The New House

Ron Carey (Dublin, Ireland)

Liz Berry: Tightly written, curious and full of cracking lines and images. I found myself wondering again and again about this poem, trying to unpick its mystery.


The New House

Like the snake from the Bible, he slid

Upon his belly, over the tight crewcut

Of a different carpet, to the window

Where the rain fell in liberal tonnage.

It wasn’t because the room withheld

The show extravagance of furniture or

Its one pointed finger of electricity,

The peculiarity came from within him;

That he should act this way, rolling in

The strangeness of this bronco place,

Collecting on his soaking skin the novel

And fearsome connection he needed

And making it his. The old house had

Been resigned to their going, not a bark

Or a whimper as they left it on the side

Of the road, driving off quickly before

Their kind and friendly neighbours woke.

But the gut-wrenching smell of old love

Was still in his clothes, is hands, his hair.

Hard time would have to pass for it to die.










poem © Ron Carey