Hide her diaries,
Mother won’t remember,
Her truth she told,
That turned to red waters.
Leave her be, she wasn’t herself,
Her conscience owns her now,
The mob’s voice suppresses,
Except for the little one.
The planks skate the current,
A blue boy swims forward,
Now blind to where his family’s gone,
The sirens are here, but guide him alone.
A blanket of white rain covers her house,
The appearance is clean, but her bed unmade,
A creak is heard, with thirteen more,
The indigo boy now watches, as she sleeps between two pillows.
About the Author
Hi my name is Conor Ryan. I’m born and raised in Kilkenny and my walk of life has set me on a path to become a storyteller. I’ve achieved praise for my award-winning short story from the prestigious RTÉ Francis MacManus writing competition and I am advancing my knowledge through college life to this day. I’m studying TV & Media in IT Carlow at the moment, it’s where mostly my creative ability is challenged and upskilled. On my 12th year of walking around earth I had realised the power of putting pen to paper. I grew up as one of the quieter younglings so I consulted with my brain a lot before choosing my sentences at any time, which is perfect for writing a poem. It’s good to get the words out!
I wrote this poem because of the heat that social media can bring to any person, especially the famous. In this case, a mother had made a mistake and the people (the mobs) stand around her in hate. The guilt of the mistake and the view of the people can cause great mental pressure that leads to a far darker path. We used to stand around with pitchforks but now we stand behind a comment section.
Editor's Note
The poet has done very well to create an eerie, magical tone for this poem, and complex emotions are teased out with delicacy and subtlety. I particularly like how the lengthening lines and the regular use of commas creates an almost dreamlike atmosphere – it feels almost as though the speaker is talking in their sleep, or while under a spell. A very arresting piece.
