Cruelty

After rubbing his hands vigorously,

Paul presented his right to the teacher,

who smashed the bamboo down on it,

then hit his knuckles on the upswing.

Each slap was met with a yelp of pain;

six in quick succession, and more almost daily;

more with each new year;

with each new teacher.

Paul was from a poor family,

the least academic in the class,

he left school early; was sent away;
he ended his life when it was supposed to begin.

.

In This Mood

Sometimes,  perfect renderings of still life might signify a state of mind.

In this mood,

things become more defined, absolute, more themselves.

The silver sugar bowl is not just reflective,

but a collection of the objects around it.

The shadows between the soaking peas are as dark

and mysterious as those between trees in a forest;

scale is immaterial, the detail is precise.

Colours become experiences: I look into red,

as I’d search inside the flow a river; browns

take on the richness of mahogany,

a grain inside the colour, a dynamic.

I reach for the sugar and watch my hand, from mid-arm,

travelling over the table like a boat heading out to sea.

It seems that my eyes suck the energy that is in me;

build this crisp perception from my concrete,

leave me in darkness amongst the brilliance of things.

Christmas Song

I wrote this as a song a number of years ago. I wanted to write another Fairytale of New York............okay, okay, no harm trying or wishing. I gave it to a singer who insisted that it was a poem; I still see it as a song (albeit with an alternative beat) waiting for a melody.      

              Christmas Song

I remember frosted trees,

sugary sunlight on rotted leaves,

winter hedges crisp and still,

high above a blackbird’s trill.

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

I remember frosted trees,

collecting cones for festive wreaths,

carols wafted on the air,

we stopped awhile to wonder where.

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

I remember frosted trees,

crunching across the frozen fields,

two plaited trails that we made,

promise of  the life we’d braid.

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

I remember frosted trees,

a bracelet made with holly beads,

I placed it in your hand,

said it would be our wedding band.

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

            I remember frosted trees,

            how they’ve haunted me all these years;

            oh to have been half so wise

           I would have seen through your disguise.

.           

           

And you with ice blue eyes

and brilliant smile

singing Silent Night and all the while

wishing

that Christmas was gone.

            

Visit Issue 4 of ​AvantAppal(achia)

Visit http://www.avantappalachia.com/,  if only to read Gabriel Rosenstock's gorgeous submission. It's very fine; beautifully presented in Irish and English, it's  inspiring; the kind of poetry I'm always hoping to find. 

The Terrorist

I’m exploring a village in County Roscommon, a quaint little place

on the banks of the Shannon. I’m strolling around, trying to catch

the atmosphere like I’d try to catch a tan. It’s  Summer, there’s no traffic,  

a few boats on the river, some hall doors are open, the shops are quiet,

if a bee stirred that would be the height of it.

It doesn’t take long to get around the whole village.Countryside laps

to every backdoor, the church on its ground is silent  as a tombstone,

the Shannon drags itself painstakingly by, and the sun’s heat has settled itself down

among the clouds. In the fields the hay is saved, somewhere a cow is yawning;

and an old man drives past in a tractor, going three miles an hour.

I know this, because he is half way to the shop, when I decide to make a race of it.

There is quarter of a mile at most, straight road, and, walking, I’m already gaining

on him. He’s past half way, moving incredibly slowly. I’ve covered half the distance

 between us.  He’s three quarters way, I’m over half way.  I’m almost level, almost level

when I reach the shop.Later I discover, locals call him The Terrorist.

Armani stops at our house

The ethics around photography are more than a bit grainy. The professional photographer is one thing, often questionable, but at least, he/she would appear to have a reason to be there, but the amateur is a different ball-game.

This flashy customer caught my eye; privileged materially, and with very expensive camera, he gave himself license to pry.

Armani stops at our house

  

Ferrari

sunbathing on the verge,

Armani

surveyed from the wall.

Rolex

grinning up a cuff,

Nikon

stole granddad’s gappy smile.

Ray-bans

snapping the moment shut,

Gucci

stepped from the grass;

Pirelli 

spat dust into our gateway.

gentle as rain,

as petals,

as snow,

you 

were,

always.

Failing Light

In the failing light of a November evening,

among the rotting leaves on a suburban path,

I remember you, digging the garden ridges, shaking out

the groundsel, tossing the stones under the hedge.

Great events in your kingdom were scurryings in the grass,

a thrush feeding on a worm, raindrops falling from the apple trees.

Far from inspectors and reports, you held sway over

the straightening of ridges, regiments of onions and lettuces.

With each passing year, you settle deeper into memory,

becoming ever more intangible, like these rotting leaves

that leave only their scent hanging in the dank November air;

after all this time, you have become more like a conversation 

                                                                                I never had.

The Wind Claps The Slates

The wind claps the slates;

all night they are hooves running berserk,

all night the wind is inciting them;

all night.

At twenty past two and twenty past three

and twenty past four I am looking at you;

how I would love to have hooves to come

crashing through your sleep, to burst into

your solitude.

And there I would, for better or worse,

demolish the muzzled years with as much

violence as reverberates beneath iron shoes,

as  causes such a frenzy in stone that slates

stampede.

Granny

Granny in woollen cardigans, bespectacled,

smooth-cheeked, sitting at the stove end

of the kitchen table, stockings rolled down,

wanting the dog to lick the ulcers on her legs.

Cups of tea coming and going like seasons,

showers of sunlight canonizing her fitfully,

switching on the light of her soft white hair,

the wild rose that bloomed free in her face.

The comfortable plumpness of her body

always shaped to her generous curiosity;

her old voice gentle as seaweed on a wave,

chatting life back into the bones of the dead.

The Viewing.

Dead: the colour of old cream,

his eyes shuttered shut;

so neat, besuited and slim,

the weight he lost dying.

They made a basket of his fingers

with a rosary spilling down;

everyone said he looked lovely,

but when I touched his face

it wasn’t him at all.

Evening

Some poems never get there. This one has been with me for nearly as long as the old man it's written about.
It's frustrating, but, then again, it's probably a good thing that certain accomplishments keep us grasping.

Evening

Evening light dozed on unwashed dishes;

old dust coated china plates;

the Sacred Heart, smoked and sagging,

looked down from a height;

a clock ticked like a jaded heart.

His face, at the table, jerked uncontrollably,

occasionally he choked on his tongue.

All that might be called life was in a biscuit box

in a press: letters, photographs, Christmas cards, postcards;

and a silver pocket-watch he got from his mother.

Rivers Run

Rivers run over the land,

slivers of sky and light,

their spindly bodies flowing,

fish and ripples one,

alive.

Clamouring in the high places,

lisping in the  low;

spry in youth,

sedate in age;

always journeying to their end

to run again.

Peninsula

A peninsula: shingle, cockle and barnacle shells, strips of desiccated wrack,

greened with sea-holly. The wooden cabin, though frequently lashed with spray,

was salted dry, and coloured somewhere between bone and limestone;

I lived there for five months before you came.

From the land our light seemed no more than a single candle burning;

the clothes on our line had the appearance of  rags,

and the smoke from our fire curled into the sky with a nonchalance

that suggested our daily struggles with lighting washed up timbers.

You’ll remember the shingle made walking difficult; with each step the stones rolled.

You said it sounded like the grinding of a mouth full of loose teeth; but, around the bay,

 a billion stones rolled thunderously with each beached wave;

and the  breeding terns came at us like boomerangs.

Nights: we were  unlit stars perhaps, but at one with the universe, free and alive

 in the unbroken expanse of shore, sea and sky; we had  space

 to be colossal, to exhilarate; and moonlight, our spotlight to roar songs into the cosmos,

to take the universe’s light into our eyes and exult in it.

Came the day of migration: wings outstretched, muscles fluid, necks craned to our separate
destinations; we, without backward glances, took to the air

with eyes big enough to countenance the curve of the earth, greedy enough to fly it;

and left our peninsula, a finger  pointing to somewhere .

As a chaos

1.

As a chaos of jagged girders,

black against the sky,

looks like pain;

yet it makes a beautiful ugliness.

2.

That day’s electrodes, bare and unprotected,

were waiting for me. From the moment I awoke,

nothing was ever going to halt

their run to me from that future.

3.

I met my moment on the street;

it made jazz in my bones;

lifted me

oh, much higher than I can ever sing.

4.

Sir, I said, these particles vibrate,

you hear them on a still night

and after that, you will always hear them.

They smash glass if you do not control it.

Self-creating Fluidity in Nature

When dense enough,

murmuration or shoal,

a flow becomes a fluid,

self-created;  

all parts align, cluster and stream

according to physical  laws.

Living parts, starling or herring,

generate intra-forces  that govern

the whole, the system,

effecting dynamics  recognizable

throughout nature.

She Leaves

She leaves

a country of mountain tops,

pencil points in nothing

and crosses on current arrows

to where the sun shines on a space.

Angels

look over the rails,

cheering ferries on the sea

of her worries  ̶  

or that is where she bobs  ̶

among all the sparklets

on the seatop.

And fears

scratch their fingernails

down the glass

she has left;

not left,

left,

not left.

Growing Up

  

  

    

  Shortly you will trace lines,

  leave,

  join the herds,

  leave a trail among the trails

  meandering over the hills.

 

  We are part of some eccentric’s

  geometry;

  I wish I could tell you more,

  my little love.

Life is glass

I fall, fuck up my face;

my arms and fingers

pouring blood

and I don’t even feel it.

Life is glass.

I discover that I can’t mind myself:

I can’t make the decisions

that protect me.

I meet my broken face in a mirror;

it accuses me.

I stare at it;

I stare at myself.

Light

1.

The longer I am paddling this canoe:

the more distant my destination,

the less I am.

2.

The less you see in me,

the less I see in me,

the more is light.

3.

The more is light,

the less I dream,

the more all is dream.

Reminiscence

When I reminisce about my childhood,

I am running with my schoolbag on my back;

exulting in the speed: one leg extended forward,

the other crooked at the knee,  foot in mid-air;

and a broad grin across my face, brimming happiness.

The church is in the background with a brilliantly coloured Calvary grotto,

and there’s the school and the Harrison Hall, all shining

against a cloudless azure sky.

And all of that is gone

as suddenly as a blizzard  strikes with the flick of a wrist. 

Films in your face

I am watching the film in your face:

your enjoyment crinkling

at the corners of your eyes,

teeth catching your lower lip,

blood draining from the pressure,

draining back as soon.

Furrows on your forehead,

I am smiling at your absorption,

want to stub them out with my thumb

but you catch me looking

so I turn back to the screen

till your face is mine again.

The words on my lips

remain unsaid. A time may come

when, not having words,

I will wish I had spoken; a time

when love being tested, I could say,

I used to watch films in your face.

Literary Events this week/weekend in Roscommon and Leitrim

Late notice this, but not too late if you live in the north midlands or northwest. A very engaging two days of talks and readings entitled Irish Women in Literature. Speakers include Nuala O'Connor, Prof. Luke Gibbons, Professor Christine Kinealy, Jessamine O'Connor and others. Free readings, but booking necessary.

also this weekend in Carrick-on-Shannon

Irish Mountain Festival in Carrick -on-Shannon 6th - 8th Oct. 

Participants include celebrated American writer and folklorist Henry Glassie, King of the Castle author Eugene McCabe and Ireland Professor of Poetry Eileán Ní Chuilleanáin, novelist Pat McCabe, migrant rights campaigner Bernadette Devlin McAliskey and London Imam and sean-nós singer Muhammad Al-Hussaini  among the participants at the festival in Carrick-on-Shannon.Tickets €60/€40

The End of Love, A Chill Awakening

Ending

He, who covered my body

with snail-trails,

whose hands were wrack

swept over my skin,

kisses on my back

a colony of shell fish.

He, who would have crossed a mountain range

for an hour between my thighs

now crawls over me

with wizened passion.

Gutted of love,

he comes clawing,

scavenging;

and insults me with lies

that have made greater pincers

of his mouth than his hands.

What does he see in me ?

Meat to excite him,

his groper's desires,

even his fingertips betray him.

But no more,

the erotic becomes ugly,

decrepit manoeuvres disconnected

from their original meanings;

the touches stain you.

I have watched him slither from my gaze

a thousand times a night

while slipping the word love

from his vocabulary;

watched him develop this communication

of knives and forks.

I saw my brother

One day, after I was dead, I saw my brother.

He was talking to a neighbour over the wall;

I called out to him, but he didn’t hear; in truth his hearing was poor.

My anxiety rose; I called louder and louder. I could not move,

I was watching him, scanning his profile; and knowing what I know so well,

knew that this was no mirage nor dream, and so, my anxiety quickened.

It is almost impossible to describe the stress: so close, so immediate;

the blood boiling in the veins of my temples. It would not have been so intense

but he was my brother, and had there been fire between him and I, I would have persevered.

But I could not break outside myself, could not come one decibel nearer, even with that heartbreak.  

A Poem: An Image

Image© Matthew Gammon

Roscommon County Council are hosting an exhibition entitled, 'A Poem: An Image', in the Civic Offices in Roscommon which will is running until Oct 20th. It comprises 16 poems written in response to 16 images, and is definitely worth visiting.

My poem, Returning, was written in response to Matthew Gammon's moving and very evocative image shown above. 

Returning

Houses are funny: boxes really, boxes of memories,

even in decay,

even though the memories are peeling.

The walls, soaked with voices, breathing out their memories

which settle, a fine dust around you.

You, who entered, no longer here;

you, who is here, transfixed in this presence of the past;

an in-between place: you and spirits

and yourself that once was;

and it all settling, a fine dust around you.

Escalation 2017

You’re mad.

You’re nuts.

You’re mad.

You’re nuts.

That’s it, I’m going to kill you and everyone who knows you.

You can’t, cos I’m going to kill you and everyone who knows you first.

There I told you; you’re mad.

You’re nuts.

You’re mad.

You’re nuts.

The Light of Innocence

The lake: shape of a dress thrown haphazardly onto the ground.

One  evening late, all the people of the village came to divest

 themselves of their sins,  washed them into the lake,

which swallowing , simultaneously caught hold of the sky,

held it in a petrified grasp; sky that never had  a care.

Two swans, two mute glories, some distance apart;

two matches  frozen at the point of flaming  appeared on the water

at the precise moment of the immersion. People say

their plumage shone with unearthly brightness.  It is said in the village

that they appear every time a sinner  divests himself of his sin;

that the light is the light of innocence.

Memory of my Father

I have a memory of my father

sitting on a log in the shed,

reading the Sunday Independent

between the lawnmower and the garden tools;

it was his quiet  refuge.

I see him through the open door,

from across a narrow lawn newly mown;

bees are tracing zig-zag lines

between us;

and the lupins are in full bloom.

Summer stretched out over the fields and the railway line,

beyond the gates, out to the Shannon, and beyond;

but Summer is a precarious season.

I like lupins,

they look like Summer.

Brown Eyes

She had deep brown eyes;

I believe trout swam in their depths.

And I often spent an hour sitting there

with my feet disturbing their surfaces

like rain.

But the currents that stirred her

were much deeper.

They stirred the silt of years

far below,

far below my reflected face.

3 photographs

This little scene in the grounds of a holy well caught my attention.You can almost hear her exclamation, "Holy God!" And, what's gas is, the rest of the family got good steady jobs in the Civil Service.

This signpost above a beach gives you a fifty fifty chance of  taking the right direction to somewhere.

And, this sign at a petrol station isn't unique; I mean I know what it's saying, but I don't think its saying what it means.

Green into Grey (full)

Green into Grey

When the clouds

Fell onto the hill with the trees,

And they were sinking,

Sinking;

I thought of you.

The still heads

Belied their stirrings in the murk,

They were swimming,

Swimming;

And I thought of you.

All day long,

Shadows mutely threading that depth,

And they were ghostly,

Ghostly;

I thought of you.

When the sun

At last tore the mist from the trees

they were gleaming,

gleaming;

And I dreamt of you.

Green into Grey

When the clouds

Fell onto the hill with the trees

And they were sinking,

Sinking,

I thought of you.

Trees

Trees keening winter nights away,
their wails woven into the wind;

heads of hair like seaweed taken from the strand,
flails knotted in insoluble puzzles.

Underground, roots twisting toward some source
shaped by memory;

trees like abandoned lovers,
scratching down the marble of night-time.

Don’t say too much

or you’ll give it away.

Peter Doig’s paintings are poetic; magical, mysterious, beautiful and different. Canoes and boats feature a lot, it's a good choice: figures isolated on the water,  going to God knows where,while the interface of water and air introduces the notion of an alternative world.

His six characters in ‘Figures in Red Boat’ are suspended between something horribly grotesque and perfect serenity, the explained and the unexplained, this world and some other. They look lost and it’s interesting that the figure on the left seems to be seated outside the boat. An exotic landscape is suggested in the background, but it might be mist; there is sunlight on the figures in a dim grey setting.

Was there a bloody accident, leaving six people somewhere beyond life? Is this a boat into the next world?

Mirage-like; ambiguous and disturbing, it leaves me wanting to write about it; but what? It’s quite brilliant.

I am weave

I am weave,

flows bare bones of the land,

roots, blood my stealth;

streams mountain hair,

hillsides’ ruminations,

meadow fantasies;

bleaches sunlight,

sugars earth,

rips the seas’ tides;

calls clockwork from branches,

buries bones in soil, drags days behind,

stirs the year.