THE CRUCIFIED CHRIST

My daughter takes in the scene as though, 
Walking home from school one bright spring morning,
She turned a corner and stumbled upon the crucifixion.

The image holds her, her small face upturned –
Unable to look away – her mouth twisted, her eyes wide.

I want to throw a coloured sheet over the iconography.
Or transform the scene with my words, paint it
Again with flowers and castles and heroes.

But this is where we must stand,
At the foot of the cross,
Mumbling magic that can never heal a wound.
Our need conjuring the wood and nails,
The unnameable grief and horror.

Our pressed hands,
Sharp as spears, flying back through time
To pierce his sacred heart.

- Darren Donohue

SUNDAY BATH

The surface of the Earth is 71% water.

An angry torrent storms the bathtub,
Some adult hand swims back and forth across
The perfect sheet paper surface,
Splashing about like a hooked fish.

I'm dropped like a lobster into a scalding pot –
My arms flailing against the tub's rigid indifference.
I hold my breath and plunge beneath the waves.
My chicken liver lungs kick against muscle and bone,
My heart slows to a steady thump.

Bits of sky and prophecy snag on the plughole or
Drift by like deep-sea fish. Caked with soap,
Muffled voices sing a siren's chorus, bittersweet and insistent.
Bubbles like prayers surround me –
Delicate and practical as a dream.
Somewhere between sinking and floating,
I come to a stop, resting my head upon a creel of eels.

Noah’s flood lasted 1 year and 10 days.

I sit my child in the bath and water builds up
Around her. With one hand pressed to the tap,
She intently watches it rise. I check the temperature
Every 2 seconds, as though I could protect her
From the swell lifting her like a pebble and
Crowding the vacant space about her.
Evening withdraws
Shyly through the window, letting us be for now –
Taking a final look over its shoulder before
Stretching deep shadows across every garden and
Painting a solemn moon into every puddle.

- Darren Donohue

PLAY DATE

Among the thorns and briars they built a fairy house.
Things long discarded and left for dead were
Dug up and put to good use. Bottle caps became
Stepping stones, matchboxes became tables and chairs,

An old rope became a swing and a
Sardine can made an inviting paddling pool.
When the fairy house and garden were complete,
They rolled up their sleeves and built an altar.

A gnarled tree stump with a flat head was dragged
From the shadows and buried within a ring of
Wild flowers. They set a plank before it –
An ancient pew for their invisible congregation.

I called to them, my strange adult voice reaching
Over a whispering chasm of twilight, T
he souls of my fairy children shrouded in nature,
Inventing a new religion right before my weary eyes.

Darren Donohue is a poet and playwright based in Co Kilkenny. His plays have been produced around Europe and translated into Catalan and Italian, and he is working with under commission with Fishamble, Rough Magic Theatre Company and the Abbey Theatre. His poetry also appeared in New Irish Writing in 2010 and 2013, and he was shortlisted for the Desmond O' Grady Poetry Prize.