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The Cripple Feb 2015
Bhíomar ag imirt haca an lá sin
Agus bhí tu ina  bhall de mo fhoirenn
B' uimir a dó tú: mise, uimhir a trí
Thog an fhoireann sealanna chun mo chathoir a bhrúite.
An 'carbad na tine ' mar a dúirt mé
Ba  naíchóiste é  i ndáiríre.

Bhí tú ag tiomáint
Agus bhí tú ag rá rudaí
Chun an leanamh a cuireadh isteach air
Coisúil le 'Nil aon seanc agat' nó 'Iontach! Fior-iontach!'
Níor dhúirt tú aon rud  nuar a luaigh mé gurb inís Hamlet breacht dom.
B'fhedír 'dáiríre?' ach sin é.

Tar éis ár gcluiche
Ghabh  mé búiochas duit
Bhí tú ina sheasamh ar an staighre
Bhí mise ag strechaint le mo  bhúiochas
Mo mhaoltheanga: tá fhios agat
Chonaic mé an trua i do shúile
Bhí mé lag agus bhí fhios agat

Chuaigh tú sios staighre gan fhocal
Fádo, duirt tú go leor...
An chéad dán scíofa agam i nGaeilge. Cuirfidh mé leagan Béarla amach más is gá. Bain taithneamh as! :)
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
my grandmother sent me
seven thongs
a lacy, midnight blue bra
in the mail,
and i wrote this poem in
shaking, shivering hands
over my psychology homework.

i told this jokingly to the
pure faces of the girls in my dorm;
reflecting off glass like warm,
steamed milk before bed.
"what's a thog?"
they asked.
"it's 'thong'.. you dont know what that is?"
no, it shook their heads like seizures.
"its a type of undie. they make your *****
look nice,"
i told them.
i got a laugh and a face full of mixed expressions.
whatever.

please peel off my layers like a summer orange,
eat the zest.
put on your favorite dainty pair,
black lace or white satiny
polka dots?
they all look good in bed.
pull them up my legs
and warm me up because these
walls are concrete
and all i've been is cold, cold
my toes are freezing.
started as just kind of a brain spill, but i sorta like it.

— The End —