Poem by Mairéad Ní Craith
Reflection of a Cat in a Saucepan
On Budget Day, I cycle to Aileen’s studio,
Past the protest at Central Bank, past the familiar faces
From the unions, the S W P, those curious teens,
Students, reporters, all angry.
Aileen is painting cats, and bats,
Mostly cats in psychedelic tones.
She has paint on her cheek,
Dashes of blue that pass mysteriously to the heart
Of my hand as we hug,
Blue fading to skin and back to blue.
“My cat is pissed off with me,”
I tell her. “The double blinks, nose kisses,
All gone.” Another stress.
One canvas, a moggie suspended over an oily pool,
Narcissus pining for a mirror.
Here, pussy, pussy,
On the verge of collapse on his
Reflection in a saucepan.
He tries to see himself in a metallic circle,
Chasing tails and caught
As Echo screams of a world falling apart,
Repeating the mantras of marchers
That fall on deaf ears.
Drinking tea, we sit on stools and
Talk about painting and cats,
About how we can write and how we can paint,
About wanting to do what we already do,
The price of materials we cannot afford,
The cost of a craft.