Amy Barry



Amy Barry




Brief Bio of Amy Barry


Amy Barry is a Public Relations consultant by profession. She is a graduate in Mass Communications with a major in Public Relations. She has worked in the Media, Hotel and Oil & Gas industries..She writes poems and short stories. She gets her inspiration from a wide range where she colourfully covers universal themes and she explores love, family, nature, death, current issues. Such moments are captured, delightfully with magnetic and simplicity. She also writes theme on Table tennis, which are published on the Table tennis site.Her work has been published in anthologies, journals and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad .She loves traveling and trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris,Berlin, Falkerberg- have all inspired her work. Her poems have been shared on the radio in Australia, Canada and Ireland. Amy regularly organises Poetry events in her hometown – Athlone where she promotes poets and musicians. These events featured local and international poets . She has been invited to read at festivals and literary events in Ireland and abroad.




Poems by Amy Barry



The Scent of Her


The breath of her,

the smell of apple blossoms,

wrapped my senses,

collected around my heart,

like delicate cobweb

designs in the rain.


Defying heated stares,

shocked whispers.

I would have cradled her tight

in my arms, in the streets

or in a crowded restaurant,

the way I would have,

as a young man.


I would not have minded,

that she was married.

I would have kissed hard,

her plump reddened lips,

I would have made love to her,

had she said she loved me.


Classics translated,

made music like an angel,

turned ice to flame,

made her wonder.

Had I been that man,

as a young man, but


I am no longer he.




Sizzling lobster at Donelly’s

Jeep parks on a dirt road,

I am limping on sharp pebbles

at the beach.


Hot, warm air of summer

ripples on my bare skin;

my face, arms and legs.

Lying on a rug,

a straw hat on my head,

sand coats my feet, blending

the deeper tan of my legs.


Hungry, catching

a smell of grilled meat.

Sizzling lobster hangs before me,

at Donnelly’s, the best seafood

in the village.


I hear it from the English lady,

a ravishing face, rosy complexion,

wearing a hat, hardly

bigger than a cocktail napkin,

covering her pure white chin

and forehead, a small nose,

dotted with freckles,

her pale hands,

well manicured.


A faint jingle of keys

reach the jeep,

the engine shakes to life.




A Bus Ride Up the Himalayan Peaks


I stand, chin jutting upward,

the bus piles more people,

some sit on top, like how mum

used to stuff clothes into a suitcase,

I sat on it,

squeezed the latches closed.


Bodies thrust from all sides,

someone’s bum against mine,

queasy from brazen contact,

mingled limbs, merging clothes,

breath and body odor.


The bus restarts, jerks,

struggles with load,

my face lodges under an armpit

of a tall bearded man, eyes roll,

I pull in my stomach and hold my breath,


back of my neck breaks sweat,

I bend to squint out,

terraced farms slope the hills,

adrenalin pumps,

my eyes lift to embrace

the snow-robed Himalayan peaks.





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