Poems by Gavin Bourke

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Pic by Anni Roenkae

 

 

So I shot Myself in The Face

I went to the garden and it didn’t go so well,
        So I shot Myself in The Face.

I went to the shops and it didn’t go so well,
        So I shot Myself in The Face.

I made a phone call and it didn’t go so well,
        So I shot Myself in The Face.

I left the house and it didn’t go so well,
        So I shot Myself in The Face.

I walked passed a parked car
and in the windowpane, I saw a reflection, of my intact face.

I wondered then,
        was my memory false?


 

A Snapshot

…I’m sorry, I’ll turn it down, please, I’m sorry, they didn’t say anything, they were just laughing, that’s all, please, my wrist is red, ah, come on, my chin will be bruised, please, I can’t breathe, your choking me, please, ok, they were just laughing, after you left, ok, ok, they asked have you, a personality disorder, they think you’ve mental problems and wonder if you wear a butt plug in work, because they said, you burst out laughing, at your desk at work and then fall asleep, please, they, they just think, your really creepy and you make them all, feel really uncomfortable, that’s all, didn’t say anything else, please, ah my throat,ok, ok, ok, they don’t trust you and they think, you spy on their work and masturbate in the staff toilets and always give out, about them and call them names, because you secretly know, they hate you, they asked if your adopted and if your sterile,
because one of your ex-girlfriends, told someone, you never came and were always, talking about men, ah please, no, I won’t tell anyone and I won’t ever come out, with your colleagues again, ah, ah, ah, ok, I’ll use the make-up you bought me, to cover it all up, as usual…


 

Delicious Apple Tarts

I helped, carry the ingredients,
from the pantry,
we washed our hands,
under the cold-water tap,
with the green soap.

We strongly worked,
on mixing the pastry,
before rolling it out, slowly.

She added the hot, stewed-apple,
to the base, before adding the
lid and trimming off, the waste.

My grandmother placed,
the tarts, in the oven,
for what seemed, like hours,
before she removed,
the golden-browned tarts,
with a tea-towel,
unveiling the magic,
of her secret recipe,
she only, told me.


 

About the Author

Gavin Bourke grew up, in the suburb of Tallaght, in West Dublin. Married to Annemarie, living in County Meath, he holds a B.A. in Humanities, from Dublin City University, an M.A. Degree, in Modern Drama Studies and a Higher Diploma in Information Studies, from University College Dublin. 

He is currently, working on his fourteenth poetry collection. He begins an M.A. in Philosophy, in 2021, which will be followed, by a Ph.D in 2023. Gavin is also, a multi-instrumentalist and has been a songwriter, composer and guitar teacher, for the past thirty-five years. He plays Classical/Spanish guitar, acoustic-electric guitar, bass guitar, jazz guitar, electric lead guitar, banjo and mandolin. He has written songs, music and lyrics, recorded albums, collaborated with many musicians and songwriters and has performed, in venues, all over Dublin.