Two Poems

Impasse 

I struggle to open the lock. 

Through the frosted glass 
I glimpse a future that I want to enter. The key turns a half-turn 
But the bolt is jammed, 
And the door stays shut.  

I knock on the glass and call out  
To the shadowy figures 
Who pass on the other side.  
They ignore me or do not hear me. 
I grow frantic, shouting and

Knocking. I know I cannot go back. 

Around me, the dead gather to watch the
spectacle. They are curious but indifferent.
They know there is no one on the other side 
Who can open the door for me. 
They know I have reached an impasse. 
They wait for me to realise it.  

I breathe in and exhale.  
I try the lock again. But it is stuck fast.  

* 
In a dream I stand in a primeval forest.
The trees are blackened or moss-covered. 

They crowd together 
Or lean at improbable angles, 
Like headstones in an ancient cemetery. 

I am lost without hope. 

The light filters through 
The outstretched limbs of the trees. I
hear birdsong, though I see no birds. 

I sense the dead crowd around me, 
Sucking the air from the Atmosphere
– suffocation.  
I try to push them back 
But there is nothing to grasp.  

* 
I wake.  
The door is still locked.

Darkness in the Suburbs 

For months it is utterly dark 
As if the sun will never return. 
Naked bulbs, coal fires and televisions  

Are lit and fridge doors left open. People
live within the perimeters of light. The
yellow street lamps work intermittently, 

Though shades are smashed and the
Glass splintered in pieces.  

The terrain is uncertain. 
Tree roots protrude. Occasionally 
The carcass of a dog obstructs the way 

And once, it is whispered, a human bone. 
Women travel in a convoy. Pushing sturdy
Prams to the shops.  

On the margins a group of youths
Mouth half-hearted obscenities. 

Old habits die hard. A man
Comes once a month to give
Notice  
That the power will be cut. 

The women tolerate him, throwing
The odd scrap of raw meat or
The children piss on his bicycle. 

All live in expectation  
Of the sun’s glorious return, 
Weeks of sunshine when life will be–

As it was in someone’s past– 
Ordinary and happy.

Kevin McDermott is a Dublin-based writer. He is the author of six novels for young adults. His writing for radio includes plays, feature-length documentaries, essays, and short stories. His poems have been published in journals and magazines and broadcast on RTE, the Irish national broadcast service. Follow him on Twitter: @SingMeCreation

Artwork by Noor Althehli