Tuesday, March 31, 2020

Maybe in the future there should be a week set aside for nature



Birdsong

March sunlight has made the birches blaze;
leafless yet, their papery bark is making flames;
even in mid-afternoon they appear heavenly.

With the din of cars laid low by the virus,
birdsong is everywhere; how many thousand trees
on this hillside; how many birds is that?

Spring is indeed a time for listening; I haven’t been.
Now, in this awful time, my hearing has returned, and
I have rediscovered a symphony long lost beneath wheels.

Monday, March 30, 2020

The House on the Hillside Opposite



The house among the trees on the hillside opposite is visible in the afternoon light.
I could not see it this morning nor yesterday evening, but now I see its rusted roof;
it shows in a gap between the fir trees. Four cleared fields bound by stone walls
and crossed by an overgrown path are a napkin fixed at its neck; behind it,
the hill rises, a patchwork of confer, fern and heather: rough, poor terrain.
The house, empty of its people but their belongings remaining where they were.

Mountain sheep come near but don’t trespass; the trees, however, will. They will
break and enter, force their way through the walls, dismantle the roof, split the floors.
The effects of a household will mix with leaf litter: bottles, cups, saucers, a necklace,
an old radio, a hammer, an iron, a light shade, the cheap picture frames, a tin box
with buttons still inside, no, the buttons with the black flakes of rust mixed through.
All will be buried in the soil, but not the people.

They are already in the soil, but not the same soil, nor anywhere in these parts;
they are buried across the sea, where necessity took them.
So the house was of no use; the possessions had no use, not even to looters or vandals.
How strange are lives that can be so intense minute by minute and, yet, one morning,
bags packed, a home is left with all its paraphernalia in place; the fields are left, the hillside left,
and for love or health or money, what was once all can suddenly be valueless.

Wednesday, March 25, 2020

Feichín's Penance




January, frigid dawn. Rain
forged in heaven's graphite-dark belly
flaying the island.  

Fifteen strides out from the shore,
Feichín’s head, gull on the water,
chanting to the glory of God.

Waves crash over, tearing hair,
weed on the rocks, and eyes,
cockle-shells bleached staring.

Tuesday, March 24, 2020

A Modern Tale




Before the enemy was quite in sight, the king came onto the balcony
and scattered daffodil petals onto his people, saying ‘aren’t they beautiful?’

Never before had anyone seen such a spectacle, such lavishness.
They were beautiful: flakes of sunlight falling like snow, they were the full of their eyes.

So filled with hope and joy they danced among the falling petals
even when the enemy was already inside the city walls.

Sunday, March 22, 2020

Exercise for Isolated Trio




You on a white page twisted your body into an S
I watched then lying on my side coiled into an O
Greta made a curve of back and arms to be a C
You extended one arm and one leg to make a K
Flexed I crooked arm to feel forehead to be an E
Greta bowed head with extended arms to be a T

With our limbs outstretched we shaped 3 stars
And shivered in unison to make it sort of electric

Saturday, March 21, 2020

After Achnasheen



In his wonderful poem, Achnasheen, Pearse Hutchinson addresses the anglicisation of gaelic placenames. Speaking of Achnasheen in Ross-shire, Scotland, he says,

Is isn’t Gaelic any more. It could never be English.
Despite the murderous maps,
despite the bereft roadsigns,
despite the casual distortions of illiterate scribes,
the name remains beautiful. A maimed beauty.’

And sure enough they are still beautiful as I hope this “poem”, a selection of placenames on the island of Ireland, demonstrates.

After Achnasheen

Ballydehob Kilmacow Kiltyclogher
Cong Shanagolden Glencree
Gouganne Barra Kilbrickan Knocknagoshel
Cong Belturbet Lisnaskea

Ballycumber Ballyvourney Killargue
Toomevara Ardglass Timoleague
Labasheeda Lismore Glenamaddy
Goleen Tubbercurry Athleague

Kanturk Kilaloe Toormakeady
Rush Keshcarrigan Kilmovee
Termonfeckin Tarmonbarry Dualla
Skeheenarinky Cleggan Kilkee


Wednesday, March 18, 2020

This Evening a White Canal






A swan, lifting its wings as it glides in my direction,
seems to have condensed this reflection of cloud
into itself and is now extending its wings to display
that magnificence.

I’ve never before seen the canal like this
nor a swan as an embodiment of light on the water,
as though an upward gush congealed into a life-form
whose sole purpose is the animation of a surrounding beauty.

Saturday, March 14, 2020

Delight

A translation of Gliondar which I posted on Feb 20th.


Delight

Sauntering along a woodland trail on a winter’s evening,
rich green moss all around; on the tree trunks,
the rocks, in the pools of water.


The whole path like a emerald stream running before me;
gentle on my eyes, quiet in my ears, soft beneath my feet.
Here and there, patches of yellow-green sunlight

nature’s smiles
running alongside like a young pup
and myself filling with the delight that sight brings.

Tuesday, March 10, 2020

Charlie Brown's Eyes


This isn't the first version of this poem that I've posted, probably not the last. Rewrite follows rewrite until, like evolution, the series of mutations leads to  a completely new poem. And for that reason, I've always thought it important that all rewrites are kept.


Charlie Brown's Eyes


On the Lower Kimmage Road
I stopped to watch Charlie Brown's eyes
winking in puddles;
an iodine-stained filth was polluting the city.


In the pub a burnt-out match
and a rib of hair snagged my attention,
my convexed eyes;
I drank more than intended.


A carrier bag gulped on the broken white line
and I moved on. In the hallway,
removing my overcoat, I counted sixteen balusters,
re-buttoned my overcoat and walked out.

Wednesday, March 4, 2020

The Falling Star

The Falling Star, 1909 by James Hamilton Hay | Painting ...


Just back from Liverpool where I came across this beautiful painting, 'The Falling Star',  by James Hamilton Hay in the Walker Gallery. It's so understated, there are myriad possibilities in the empty spaces of sky and earth, the stories it evokes are, well, just follow the star!
The painting has stuck in my head, I had to write a poem. The obvious pitfall is not being able to match the magic, but hell, I had to give it a try. Here's my effort, if any reader fancies giving it a go. I'll be delighted to include it on the blog, but honest efforts only.

The Falling Star


Half asleep, and tucked cosy under the innocence of snow,
our village on the brow of the hill, beneath the vast
pillowed ceiling of a sky dusty with the white fields’ glow;
here and there fuzzy chinks of light: stars.

Our houses, heads above the duvet; the two lit windows, eyes 
unshut. All tipped towards dreaming; that great expanse
above the heads pathless for wanderers; the falling star, key 
to infinity for dreamers.

Monday, March 2, 2020

Where Are You.






Where are you.
Where are you child.
Among the spring green leaves
Naked as a lizard;
I hear your airy lilt,
Why are you humming.

From what remote well
Do these grotesque sounds come;
Dispatched, bleak cirrus
In the high skies of a child's voice,
Freezing all the forest
Into fairy-tale stillness.

Where are you,
Where are you child.
In what empty paradise;
Where's the tower that emits your eccentric song;
Against the frozen wings of which birds of paradise
Do you rub.