“Desecration of a Statue,” “Always Have Food in Your Pocket” and “The Spectator”

Poetry by Ailish NicPhaidin

“Desecration of a Statue,” “Always Have Food in Your Pocket” and “The Spectator”

Desecration of a Statue

She stood tall and strong and willowy

She matched the grace of Leonardo

The clarity of Picasso

The lyrics of Wordsworth

The intensity of Milton

And the power Merit Ptah

She was admired by many

Stricken by few

Envied by simpletons

Humbled by graciousness.

Then, startled, she awoke

Slowly, dazed, unbelievingly

One fine summer night

After playing with friends.

Her solitary sojourn

Amongst the grass and rushes

Was not pieced together

Until she saw the strewn knickers

The missing bra

The blood soaked legs

The torn vagina,

And the tattered dress…

Fifty yards away.

Surely the statue would stand

For another turn around the Sun

Desecrated by another human man

Who only howled at the moon.

Always Have Food In Your Pocket

That day awoke as dark as any

The rain dropped in large swaths

Across the landscape harboring malaise

Just the same as every yesterday.

Counseled to stay indoors

The magic of three years ago quietly forgotten

As the street-lamps dimmed to a close

The music silently blaring as always,

Until all ears tuned in at the sight

Of muscle men and tadpoles lining up

In their quest to sojourn awhile longer,

Sheltered from the front of the pack

By the lengthy lines of armored cars

And bicycles and tin cans and morphed dwarfs

Aligning themselves with spectral storage

Of unison, squandered by minions

So crafty and small, they disappeared

Behind the grand massive mahogany doors

To shine their luster upon each other

In scented tinsel and intemperate stockpiles,

As mamma stuffed baked bread into her pocket.

The Spectator

The hurt was calm

Passionless, and probably

Not subsiding

Anytime soon.

It appealed to the onlookers

Its operatic splendor

Dried the wet

And wet the dried.

Unless the sun shines soon

The giggles and wriggles

Will persist

And multiply.

Not until little men and little women

Shed the treble glaze

Of comfort, contempt and wellness

Will the bystander be blameless.

It’s expensive to stay silent,

Easeful, fulfilling, fulminating,

Furtive, creeping, opaque,

Less falling than limping

Listless, not lifeless

Until the penny drops

And you are next

In the long spectator line

That has already

Been foreclosed upon,

Until death do you meet.

Anthemic dungeons, galore,

Belatedly evocative

Of fully flawed and fragile humanity.

About the Author

Ailish NicPhaidin

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Ailish NicPhaidin emigrated from Ireland in 1997 with her then 9-year old daughter to Florida. She began writing poetry about seventeen years ago.