Angeline's Poems
I tend towards clutching clouds and clocking cuckoos in flight
in yellow,yellow fields at Ballykeel at eight on April nights.
in yellow,yellow fields at Ballykeel at eight on April nights.
Bangor Literary Journal
*Please note that the poems and prose on this page are not formatted as per the originals.
Ballykeel at Eight on April Nights
Did you expect me to be tribal when you gave me knolls
and drums of yellow, yellow whin, where Hawthorn snows
hedgerows and dandelions’ whisperers toll
a wish on feathery parachuting seeds I puff and blow.
Why did you pollute my eyes with glens — to show
or not to show me life beyond the industrial sight,
chimney pots smoking yellowing yellowing grey. No,
I tend towards clutching clouds and clocking cuckoos in flight
in yellow yellow fields at Ballykeel at eight on April nights.
Who am I in this house with no sides, and a long skinny lawn
in yellow yellow spring when the old wall is disguised,
opaque in the midges’ haze, block brick odiously spawned;
yet the fat bumble bees languorously thrive
on lions’ teeth; and I, no more able to compromise
weeds than to see the habitat of porpoises and puffins go
for gas caverns. If I am always to be here, and there besides,
I must build better walls, give up poetry — grow;
learn to watch yellowing life from my ever-narrowing window.
‘Ballykeel at Eight on April Nights’ was published as ‘Ever-Narrowing Window’ in Issue 20 of the Bangor Literary Journal in 2024. The name has been updated in preparation for the publication of my upcoming collection.
Ballykeel at Eight on April Nights
Did you expect me to be tribal when you gave me knolls
and drums of yellow, yellow whin, where Hawthorn snows
hedgerows and dandelions’ whisperers toll
a wish on feathery parachuting seeds I puff and blow.
Why did you pollute my eyes with glens — to show
or not to show me life beyond the industrial sight,
chimney pots smoking yellowing yellowing grey. No,
I tend towards clutching clouds and clocking cuckoos in flight
in yellow yellow fields at Ballykeel at eight on April nights.
Who am I in this house with no sides, and a long skinny lawn
in yellow yellow spring when the old wall is disguised,
opaque in the midges’ haze, block brick odiously spawned;
yet the fat bumble bees languorously thrive
on lions’ teeth; and I, no more able to compromise
weeds than to see the habitat of porpoises and puffins go
for gas caverns. If I am always to be here, and there besides,
I must build better walls, give up poetry — grow;
learn to watch yellowing life from my ever-narrowing window.
‘Ballykeel at Eight on April Nights’ was published as ‘Ever-Narrowing Window’ in Issue 20 of the Bangor Literary Journal in 2024. The name has been updated in preparation for the publication of my upcoming collection.
Ulster University Paperclip
Published in Vol. III, 2023:
In Barrowlands with Big Bands
Dust falls silver
from the sprung floors
of Glasgow skies
as sling-backs quickstep
above kirk spires
and three women jive
cathedral-long nights
in the city
that never
stops dancing.
Those schoolgirl days
were forever
in Barrowlands with big bands.
Jemima, Patricia, Helen,
birl two-three and --
Shout! We are dancers.
In Barrowlands with Big Bands
Dust falls silver
from the sprung floors
of Glasgow skies
as sling-backs quickstep
above kirk spires
and three women jive
cathedral-long nights
in the city
that never
stops dancing.
Those schoolgirl days
were forever
in Barrowlands with big bands.
Jemima, Patricia, Helen,
birl two-three and --
Shout! We are dancers.
Community Arts Partnership: Poetry in Motion Community Anthology
Published in Heartland, 2020/21:
Dance of Cow Parsley
Scent of mother’s milk,
laced hook and eye
onto collars darned
in linen yarn, I necklace
you onto paper
and dance — dress
umbellifer --
in green fields, soundless
of the cock, bereft
of the breeze of barley.
Gorse cut back --
melancholy
saffron hemming
hedges — half-petal
embroidery birthed
after fire, like the breast.
I climb with a maternal
line over bleach greens.
Supping. Stitching. Scribing.
Published in Threshold, 2021/22:
Heart-Sore
I cradle you sleeping
Learn the rain on your lashes
Know the lull in your snowdrift
Sup your scarlet face
Place a cool hand on your cheek
I'm heart-sore
Published in Vision, 2019/20:
On Velveteen
Hang up your
Pollicitis Addere
Facta blazer,
step into gingham,
take a deep breath,
and tidy away your ings.
Jouk whitin in tae flour
and gleek as grease
blisters, bubbles n grows;
harl a sack up the sappled steps
and hear the spuds dunner
against the steel;
slap scaldin japs fra yer han
and wipe the spit o chips
fra yer knee;
gulder, ‘Next!’ and write
a wheen o orders
in yer heid;
shiver salt n vinegar
and forge a fish supper
swaddled in cream.
Skim the cream silken sheen
and screeve your German, French
and Spanish on Velveteen.
Irregular girl; perfect tense:
Monter Retourner Rester
Venir Arriver Naître Sortir
Tomber Rentrer Aller Mourir Partir Entrer Descendre.
Mr R Vans Tramped; Mr R Trans Vamped:
Transvision Vamp.
Half past midnight,
Braw bricht moonlight,
Scrub aff the batter,
Sweel aff the grease,
Fulfil your promise,
and mind what ye writ,
in your heed at fourteen.
Frances Browne Writing Competition
The Wumman who birthed Seaborn
She is lang spire and witch bell,
amangst a hundret and forty
radical souls westerin. The hull
o her kirk are wuided in oak.
A September flurry tirls, rough aff Rathlin,
as paps helter and isles skelter
and mulls and rhins slink and sickle lik ghaists.
Rain lashes her cheeks. Unborn fists and futs.
She tholes a twang. A threid o watter gaithers
at the feet o elders, who clesp invisible crosses.
A man o bauld deeds climbs
intae the cradle o a sea mountain:
steidfest wi hopes an tools, he fixes the rudder.
Two bairns suckle; an oul soul gaes hame
tae his maister; the Eagle’s Wing turns
whaur Titanic held oot; hameless folk hame east
for tae mak a makkar o ‘The Grave’ poet
and paint a gothic pictur o the hard-hunted
beast slaverin undergroun
in the barren womb o naethin.
A bairn dies. She lies noo, skellying
an eye at the young, lost mither.
The flesh atween her legs is skelfed.
A hand in her creel turns the heid.
A snell schraik awaks the livin
and the deid. The efterbirth croons Presbyterian.
Seaborn —an oul name in an oul tongue,
lik Man O Bauld Deeds.
Noo, in Lough Fergus, whaur phantoms lurk
on wasted docks, whaur rudderless ships
and secular steel barren wombs are static,
I wunner wud I hae tightened my lips
aroon zeilous wirds, lik papish
and transubstantiation. Wud I hae decried the priests’
harems, thrust stuils at episcopal priests,
planned a better hame-comin
for my ain soul, lik the wumman* who birthed
Seaborn on the Eagle’s Wing in 1636?
*Wife of Michael Colvert of Killinchy
'The Wumman who birthed Seaborn' was awarded second place in the Frances Browne Festival poetry competition (Ulster Scots Category), October 2023. The poem also won a special 'spirit of the festival' award for breaking new ground.
Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903
Wuiden shelves chime wi Irish lace
and linen, crystal trinkets, bare-skud
hardbacks hunkered doon like
square soldiers, words aimed
— yin day — at weans grespin
leathery liquorice laces happed
in Paisley-patterned paper, hearkenin
yarns o grannies built peelie like
The People’s Friend, ganshin, gabbin,
crackin neath yellow, striped awning.
Waater drips doon tweed caps. Scent
o Woodbine, o war, o dulse, o ale --
bachelors cowp coins, scatter tobacco,
buy news, pay for pipe dreams weighed
in siller scales glentin ahint the
coonter: midget gems sowl in
quarters, ribbons and iambs
measured by the meter —
similes settled by the score.
We sing and dance.
'Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903' was the winning poem in the Frances Browne Festival poetry competition (Ulster Scots Category), October 2021
She is lang spire and witch bell,
amangst a hundret and forty
radical souls westerin. The hull
o her kirk are wuided in oak.
A September flurry tirls, rough aff Rathlin,
as paps helter and isles skelter
and mulls and rhins slink and sickle lik ghaists.
Rain lashes her cheeks. Unborn fists and futs.
She tholes a twang. A threid o watter gaithers
at the feet o elders, who clesp invisible crosses.
A man o bauld deeds climbs
intae the cradle o a sea mountain:
steidfest wi hopes an tools, he fixes the rudder.
Two bairns suckle; an oul soul gaes hame
tae his maister; the Eagle’s Wing turns
whaur Titanic held oot; hameless folk hame east
for tae mak a makkar o ‘The Grave’ poet
and paint a gothic pictur o the hard-hunted
beast slaverin undergroun
in the barren womb o naethin.
A bairn dies. She lies noo, skellying
an eye at the young, lost mither.
The flesh atween her legs is skelfed.
A hand in her creel turns the heid.
A snell schraik awaks the livin
and the deid. The efterbirth croons Presbyterian.
Seaborn —an oul name in an oul tongue,
lik Man O Bauld Deeds.
Noo, in Lough Fergus, whaur phantoms lurk
on wasted docks, whaur rudderless ships
and secular steel barren wombs are static,
I wunner wud I hae tightened my lips
aroon zeilous wirds, lik papish
and transubstantiation. Wud I hae decried the priests’
harems, thrust stuils at episcopal priests,
planned a better hame-comin
for my ain soul, lik the wumman* who birthed
Seaborn on the Eagle’s Wing in 1636?
*Wife of Michael Colvert of Killinchy
'The Wumman who birthed Seaborn' was awarded second place in the Frances Browne Festival poetry competition (Ulster Scots Category), October 2023. The poem also won a special 'spirit of the festival' award for breaking new ground.
Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903
Wuiden shelves chime wi Irish lace
and linen, crystal trinkets, bare-skud
hardbacks hunkered doon like
square soldiers, words aimed
— yin day — at weans grespin
leathery liquorice laces happed
in Paisley-patterned paper, hearkenin
yarns o grannies built peelie like
The People’s Friend, ganshin, gabbin,
crackin neath yellow, striped awning.
Waater drips doon tweed caps. Scent
o Woodbine, o war, o dulse, o ale --
bachelors cowp coins, scatter tobacco,
buy news, pay for pipe dreams weighed
in siller scales glentin ahint the
coonter: midget gems sowl in
quarters, ribbons and iambs
measured by the meter —
similes settled by the score.
We sing and dance.
'Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903' was the winning poem in the Frances Browne Festival poetry competition (Ulster Scots Category), October 2021
Bangor Poetry Competition
Ballysnod
We reach the summit in the inky part of day --
ready to be written — and look beyond lines
of skinny houses to giant Woodbine
puffing as the Townsend Thoresen
scissors the navy sea.
Scarlet-cheeked cousins play inside --
two score and more — and tumble and titter
and tee-hee by the hearth, where a new baby
is changed and wrapped in a white,
bobbly blanket.
Granny casts a crafty smile in the corner —
reflexive conjugation — and the clickety click
of stout knitting needles conjures honeycomb
lines in Aaron wool unwinding above
a pile of cardigans scented with barley.
Granda’s heavy hands rest on his belly --
past imperious — and he half-snoozes
with one eye on his lamb sheep huddled
close to the orange fire, where buckled,
leather belts hang idle.
Aunts rattle the golden bucket of coal --
eleven in prime — and the hiss of wet slack
unleashes a draught as children eat
a communion of squished up loaf
and sip Ribena from silver goblets.
In the parlour, uncles talk unseen —
five lost for a crown —and shake a fist
at nephews who creep through the hall, sucking
the scent of Imperial Leather as they
learn what is for men to be at peace.
Joyce’s eyes well in the window pane --
still one of sixteen children — and her cradling
voice follows a gust of wind that catches me
falling, lace-on-lace, into a bride’s
arms in infant days of summer.
Later, I step outside into the darkness and hear
the clickety click of time unwinding
and know that they will all come home --
to Ballysnod.
'Ballysnod' was placed 5th in the 8th Annual Bangor Poetry Competition, December 2020.
We reach the summit in the inky part of day --
ready to be written — and look beyond lines
of skinny houses to giant Woodbine
puffing as the Townsend Thoresen
scissors the navy sea.
Scarlet-cheeked cousins play inside --
two score and more — and tumble and titter
and tee-hee by the hearth, where a new baby
is changed and wrapped in a white,
bobbly blanket.
Granny casts a crafty smile in the corner —
reflexive conjugation — and the clickety click
of stout knitting needles conjures honeycomb
lines in Aaron wool unwinding above
a pile of cardigans scented with barley.
Granda’s heavy hands rest on his belly --
past imperious — and he half-snoozes
with one eye on his lamb sheep huddled
close to the orange fire, where buckled,
leather belts hang idle.
Aunts rattle the golden bucket of coal --
eleven in prime — and the hiss of wet slack
unleashes a draught as children eat
a communion of squished up loaf
and sip Ribena from silver goblets.
In the parlour, uncles talk unseen —
five lost for a crown —and shake a fist
at nephews who creep through the hall, sucking
the scent of Imperial Leather as they
learn what is for men to be at peace.
Joyce’s eyes well in the window pane --
still one of sixteen children — and her cradling
voice follows a gust of wind that catches me
falling, lace-on-lace, into a bride’s
arms in infant days of summer.
Later, I step outside into the darkness and hear
the clickety click of time unwinding
and know that they will all come home --
to Ballysnod.
'Ballysnod' was placed 5th in the 8th Annual Bangor Poetry Competition, December 2020.
New from upcoming collection
Saint Cedma
I
James Alexander Fair wrote my name in ink
In 1975 in the old church of the lost saint:
Stone walls shrink, celestial gardens contract
into highways and bridges. Augustines subtract
Four and a half marks of Papal tax in 1306,
And in 1350, Ballygally boulders shoulder politics
In Latin, where language heretics dare to write
In Irish and Franciscans herald, ‘Fight the good fight,
Finish the race!’ Which race? Tower spire, leper’s squint,
Organ pipes, hymns and candles and fingerprints.
Seek forgiveness for the hansel of the east chancel,
Ascension triple window, white faces circumstantial.
Saint Setna, is that you set in stone, over Invermore?
Lost saint, father of Saint Comgall of Magheramorne,
Moville and Bangor; wife Briga, like the sister of St. Patrick,
Ear to the river, the football and the ferry traffic.
II
The inquisition says Uachtarán Gerald Bisset, last provost
Of the third order of Saint Francis, went to Olderfleet
When King Henry VIII tallied tithes in Lower Clandeboy,
And ballys Ballygrenlawy and Ballygarrimore
In Toughlarne, and Ballyshagg and Barnudod
In Tough Magherymorne, were seized
At Candlemas in 1533, in the name
Of God, on the feast of presentation,
Of purification.
House dissolved. Obsolete.
1601: Friars dead at Olderfleet.
III
Invermore, Inverbeg. No more.
A kirk, a Presbytery, a refuge:
did they extinguish the candlelight;
wash the gilt walls white?
IV
Vast shards of golden colour rise from etched
Panes by a harvest altar, where fruitful hues
Fall like dust on a dense red carpet by old oak pews.
Alone in a choir stall, a small voice set in muted,
Green organ pipes, haloes its crooked noise,
Over leafy light and candlesticks polished, poised
And kindled; her voice trumpet-clear and piercing,
Calling out the name of a man she proclaims
Is very wonderful. Her song ebbs to a quiet flame
In a dipped white light, as a man creeps to the west —
Dispossessed — following the fire of daughters.
His voice is the sound of Inver waters.
I
James Alexander Fair wrote my name in ink
In 1975 in the old church of the lost saint:
Stone walls shrink, celestial gardens contract
into highways and bridges. Augustines subtract
Four and a half marks of Papal tax in 1306,
And in 1350, Ballygally boulders shoulder politics
In Latin, where language heretics dare to write
In Irish and Franciscans herald, ‘Fight the good fight,
Finish the race!’ Which race? Tower spire, leper’s squint,
Organ pipes, hymns and candles and fingerprints.
Seek forgiveness for the hansel of the east chancel,
Ascension triple window, white faces circumstantial.
Saint Setna, is that you set in stone, over Invermore?
Lost saint, father of Saint Comgall of Magheramorne,
Moville and Bangor; wife Briga, like the sister of St. Patrick,
Ear to the river, the football and the ferry traffic.
II
The inquisition says Uachtarán Gerald Bisset, last provost
Of the third order of Saint Francis, went to Olderfleet
When King Henry VIII tallied tithes in Lower Clandeboy,
And ballys Ballygrenlawy and Ballygarrimore
In Toughlarne, and Ballyshagg and Barnudod
In Tough Magherymorne, were seized
At Candlemas in 1533, in the name
Of God, on the feast of presentation,
Of purification.
House dissolved. Obsolete.
1601: Friars dead at Olderfleet.
III
Invermore, Inverbeg. No more.
A kirk, a Presbytery, a refuge:
did they extinguish the candlelight;
wash the gilt walls white?
IV
Vast shards of golden colour rise from etched
Panes by a harvest altar, where fruitful hues
Fall like dust on a dense red carpet by old oak pews.
Alone in a choir stall, a small voice set in muted,
Green organ pipes, haloes its crooked noise,
Over leafy light and candlesticks polished, poised
And kindled; her voice trumpet-clear and piercing,
Calling out the name of a man she proclaims
Is very wonderful. Her song ebbs to a quiet flame
In a dipped white light, as a man creeps to the west —
Dispossessed — following the fire of daughters.
His voice is the sound of Inver waters.
Linen Hall Library Writing Competition
Sample of 'Lang Toon Hotel':
Robina dannered aroon the space that was yince the groon floor of the maist grand
hotel in Ireland. She descrieved the former landscape tae me, as if ah were a stranger who
didnae hae the hotel scartit tae his sowl. We began wer tour bae the oak revolvin doors that
lead intae the entrance lobby, whaur wuiden fans haed whispert ocht hame-spun and ocht
colonial aroon a laftie ceiling.
Thonner and on, we sliddert tae the Lloyd Loom double settles, whaur English fectory
folk in their Sunday bests sloucht aside wealthy, Irish eccentrics. Robina pettlet a mirage o
an elevator wi its golden gless panels. And we baith o us leuked up tae the blue sky and
thocht o the eleven o’clock sunset thirty years ago, when Robina tellt the bellboy he wasnae
needed tae operate the lift.
The short story 'Lang Toon Hotel' was placed runner up in the Linen Hall Library Ulster Scots Writing Competition (Prose category) November 2021. The story was published by the Linen Hall Library in 2022.
Robina dannered aroon the space that was yince the groon floor of the maist grand
hotel in Ireland. She descrieved the former landscape tae me, as if ah were a stranger who
didnae hae the hotel scartit tae his sowl. We began wer tour bae the oak revolvin doors that
lead intae the entrance lobby, whaur wuiden fans haed whispert ocht hame-spun and ocht
colonial aroon a laftie ceiling.
Thonner and on, we sliddert tae the Lloyd Loom double settles, whaur English fectory
folk in their Sunday bests sloucht aside wealthy, Irish eccentrics. Robina pettlet a mirage o
an elevator wi its golden gless panels. And we baith o us leuked up tae the blue sky and
thocht o the eleven o’clock sunset thirty years ago, when Robina tellt the bellboy he wasnae
needed tae operate the lift.
The short story 'Lang Toon Hotel' was placed runner up in the Linen Hall Library Ulster Scots Writing Competition (Prose category) November 2021. The story was published by the Linen Hall Library in 2022.
Memoir
Poems from my upcoming collection...
‘Ballysnod’ was placed 5th in the 8th Annual Bangor Literary Journal Poetry competition in 2020, and was published in Issue 13 of the journal.
‘On Velveteen’ was published in the Community Arts Partnership ‘Vision’ publication 2019-2020.
‘Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903’ took first place in the 14th annual Frances Browne Literary Festival, and was published on BBC Radio Kintra in 2021.
Craigyhill Presbyterian Girls’ Brigade’ was published in Issue 12 of the Bangor Literary Journal as ‘Captain Dundee.’ ‘Heart Sore’ was published in the Community Arts Partnership Threshold publication, 2020-2021.
‘The Dutch King on the Wall' was published in USCN Yarns in 2021.
Part IV of ‘Saint Cedma’ was published in the inaugural Ulster University Paperclip anthology as ‘His Harvest Museum’ in 2020.
‘Browndod’ was published in the Community Arts Partnership Heartland publication in 2020-2021 as ‘Dance of Cow Parsley.’*
‘Man-Flag’* was published in the Community Arts Partnership Compass publication in 2022-2023.
‘Standing Stone at Mullaghsandall’* was published in the Community Arts Partnership Threshold publication in 2021-2022.
‘Ballykeel at Eight on April Nights’ was published as ‘Ever-Narrowing Window’ in Issue 20 of the Bangor Literary Journal in 2024.
'Kilwaughter Quarry in Jig-Time' and ‘Agnew’s Hill’ were published in my own novel, The Secret Diary of Stephanie Agnew by Leschenault Press in 2024, alongside any of the poems marked *.
‘The Woman who Birthed Seaborn’ was awarded the ‘Spirit of the Festival’ prize at the Frances Browne Literary Festival, Donegal in 2023, and placed second in the 16th Frances Browne Poetry competition.
‘On Velveteen’ was published in the Community Arts Partnership ‘Vision’ publication 2019-2020.
‘Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903’ took first place in the 14th annual Frances Browne Literary Festival, and was published on BBC Radio Kintra in 2021.
Craigyhill Presbyterian Girls’ Brigade’ was published in Issue 12 of the Bangor Literary Journal as ‘Captain Dundee.’ ‘Heart Sore’ was published in the Community Arts Partnership Threshold publication, 2020-2021.
‘The Dutch King on the Wall' was published in USCN Yarns in 2021.
Part IV of ‘Saint Cedma’ was published in the inaugural Ulster University Paperclip anthology as ‘His Harvest Museum’ in 2020.
‘Browndod’ was published in the Community Arts Partnership Heartland publication in 2020-2021 as ‘Dance of Cow Parsley.’*
‘Man-Flag’* was published in the Community Arts Partnership Compass publication in 2022-2023.
‘Standing Stone at Mullaghsandall’* was published in the Community Arts Partnership Threshold publication in 2021-2022.
‘Ballykeel at Eight on April Nights’ was published as ‘Ever-Narrowing Window’ in Issue 20 of the Bangor Literary Journal in 2024.
'Kilwaughter Quarry in Jig-Time' and ‘Agnew’s Hill’ were published in my own novel, The Secret Diary of Stephanie Agnew by Leschenault Press in 2024, alongside any of the poems marked *.
‘The Woman who Birthed Seaborn’ was awarded the ‘Spirit of the Festival’ prize at the Frances Browne Literary Festival, Donegal in 2023, and placed second in the 16th Frances Browne Poetry competition.