TWO POEMS – Jamie Stedmond


Image: Alice Bailly – Self Portrait (1917)

Jamie Stedmond is a young Irish writer, currently based in Dublin. Jamie is pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at University College Dublin. Previously published or forthcoming in The Bohemyth, Dodging the Rain, The Cabinet of Heed, Cold Coffee Stand, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Crossways Literary Magazine, Cagibi, ZeroFlash, and Paragraph Planet.

These poems were also featured in Issue Two of Porridge, available for purchase here.


sketch of siobhán in three parts


low glassy waves
mirror what
thunders overhead

cargo of people,
of lives and ties
in transit, slowly shifting.

moving mirror-traced
between community
& threadless drifting,

between a tight
& vibrant network,
& belonging to yourself

ii. witness

in a converted
cocktail bar you
visit, see her grown now

living a life her
own now, become
a woman unto herself,

whole, and in
that wholeness

witness her now,
grown and gorgeous, & if she is,
then weren’t we all, once?

iii. receive

we are taught
a certain way to grow –
all refusing to accept

of praise & love.
instead emptying
out the cavern of ourselves

in contest. but if you speak,
to one who has
felt the petals at their feet,

they will give
as good as you – and better –
and be honoured to receive.


Bus Ride Back From A Birthday Party in Another Town

The bus rolls by glazed sand and furzes,
assorted beauty, an estuary
grey and alive in its sheer bigness:
it looms; makes the coast-snaking route feel
more like teeter-dancing along a
precipice. This trip back, hungover,
feels endless. Everyone wants to be
grown up and done at twenty-one. Things
have changed. Change is different this time.

No, the boys can’t drink like they used to.
What “boys” are left don’t smile like they did.
The mature thing to do would be to
hold onto childishness as tight as
you can. Instead, now, everything
is Emotional Labour. Still, I’m
jealous of the city life – of the
careworn countryside heaving, rolling,
undulating by: two sure worlds.

Suburbia is obscure from all
else. Holed up typing I am obscure,
removed from the dense flaring centers.
Me and you are in a world alone.
I can sense a hull-creak in your heart,
and I wonder to myself, what if
I could see your pupil not as a
black spot, but an absence, a window
to the bloodflow hid behind your eye.


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