their ghosts.
The chain barrier was manned and when unhooked
racing feet and clawing hands dashed and shoved and pushed.

A treat of treats to go to the Capitol
and you might eat in Mandy's afterwards.
In a slatted paper hat, recount the show
and take off the man in the dicky bow.

(Explanation: Cork's Capitol Cineplex was the cinema of my childhood. It closed in 2005 and there are now plans to redevelop the site. I really wish I knew the name of the man in the dicky bow, he was such a character. He used to also shout "no loitering" to people who tried to wait in the cinema porch rather than in his line out on the footpath. He didn't discriminate either, he shouted at my dad to get in line just as he shouted at us children.)



This poem featured in the 2015 edition
of Cork's Christmas magazine,
Holly Bough.
Find the Holly Bough
on Facebook & Twitter.

Noising

"Oh, I love your wooden floors." "Yes, I love them too,
but I would so love carpet more for just a year or two."

"I like the ceramic tiles." "Yes, they're great, I know,
but give me cork or lino until the children grow."

It's the noise that drives me spare, shoes and toys that startle,
that dragging din of chairs and a bag of wayward marbles.
The tumbling as the Lego box is emptied down the hall,
the dumping of a box of pens and bouncing tennis balls.
The sound of dice, giant wooden ones, (I bought them the damn game),
bashes through my brain like drums until I feel insane.
At just the right sky-diving height my piano is the ledge
where Elsa and her friends unite and jump the keyboard edge.
Then heads and arms and dresses, hard plastic, but of course,
crash down to ground level with eardrum-bursting force.
The ponies, all those ponies, it's like they can't stay still,
canter at highest decibels as if they have free will.
Books are made of paper so you'd think that they'd be silent
but knock them from a four foot height for a bang that's violent.

It would be futile, really, unless, as well as floors,
I pad the walls and ceilings, the windows and the doors.
And, lets be fair, the children are behaving as they should
I'm the one who despairs that the floors are made of wood.
There is another way I think, it might just change my luck
to get some underlay and block my ear canals right up.
Could I get a quote for insulation, how much would it be
to kit me out with soundproofing on my two auditories.

But, wait, what's that? Could it be? I'm starting to feel scared.
Now my nerves are really shot, there's quiet in the air.

(Explanation: I'm sure this needs no explanation. However, I do want to point out that my children are great! And, that we can't have rugs or carpets, etc. because Holly, our four-year-old, has a severe allergy to dustmite so we try to keep soft furnishings to an absolute minimum. This summer in Ireland is miserable and that doesn't help: Normally, we spend our Summers outside all day. 
I really like how West Cork people (my husband is a West Corkonian) make verbs out of nouns, 'noising' is something Martin says for 'making noise'. When he asks the children, "what is all that noising about?" they fall around the place laughing at him.)