64. Fiona Cahill
An amazing poet who has drawn themes from an exploration of her family history.
Fiona was raised by her mother, Maria who she lost in 2023. Maria was born in London to Philomena, an unmarried Irish woman. As such both were deported to Castlepollard mother and baby institution in Ireland. Maria was put up for adoption at the age of two, and they never saw each other again. It took Maria and then Fiona 40 years to uncover the truth. In this small personal collection of poetry Fiona explores the themes of grief, separation and connection.
Poems
Spurn Point Magician Mother Cherry Blossom Grandmother Fréamhacha (Roots) The Glass Washboard Set Me Free
Spurn Point
A slender finger of land Uncurls into the sea Tides on both sides Like a motorway Roar wind and rage Separated from my family and culture Hurting for my mother and grandmother A storm of swallows calls acid greens From the spit of land I breathe them in Now the roar of sea Comes from me Truth flies from my lips On birds wings <<<
Magician Mother
Mother magician We lit our fire every winter morning, usually with glowing embers from the night before The ash would lift and curl into smoke signals fungal spores on autumn evenings I would roll the newspaper from one corner to the other, tightly twisting long sticks You would stand the poker upright place the middle page across the fireplace. We watched the scorched brown patch grow large and dark until it blazed and tiny pieces of paper flew around the room You were a magician that dark winter morning bringing the sparks of 'fantasia' to life, melting the frost on the inside of the windows <<<
Cherry Blossom Grandmother
My grandmother was an Irish single mother in London in 1954. For that crime she was deported to the Castlepollard mother and baby institution in Ireland and her baby was taken without consent. They never saw each other again. The first time I met her was at her grave under the cherry trees.
A jumble of light Reflected in blossom, Cascades from the tree. A ringing note Summons me. Rushing through root And limb, Falling in petal kisses On our heads. It is you. It is me. Rushing through vein And cell, Falling through eyes And fingertips. <<<
Fréamhacha (Roots)
This was written after visiting the mass infant burial site at Castlepollard. ‘Illegitimate’ babies were seen as abnormal.
There are no headstones here, no names, no dates. No mention of mothers. Their voices now sacred mycelium to tree roots, their cries carried by kestrels I write their names with ink made from oak galls My paper; from bandages, mugwort, hawthorn and fairy lace. I etch them into copper, Whisper a wild prayer as I print Burnish with gold leaf. <<<
The Glass Washboard
Bleach clings to white porcelain I sit on the lid Breathe air from the window Her knuckles peeled on the glass washboard Relief from internal pain Close to her mother They both knew penance Endless work <<<
Set Me Free
“It’s a part of me” I stroked your hand, another crystal vase and one red rose Sparkled in the dark. Finally you slept. I dream of you, Shining like crystal. I send my heart Through the mist Tenderness blooms Love returns In the part of you, that poured into me All heat and light Supernova. Still telling me I’ll be okay. You were courageous, and graceful; You were joyful rebellion, You are the still wild Mystic “Set me Free” Maria/Áine/Goddess of midsummer. Released to time and tide With Manannán Mac lír Mother of the tender and untamed Be always by my side Your story, once hidden history. Becoming prayer, Mythology. <<<
Such beautiful and moving poems, and such a tragic story.
Having lost a son, I found these poems to be soothing, healing. Grief, loss, love -- these things are a part of being human. I feel blessed to have read them.