MARTY SMITH
Cúchulainn wins the Great Northern
Nuns keep arriving
— in waves, in clouds
of stiff little veils
Sister Cornelius
Mother Crucentia
Sister Ignatius
of the Little Sisters
come to bless him, Cúchulainn
and get the good oil
from broken-tooth Finbar Leahy.
In shrouds of sun, the veils of God
at the front of the tote.
Cool fingers
rosaries, reliquary objects
Cúchulainn’s at any old odds:
the nuns put it all on the nose
glide, all cobalt grace.
The crowd steps away
to let them right up to the rail.
Two and a half miles
of mud and ice
beautiful to watch
over five-foot fences
Cúchulainn reaches for pure speed
tears free
of the slowed-down air
Leahy’s swinging on him
you can mortgage the house
put it all on
They’re going hard —
at the 500
the Lord opens up a gap
Leahy gets a Red Sea run
Cúchulainn’s clearing out
The sisters raise their hands
leap in the air
bits of hair fly loose
he’s got up and dropped them
Shut the gate — the bird has flown!
Pink suffuses her face,
Sister Mary Martin de Porres.
She kisses her tickets.
Finbar Leahy salutes the judge
tips his face to God
next,
after kissing the horse.
Dracula (Crimson Saint — Shocking)
Still dark outside,
I fight to get the bit in.
He pulls me off my feet.
Get over you bastard, says Alfie
knees him in the guts
to make him let air out
drags the girth up tight —
Dracula savages the air
shakes it up in shock waves —
I’m too scared to admit I’m scared.
Alfie throws me up.
The horse sinks on his hocks, lurches against the wall
rattles the chains like snakes.
I snap the clip of my skull cap shut.
alright? asks Alfie.
I nod. He unclicks the chains —
explosive swing away
underneath
the back muscles bunch —
we let loose this way, that way
in leaps across the yard.
Trackwatchers flatten back.
Just sit quiet on him Alfie says
jig, jig jig goes the bit as Dracula worries
at steel, pull-jerks my arms
jolts us towards the open grass the course proper
we’re coming out on
wide wide green
If he gets away on you, says Alfie, don’t fight him.
When you try and fight, they just pull harder. If you get in trouble
kick him up hard along the straight
make him think he’s had a race, he might ease up
once you’re past the post
horses go snorting past, Dracula sinks down
like a cat
little prayers keep leaking out
I put my feet in the irons, cross
the reins to get a good hold
Alfie lets the bridle go
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marty Smith is an ex-trackwork rider who has attended Poetry Workshops at the IIML with Greg O’Brien and Shannon Welch. This year, with the help of Damien Wilkins and the MA class, she has been writing a collection of poetry.