Poetry James Molloy

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JAMES MOLLOY

James Molloy is an amateur poet and is 29 years old, and has been writing poetry and prose casually for many years.

Originally from County Donegal, he has had many experiences that have shaped his style of writing. Coming from a rural setting whilst also spending time in more built up areas and cities, James has written many poems with the theme of nature whilst also having influences of urban culture and anti-industrial sentiments.

He holds a Bachelor's Degree in Journalism.

Detach

Along the tide two ships sailed together, hull to hull latched with tether, two ships are safer than one but the storm was a vicious one.

A wave came crashing, breaking our lashing, splinters everywhere, I heard the stern smashing.

The boom of thunder complimented the screams, an eerie wail full of longing the ships were sinking now, and yet I felt belonging.

Too late was the storm, from the port we could have swam, and in the end I dreamed of home, safe and happy alone.

(James Molloy)

Dreams

I dreamt I was lost, along the coast of slumber, just fading, slipping, and in it, I wonder

The ground is thick, My pace is slow. I see a cat, a horse, a crow followed by the prickling of skin The beast behind begins to grow.

My sight fails me, A blurred chaos, while trudging, I know not what chases me, some shadow, a shape, not yet formed, opaque.

My teeth grind to powder, some crack and burst asunder, my stomach falls out into the frost, and still I am lost.

The only thing that remains is the fall. From nowhere to nothing at all. Plunging deeper into the mind, of a broken porcelain doll.

The ground meets me with a smack, reminding me of what I lack, I wake with a sweat, and figure the cost, Reflecting on when I was lost.

(James Molloy)

The Purge

Born a spark and into the fire, sought out release and found pressure. Sirens, sirens. Everywhere a hasty pace, funny creatures we are; the human race.

Buzz like bees, be that as it may, I say we are this way. Striped and swarming, harvesting pollen in the early morning. Happy to graze in their flowerbed maze.

The beast in the woods is hungry, ready. We are no beasts, our meals steady. Yet in vain, we yearn our old life we cling to, not ready for this, not you.

In a century we may be similar, but the world will be unfamiliar, an evolved organism, born from a cataclysm

Given time, space will provide and so, yes we have died unto the fate we must collide so shaken are we, from the earth like fleas.

(James Molloy)