martinacollenderplaywrightblog

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

“I’m not who I was one year ago and maybe, just this once, change is good.”

— E. Grin

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

I Am Sorrier Than Him

by Martina Teeny Collender

I'm sorry in the marrow of me,

Where silence echoes louder than speech,

Where nights go unlit, not from lack of stars,

But from the distance I’ve placed them, out of reach.

I have charted this heart like a map of old wounds,

Torn paper and coffee rings for compass,

And still I ran aground.

Still I called it art.

I'm not proud. I'm not even poetic tonight.

I’m just tired and truthful.

My pen trembles under the weight

Of the things I should have done better.

The captain of the Titanic was sorry,

But I am sorrier than him.

He went down with steel and ice:

I sink in sighs, again and again.

If regret were a curtain, I’ve sewn miles of velvet,

Heavy and dark with apologies unsaid.

I've hung it between us so thickly now,

You could mistake me for gone or dead.

But I’m still here,

With hands that shake and spill the truth,

With a voice that once wrote you sonnets

And now whispers I ruined the roof.

I'm sorry for what I missed,

For what I ruined with good intent,

For the way I dramatized forgiveness,

And forgot it’s something you earn, not invent.

This isn’t a monologue: it’s a confession.

The spotlight’s too bright for hiding.

Take this not as theatre, but as testament:

I was wrong. I am writing. I’m trying.

And if you need to forget me,

I understand, truly, no curtain call, no hymn.

But know: the captain of the Titanic was sorry,

And I am sorrier than him.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

Sister Song

From childhood’s stage to midnight’s glow,

You, Mary, paint my world in hues I know.

My dearest friend, the one who knows my lines,

Who laughs at every imperfect rhyme.

You wield your spatula like a wand of delight,

Each meal a story, each flavor bright.

You taught me comfort on a well‑worn plate,

While I spun words you helped captivate.

And oh! How you turned my heart around,

With Dolly’s harmonies, sweet country sound.

“I’ll be your rainbow,” she sang, and so did you,

You placed that music in my view.

Then came Gavin & Stacey, silly, sweet,

Your laughter echoing in every beat.

You showed me that humour warms the soul,

That joy can fill the aching holes.

And Friends: those old friends who felt like ours,

Late‑night banter fueling our creative hours.

You said, “Monica organized, Chandler’s laughs,

Rachel’s tears”

I embraced each path.

Mary, you are melody and warmth and light,

My confidante, my anchor in the night.

What sister is also a mirror, a guide,

A fellow dreamer walking by my side.

Your kitchen’s magic, your hand to hold,

Your jokes, your stories: all solid gold.

Best friend, sister, you gave me keys

To music, shows, and memories.

So here’s my ode, simple and true:

I love you deeply, Mary, I cherish you.

In every scene I write or poem I spin,

Your heartbeat whispers beneath my skin.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

🎭 To Ben Hennessy, with Ink and Light 🎨

In Waterford's embrace, where stories are spun,

A maestro of visuals, second to none.

From stage to sketch, your visions ignite,

Crafting realms where dreams take flight.

In theatres' hush, your sets unfold,

Narratives whispered, bold and bold.

Directing tales with nuanced grace,

Each scene a masterpiece, time can't erase.

Illustrations dance with vibrant hue,

Characters born from your creative view.

From comics' panels to animated frames,

Your art, a beacon that brightly flames.

A mentor, a guide, with wisdom to share,

Nurturing talents with patient care.

Your legacy, etched in every line,

Inspiring hearts, like yours and mine.

So here's to you, Ben, with gratitude deep,

For the stories you sow and the dreams you reap.

May your canvas never cease to expand,

Guided by your ever-creative hand.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

Never the Last Time

You lift a cup,

steam drifting like soft prayer,

and though you sip, you do not know

this might be your final taste of warmth.

Fingers brush a friend’s arm,

a gentle tremor in the electric hush,

never certain if lips on skin

are closing epilogues or simple poems.

You inhale lilac in dawn’s gold light,

petals singing of things untold,

and you must breathe it in fully,

as though every scent could be last.

So speak with heart unguarded,

laugh until your lungs are full,

for each moment is both flame and ash,

burn bright, before the ember falls.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

The Depression Lows in Bipolar Disorder

by Playwright, Poet, and Writer Martina Collender

There are days when the world moves on without me.

Not cruelly. Not loudly. Just… indifferently.

The curtain rises, but I’m still in the wings.

Half-costume, half-shadow,

wondering if anyone noticed I didn’t make it to the stage.

Or worse:

if they did, and the play continued anyway.

Bipolar depression doesn’t scream like mania.

It whispers.

It pulls.

It slowly lowers the dimmer switch on everything I used to love.

I become a character in a half-written play,

trapped between acts,

my lines forgotten,

my purpose fogged over with sleep I can’t seem to shake off.

The lows are not just sadness.

They are a hollowness that makes the floor beneath me feel optional.

A heaviness that coats the air like wet wool.

A silence that fills the room, even when someone’s speaking.

People say, “You seemed fine yesterday.”

Yes. That was yesterday.

A brief intermission.

Now the darkness is back,

with no warning, no invitation, just presence.

As a writer, it’s cruel.

The pen feels like a weight I can’t lift.

The words, once my lifeline,

turn traitor, turn stranger,

leave me stranded mid-sentence.

But even here,

even in this low so deep it feels like a trench carved into bone,

I know, somehow, I have been here before.

And I climbed out.

Not always with grace.

Sometimes clawing, sometimes crawling.

Sometimes with the help of hands I never thought would reach for me.

But I did climb out.

And I will again.

Because bipolar is a cycle.

A cruel one, yes.

But not a permanent one.

And the act will change.

The lights will shift.

The music will return.

And I’ll walk back onto that stage.

Whole. Scarred. Brilliant in survival.

Until then:

let the low come.

I’ll outwrite it when I can.

Outlive it when I must.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

The Last Table

Caoimhe lays out the plates on the kitchen table, smoothing the linen cloth with small, deliberate motions. Outside, summer sunlight filters through lace curtains, dust motes dancing like ghosts. Across from her sits Éanna: soft‑spoken, bruised around the edges, years older than her but always carrying that pent‑up kindness that smells of old books and unfinished poems.

They’ve been close, best friends since soap‑sticky childhood summers. But things have shifted, subtle like the way bees abandon blossoms at dusk. There’s an urgent hush between them, as though each word could shatter something fragile.

Caoimhe pours chilled water into Éanna’s glass. His fingers curl around it, white‑knuckled. He doesn’t meet her eye.

“Do you remember the last time I brought you buttered toast with wild garlic?” she ventures. Éanna nods, corners of his mouth lifting in memory. A shared ritual, almost sacred.

She breathes in and leans forward. “You don’t know it’s the last time. None of us do.”

Éanna’s face is caught in that half‑remembered grief. He’s lost someone once and carries that ache like a quilt.

Caoimhe takes his hand. “So we eat every slice with reverence. We breathe in flowers. We hug, hard, without shame. Because love, tenderness… they’re greatest when we treat them like they’re slipping through our fingers.”

His throat works. He squeezes her hand, a promise made in silence. Not a promise to stay, but to feel it all.

They eat slowly. They speak in half‑lines, unfinished sentences. They laugh against the tremor of tears because it’s all too vast, the irrevocable beauty of a final moment.

Sunlight shifts. The table glows. In that ordinary kitchen, they’re heroes of something eternal: living with passion, not knowing which breath might be the last.

When they finally stand, Éanna hugs her close. They stay like that, two bodies trembling against the improbable certainty of ending.

Caoimhe pulls back. She watches his eyes. He smiles, and winks, quiet rebellion against loss.

“Let’s promise,” she says, voice low. “That we’ll never hold back.”

Éanna nods. “Never.”

They step away, but not really, two souls bound by the gravity of living, fiercely, while they still can.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

The Ways We Invent to Hurt Ourselves

The ways we invent to hurt ourselves

form a long, monotonous list:

methods to soothe or inflict pain,

poisons chosen for each day's twist.

Our bodies, remarkable in their design,

can harbor infections deep within,

manifest rashes that decay the skin,

endure bruises, cuts, and self-imposed decline.

They crave sustenance, yet punish when we eat,

and retaliate when we abstain.

We purchase harm, both sanctioned and illicit,

pleasures veiled, yet laced with disdain.

We lie beneath strangers to forget familiar faces,

paint smiles that never reach our eyes,

run until we purge,

or purge to feel control's guise.

We peak with choices we label as mistakes,

then cut, bruise, break, and abuse.

We harbor hate, disgrace our forms,

believing our bodies are of no use.

Sleep becomes elusive,

food turns to rot,

silence deafens,

noise strikes like a shot.

Skin rubbed raw from relentless strife—

the ways we invent to hurt ourselves

compose a list that mirrors life,

a list that never ends.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

The Depression Lows in Bipolar Disorder

by Playwright, Poet, and Writer Martina Collender

There are days when the world moves on without me.

Not cruelly. Not loudly. Just… indifferently.

The curtain rises, but I’m still in the wings.

Half-costume, half-shadow,

wondering if anyone noticed I didn’t make it to the stage.

Or worse:

if they did, and the play continued anyway.

Bipolar depression doesn’t scream like mania.

It whispers.

It pulls.

It slowly lowers the dimmer switch on everything I used to love.

I become a character in a half-written play,

trapped between acts,

my lines forgotten,

my purpose fogged over with sleep I can’t seem to shake off.

The lows are not just sadness.

They are a hollowness that makes the floor beneath me feel optional.

A heaviness that coats the air like wet wool.

A silence that fills the room, even when someone’s speaking.

People say, “You seemed fine yesterday.”

Yes. That was yesterday.

A brief intermission.

Now the darkness is back,

with no warning, no invitation, just presence.

As a writer, it’s cruel.

The pen feels like a weight I can’t lift.

The words, once my lifeline,

turn traitor, turn stranger,

leave me stranded mid-sentence.

But even here,

even in this low so deep it feels like a trench carved into bone,

I know, somehow, I have been here before.

And I climbed out.

Not always with grace.

Sometimes clawing, sometimes crawling.

Sometimes with the help of hands I never thought would reach for me.

But I did climb out.

And I will again.

Because bipolar is a cycle.

A cruel one, yes.

But not a permanent one.

And the act will change.

The lights will shift.

The music will return.

And I’ll walk back onto that stage.

Whole. Scarred. Brilliant in survival.

Until then:

let the low come.

I’ll outwrite it when I can.

Outlive it when I must.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

The Ways We Invent to Hurt Ourselves

The ways we invent to hurt ourselves

form a long, monotonous list:

methods to soothe or inflict pain,

poisons chosen for each day's twist.

Our bodies, remarkable in their design,

can harbor infections deep within,

manifest rashes that decay the skin,

endure bruises, cuts, and self-imposed decline.

They crave sustenance, yet punish when we eat,

and retaliate when we abstain.

We purchase harm, both sanctioned and illicit,

pleasures veiled, yet laced with disdain.

We lie beneath strangers to forget familiar faces,

paint smiles that never reach our eyes,

run until we purge,

or purge to feel control's guise.

We peak with choices we label as mistakes,

then cut, bruise, break, and abuse.

We harbor hate, disgrace our forms,

believing our bodies are of no use.

Sleep becomes elusive,

food turns to rot,

silence deafens,

noise strikes like a shot.

Skin rubbed raw from relentless strife—

the ways we invent to hurt ourselves

compose a list that mirrors life,

a list that never ends.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

Phone Call

after Jenni Ledwell byMartina Teeny Collender

The other day,

I found myself speaking to God.

We’re not on the best of terms:

Still, we talk now and then,

About what was,

What might be,

And all those farewells,

Those terrible goodbyes

He carved into our lives.

I told Him how I still miss you.

How we wept

The day you left,

Our tears soaking the soil

As we circled your grave in silence.

I asked Him:

Does He feel the fracture in my chest?

Does He hear it echo

Each time I whisper your name?

Why, I asked,

Why always the best ones?

Couldn’t it be someone else, just once?

The line went quiet.

He said nothing

In the roar of my rage.

He said nothing

In the hush of my sorrow.

He stood still

In the storm of my breaking.

And then, softly, He spoke:

“Child,

The calls, they come nonstop these days.

So many grieving voices,

So many broken hearts.

I’m sorry.”

And I believed He meant it.

Still,

He said,

“There’s nothing I can undo.”

He told me He’d seen you:

Radiant now,

Unshackled from pain,

Resting among the angels

Like you’ve always belonged.

You don’t stand out,

You rise:

Among stars,

Sending slants of sunlight

To let us know

You never truly left.

And then,

From someplace raw and wordless,

A cry escaped me:

I miss her.

I love her.

I need her.

Lord, how could You

Abandon me to this sorrow?

This grief is swallowing me whole.

He reached out,

Took my trembling hand.

“Life,” He said,

“is just a minute.

Live while you're in it.

And when your time draws near,

I’ll call you home too:

To the land where no one ever leaves again.

And there,

She’ll be waiting.”

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

"Before the Silence"

by Martina Collender

Don’t give me flowers on a casket:

give me coffee on a cracked old table.

Let your sorrow speak in morning light,

not through whispers draped in sable.

I don’t want your name carved in marble

when I never knew the weight in your chest.

I’d rather hold your shaking story

than watch you laid to rest.

Talk to me in half-formed thoughts,

stammered truths and restless pain.

Let the rain come down between us:

I can take it. I won’t refrain.

Because silence is a cruel narrator,

and grief writes plays with no reprise.

I'd rather sit through your monologue

than read your eulogy through cries.

Don't worry if the words come ugly,

if they trip, if they ache, if they bleed.

I’m not here to fix or answer:

I’m here to stay, to see, to heed.

So speak. Before the silence wins.

Before the script is sealed and done.

Let your story fill this room tonight.

You don’t have to run.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

A Poor Play

What a poor play we’d make:

Neither of us actors,

The best lines whispered offstage,

Forever missing each other’s cues.

I stumble through the script,

Say “Grand so” instead of “Please come back,”

Say “Coffee?” when I mean “I love you.”

We thought there’d be time to rehearse.

I miss my mark,

Forget the movement that leads me to your hand.

I halt the scene to argue the line:

“I’m fond of you” feels false on my tongue.

I can’t manage an exit with grace or wit,

So I settle for silence.

This costume no longer fits:

Give me another,

To hide a body soaked in fear,

Filth, cowardice, and shame.

The stage manager calls,

“Stand by,”

But I’m not ready to act out this goodbye.

The lighting designer widens the beam,

Chasing away shadows,

But the light won’t catch the tears

Clinging to my lashes.

All I have left as a souvenir of love

Is the poster.

The director tells you how to love me,

But do you think,

Could you like me, too?

With you waiting at the end,

And me stuck in Act I:

What a poor play we’d make,

Always missing each other’s cues,

Always missing each other.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

"Before the Silence"

by Martina Collender

Don’t give me flowers on a casket:

give me coffee on a cracked old table.

Let your sorrow speak in morning light,

not through whispers draped in sable.

I don’t want your name carved in marble

when I never knew the weight in your chest.

I’d rather hold your shaking story

than watch you laid to rest.

Talk to me in half-formed thoughts,

stammered truths and restless pain.

Let the rain come down between us:

I can take it. I won’t refrain.

Because silence is a cruel narrator,

and grief writes plays with no reprise.

I'd rather sit through your monologue

than read your eulogy through cries.

Don't worry if the words come ugly,

if they trip, if they ache, if they bleed.

I’m not here to fix or answer:

I’m here to stay, to see, to heed.

So speak. Before the silence wins.

Before the script is sealed and done.

Let your story fill this room tonight.

You don’t have to run.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

“Dance Me to the End of Love: Martina Collender’s Night with Leonard Cohen”

At 34, playwright and poet Martina Collender has written words that crawl under the skin and settle in the soul. But long before the scripts and sonnets, there was music: there was Leonard Cohen. His gravel-and-honey voice was a constant companion, a quiet force shaping her emotional and creative world. To Martina, Leonard Cohen wasn’t just a singer, he was a spiritual lighthouse, his lyrics mapping the inner landscapes of love, longing, and survival.

So when she heard that he was performing live: not just once, but twice, in Ireland, she didn’t hesitate. She saw him at Kilmedan Hospital in a special early show, and then later at the O2 Arena. Both times, she went on her own. Not out of loneliness, but reverence. This was something deeply personal: an act of pilgrimage.

The O2 show stands out most vividly. The crowd was buzzing with warmth. Even in such a massive venue, Leonard had a way of making everyone feel as if they were sitting in his living room, sipping red wine while he whispered secrets through a song. Martina, quiet but brimming with feeling, took in every chord, every silence between lines, like prayer.

As “Dance Me to the End of Love” began to play, something unexpected happened. The whole crowd started to move: some swaying, others spinning in their own worlds. Martina stood alone, soaking in the beauty, when a security guard: likely having watched her watching, approached with a kind smile. He gently asked, “Would you like to dance?”

It was a simple gesture, but in that moment, it meant everything. She said yes.

They danced.

Two strangers in a sea of strangers, finding connection in a song that had cradled her through years of writing, healing, and dreaming. For Martina, that wasn’t just a dance, it was a bridge between her quiet inner world and the vibrant energy around her. It was Cohen’s music doing what it had always done: making space for the sacred in the everyday.

Later, she would return to her writing desk, carrying that memory like a pressed flower between the pages of her life. Not because it was grand or loud, but because it was real.

Martina Collender, the woman who often writes from the edges, had stepped right into the middle of something beautiful, and danced there.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

A Poor Play

What a poor play we’d make:

Neither of us actors,

The best lines whispered offstage,

Forever missing each other’s cues.

I stumble through the script,

Say “Grand so” instead of “Please come back,”

Say “Coffee?” when I mean “I love you.”

We thought there’d be time to rehearse.

I miss my mark,

Forget the movement that leads me to your hand.

I halt the scene to argue the line:

“I’m fond of you” feels false on my tongue.

I can’t manage an exit with grace or wit,

So I settle for silence.

This costume no longer fits:

Give me another,

To hide a body soaked in fear,

Filth, cowardice, and shame.

The stage manager calls,

“Stand by,”

But I’m not ready to act out this goodbye.

The lighting designer widens the beam,

Chasing away shadows,

But the light won’t catch the tears

Clinging to my lashes.

All I have left as a souvenir of love

Is the poster.

The director tells you how to love me,

But do you think,

Could you like me, too?

With you waiting at the end,

And me stuck in Act I:

What a poor play we’d make,

Always missing each other’s cues,

Always missing each other.

[martinacollenderplaywrightblog]

'' Ladybug Love”

By Martina Collender

In Waterford's gardens, where wildflowers sway,

A crimson dot dances, then flutters away.

With spots like ink on a painter's delight,

She graces the leaves, a charming sight.

Oh, ladybug, in your polka-dot dress,

You bring to my heart a gentle caress.

A symbol of luck, of joy, and of cheer,

Your presence whispers that magic is near.

Through petals and stems, you wander and roam,

Turning each blossom into your home.

A guardian of gardens, fierce and small,

Feasting on pests, you protect them all.

I watch as you bask in the morning sun,

Your wings catching light, a tiny red sun.

In your simple grace, I find my muse,

A reminder of beauty in every hue.

So here's to you, my spotted friend,

May your journey be safe, your happiness never end.

For in your flight, I see the art

That stirs the soul and warms the heart.