Jemma has been writing poetry in her spare time for years. Originally from Athlone, Ireland, she now lives in London with her husband and three children.
Almost Meeting Seamus
The classics society were having
the poet to dinner.
Linen napkins were folded
flax for laps
crockery plumed primed
hoping almond wise eyes
might note their oriental blues
and give them a Nobel nod in a
But I couldn’t make it, I
had a date with a Kilkenny man
who joked he was the Dalai Lama of the
west and waxed
lyrical about cats and DJ Carey
knowing full well I had no
His casual hair half-spiked like an unfurling
In mottled library tones he always
called me by my surname
which somehow pedalled intimacy.
Our faux furred dramas wore light
and were signposted to laughs.
Once on the Lecky ramp
I remembered I’d forgotten
my term paper with the deadline
an hour away off he legged it
to Rathmines and back
wet hot and breathless handed me
my stingy stab at Aeschylus.
I was only sorry it wasn’t better.
I later told my father about nearly
“You fuckin eejit” he said.
The Lama man ran
off with a Swedish girl in the end.
Perhaps she laughed less
tickled his serious side
he may have needed that.
The more I read Seamus now
the more I know
I did the right foolish thing.
© 2019 Jemma Walsh