Her Mind

 

Her mind

brimming with plans and schemes,

calculations and wishes,

possibilities of all sorts,

worries and cares,

memories you might keep in a music box,

pictures; movies, old and new, and never made

are box-offce in that Roxy;

the smoke-like tendril from childhood that loops about her,

those beautiful thoughts and philosophies

dreams, old loves and glories,

secret places like streams that play music on coloured stones,

or wells lost beneath ferns;

her creations, the wonderful, the zany;

her knowledge and learning,

her files, research projects, best or broken practises;

scaffolding half built on half built ideas;

the far reaches beyond plains, mountains, rivers and seas;

and cupboards she keeps locked on the shady side of the moon;

I hold it in my hands

while she has her eyes shut

and sleep is setting in.

Exhilaration

 

i

Shoals of fish leap

gleaming over the water:

sunlight stampedes.

ii

A running child

imagines

his legs are wheels.

iii

Eyes upward

into the abseiling spiders

that clutter the air,

muffle the earth

in an exhilaration of snow.

Beak, Flight

 

Air-slicked,

slivered,

low to

the ground,

arrow straight,

pointed,

concealed in speed,

flecked

and silvered,

particle, weight

and eye.

A Man

 

Happiness didn’t intrude on him too much

so instead he took to filling himself with booze,

which zinged his mind, sent him dancing

(after a fashion) home most nights.

He became known for dancing,

which was not to his advantage; it was a style

of dancing that people considered unseemly,

so they left him to himself, to dance himself home.

Made him very angry with everyone, he took to arguing

with himself, but in his isolation, he lost his volume

control, found himself kicked out of the bars onto the streets;

the streets where the traffic passes in an unending blur.

There seemed no reason not to argue with a blur; he did

continually, eventually becoming physical,

but the traffic didn’t stop

From Winter Trees

 

Cherry-blossomed with sunlight:

our black branches

above January’s whitened hills.

Let’s gather the berries

of these Fabergé-brilliant wonders

into the bright cans of our eyes;

let’s harvest their sparkle;

drench the old stones

that have long since forgotten to smile.

Walking Red Water

 

While walking the red water

into the bloody sky, above pitch

black trees, pilgrims to the shore,

a hundred thousand starlings fly

my chest to the blade-blue corners

of the world. I flap my coat, they rain

black cinders onto the lake, rekindle,

resurrect and flash; the clouds’ fire

feathers spread further eastward, and

there’s calm like I’ve swallowed the

wind; suddenly colossal, I hunt the sun

beyond the curve of the known earth.

In Patterned Glass

 

face drift

                                                               in patterned glass

         you

                                                    disordered

complete

and broken

                 your transience                  all in that one fleeting moment

A Moment Between Lovers

 

Kisses her closed eyelids, cheeks;

breathes warmly into the well of her ear,

catches the lobe between his teeth,

gently pulls; runs opened lips slowly

downward to her shoulder; she shivers;

counts the vertebrae of her neck with the tip

of his tongue, and beneath the collar of her blouse;

a lizard with electric feet scuttling down

the length of her spine; she opens her eyes;

a momentary shimmering of the air between her

and the window, then focussing, looks out onto

the field like the small exhilarations of her skin

are blooming there; his arms around her,

his fingertips kissing her still.

The Poet

 

His was a wintry man;

life bent him crabbed

like a thorn tree near the ocean,

shaped to gnarled contrariness.

He was a thorny man;

drink sharpened his anger,

kept his lightning bolts charged,

loose as the change in his pocket.

He was a raggedy man,

ripped by the snags that held him;

only his poetry escaped,

blazing like the gorse in June.

Affectation

 

A lifetime may not be enough

to recognize yourself;

I have a friend who, like the guy

who wears shades indoors,

doesn’t see what everyone does:

his affectation reveals exactly

what it was supposed to hide.

Writing, Ambitions

 

Reaching down into that sack

that’s always emptying;

scrabbling for ideas, having gobbled

the best of them years ago;

the left overs chewed

to the point flavourlessness.

Ambitions skinnier than wish-bones;

the best ideas: elusive sparks

that fly and quench.

Always running after notions

that were a May afternoon’s falling petals

forty years ago;

always straining for the psychedelic sky

colouring a different planet.

Warning, and not altogether joking

 

Parents with kids that go online,

sitting in the other room thinking everything’s fine;

you gotta keep watch, the dangers are immense;

the internet’s full of paedophiles and presidents.

Old Man Conversing With Blackbird

 Old Man Conversing With Blackbird

There’s an old man conversing with a blackbird

high in a sycamore across the street, whistling

up at it, grinning.

Odd-looking guy, long grey hair, pale face;

heavy coat pinned tight around his neck

almost down to his ankles; you can’t miss him.

Nuts, I’d say; oblivious to people passing,

looking at him; not dangerous though,

maybe to himself.

Only person on the street going nowhere,

like a rock in a stream; I think someone should come

and get him; put him somewhere safe.

Croghonagh

 How many paintings did Cezanne paint of Mont Sainte-Victoire? In different light, from different angles, at different times, in different seasons, different weathers. 

I look at the Gap and see the mountains change chameleon-like through the course of a day, much less a year. Irish weather is as changeable as it gets: bright sunshine alternates with rain frequently, not in a season, but in a day, an hour. With the shifting clouds, shifting colours; shifting cloudscapes. In driving rain, the mood changes: darker shades seem to bring darker moods. In mist, the mountains become vague and mysterious; suggestions of other things.

All in all, this place is a dream for landscape painters, but for poets too. 

Croaghonagh at Barnesmore in Donegal from a particular angle is a fearsome-looking cliff, from other angles less so. But with the never-ending procession of changing weather types, it seems almost alive. I wish I had the painter's skill to convey this, indeed, I wish I had greater skill in poetry to achieve it. But that, of course, hasn't stopped me yet.

Croaghonagh

This morning, cloud

streamed as jauntily from its neck

as any scarf that ever trailed

backward over a 1920’s Roadster.

At three, threatening

fiercely,

it glared across the valley

with a thunder-rolled brow.

After sunset, the light reflected

off the burnished

undersides of clouds,

dressed it in a burgundy evening gown.

Come dawn, it will be transparent;

birds lighter than seeds

will glide through its space

on elegant outstretched wings.

.

Five Winds.

The first throws fits;

vents his frustrations down telephone wires,

leaves nuts and bolts scattered all over the sky,

never cleans up.

The second lives in the hawthorn hedge,

stayed there all Christmas long,

brought soft drizzle to soothe a world in need;

dampened down the edges of noise;

left silver haws shimmering.

The third, a wind of the high sky,

keens an impossible pitch,

close your ears or you will mourn too.

Fourth, and most annoying, one that steals the sun's heat

when you've removed your shirt on the beach,

and still has the gall to leave you

inside the picture of a warm day.

And the wind imprisoned in an abandoned house:

kicking the doors, swinging in the rafters,

panicking in places no one can find;

a wind beside itself with the terror of its own company.