A portfolio of poetry by Rory Finnegan
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Maturity

4/24/2020

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​“You should have stayed.” - Michael Baruch

Have you ever felt nostalgia for the future? 
A clumsy buzz in your heart
for what you think is coming. 
Like walking backwards, your heels scraping 
the asphalt in anticipation. 
Sometimes, you will stop and stare 
back. Just look at the beginning: 
age six, your thick thumbs like dull guillotines, 
prying the head off your sister’s Barbie - what 
she must have done to deserve it. What it must 
have been like to hold the headless thing 
in your hands. Do you remember the first time 
you called her Bitch? The word scratchy 
in your throat. It was April, you were nine.
It had been boiling in your stomach for weeks.

Let this be a reminder for all 
that has happened: we have been together, 
we are apart, time has passed, time, too, 
shall pass you on, gripping your body 
even when you fight back.
When you’ve grown too slow, floating 
in the present, it will be there
to push you up the steps. There: 
the door to your childhood home.
You’ll knock for too long, and maybe 
you’ll slide down to sit against it, 
falling from the doorstep of this very moment, 
clunking back down each stair: I am, I am, I am.
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Regret in the Time of Corona

4/8/2020

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“A most delightsome humour, to be alone” - Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy
 
I’ll write you back, he promised, the last time I saw him,
But I can’t go on that date. The sliding glass door against my hip
Sharp and cold; the pandemic looming, knocking and knocking.
 
I’ll look forward to it, his voice catching in my ears the whole train ride,
as if sound, or touch, could cross miles and boundary lines. Yes, how
regret calls out in the morning, treading water, bright and alive.
 
I’ll take us to dinner, he said. A sideways turn, his quiet smile, gulled.
I’ll write you, I told him, stepping into the loose dress of mystery.
It was almost time for cherry blossoms, in dreamy pink, to blink awake.
 
I’ll drive you back north tomorrow, he offered, stitching the space between us
On our late walk home. My knee was bleeding from the stadium’s fence, wet.
Unburdened in intoxication, I took his hand & his offer, yes.
 
I’ll kiss you, if that’s alright? Yes, I said, yes, my hands glowing
Like splayed stars in the cold, shaking with newness, blurring
Against the dark football field. His crooked fingers spreading in my hair.​
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Will It

4/2/2020

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A golden shovel poem for Mary Oliver

Unexpected, you told me in the morning, I 
Was not who you knew, the way I held 
Your bent fingers to the sharp pain below my 
Knee, how you smiled and in a breath 
Kissed me as you smiled, as 
I flattened my hand to yours, still crooked, as we 
Pulled away the grate, jumped the fence, the flash of a single light, do 
You remember? Touching can be pressing, sometimes 
When there is no chance to 
Say yes, yes, again, running up the steps, stop 
To meet halfway, the light trailing, still, time 
Not minded. This, I know, is when 
The old things must end. Something 
Will change, the pull inside my throat, a wonderful 
Bloom behind my closed eyes. What has 
Been will be no longer, because I have been pressed, touched,
A flower between two pages, neither page reads “us"
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    Who am I?

    I'm Rory - UVA poetry grad working in the business world but trying to keep my love for writing alive.

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    Previous projects:
    2013 Photography Project
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    2014 Poetry Project
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    2015 Alternate Project
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