The Most Expensive Hen House In England

Jean O’Brien

It’s rumoured that a ‘lost’ Francis Bacon painting was in fact discarded

by the artist after a stay at St Ives, and was subsequently used to roof a

hen house.

I am a fat contented hen, when I am happy

I lay big brown eggs, the yoke and albumen liquid

gold and viscous, under claw the straw is soft

and warm, my eggs flourish there. The farmer

is a neat natty woman, her black hair pulled back

in a bun, nothing flashy. Her linen apron holds all sorts

of titbits and tasty morsels. She dips her plump hands

into her apron and scatters seeds and treats.

Monday of the bad wind, the roof of our shed lifted

and floated off, my feathered sisters and I spent the night

in a funk, cluck clucking fearful of the stinking fox,

he could hop in and grab any one of us

in his chops and no one could save us. We cowed

in a huddle and never slept a wink. The farmer

was all aflap about our predicament and set

to getting us a new roof, pulled a tarpaulin over us

for safety while she searched St Ives for a replacement.

She went up the town to the painters’ house by the sea,

She thought they were a ‘quare’ lot in there, heard

tales of drink and debauchery, whatever that might be.

The landlady stood by the door, her arms full of canvas

squares. Said they were the scoundrel Bacon’s

and he owed her. They struck a deal, fresh eggs for the month

for four large canvasses, those coloured ones would do

nicely. She lugged them home and tacked them over the coop.

Job done.

Through the day I go pecking along in the dirt, bustling in and

out of the bushes, running with my sisters around the yard.

At night when the farmer calls for us to assume our perches

we march in quick time and as darkness falls, my beady eyes

brood on our new roof. Our Bacon. I can just make out a figure,

in hues of pink and blue. It is he, all feet and elbows towering over us,

and hanging there not to be ignored, though it seems in the wrong

place, is his wattle, bright red and shining. It is magnificent,

I gaze at it and my brown eggs release.

Poetry Ireland Review Issue 121:

Edited by Eavan Boland

Eavan Boland's first issue as editor of Poetry Ireland Review aims to encourage a conversation about poetry which is 'noisy and fractious certainly ... but a conversation nevertheless that can be thrilling in its reach and commitment'. There are new poems from Thomas McCarthy, Jean Bleakney, Wendy Holborow, Paul Perry, Aifric Mac Aodha, and many others, while the issue also includes work from Brigit Pegeen Kelly, with an accompanying essay on the poet by Eavan Boland. Eavan Boland also offers an introduction to the work of poet Solmaz Sharif, while there are reviews of the latest books from Simon Armitage, Peter Sirr, Lo Kwa Mei-en, and Vona Groarke, among others. PIR 121 also includes Theo Dorgan's elegiac tribute to his friend John Montague – a canonical poet, in contrast to the emerging poets Susannah Dickey, Conor Cleary and Majella Kelly, who contribute new work and will also read for the Poetry Ireland Introductions series as part of ILFD 2017.