Sure Sight

I see
pearl-like
dawn
in
your face

a desolate
blue
yonder
in
your irises

the wash
of slivered
moonlight
in
your smile

I know of
nowhere
less trodden
more
perfect

I contract
to be
forever
an explorer
in that universe.

Rivers run

Eternity

Rivers run over the land:

slivered sky and light,

spindly bodies flowing,

fish and ripples one,

alive.

Clamouring in the high places,

lisping in the  low;

spry in youth,

sedate in old age;

always journeying to their end

to run again.

Looking at the detail

One of my favourite works of art, Mantegna’s extraordinary ‘Lamentation Over The Dead Christ’, is nearly too familiar. It would be easy to pan across the image and see much less than is there. Break it down to its detail and its brilliance is seen afresh.

It brings to mind the words of doubting Thomas “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”

Look at the torn flesh in the feet, the open gashes in the back of the hands; you could put your finger into them.

And when the resurrected Jesus appears to the apostles and says to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe”, he readily replies “My Lord and my God!”

This painting carries, magnificently, that strength to convince. 

The Salmon in the Spring, the Hazel and the Hermit

The prompt word for this poem was 'source'. Mythology is full of sources, and mythology comes with a plethora of suggestions,  all endlessly malleable. It provides a platform for creativity but with roots that give the work weight and resonance. The poem is a bit of a departure for me; feel free to comment.

The Salmon in the Spring, the Hazel and the Hermit

Into an open gob the hazelnuts fell,

so over the years the salmon grew

into a colossus.

A day came when one nut dropped, plumb-line,

to be devoured complete with husk

at the very moment of its agitation.

And in that very instant, the salmon spewed from its intestines

its knowledge of a thousand years;

that cascaded downhill

over the shilling bright stones,

through the ignorant meadows to the lake,

where they became part of an ever-shifting

circuit of water, weed, spume and silt.

A hermit, who lived by the lake,

doused his face, and drinking some of this potion

was instantly replete.

A hazel took root in his belly and he convulsed,

so that the stones unearthed by his flailing feet

filled the lake

and sent its waters flooding out,

onto to the plain where the people lived;

and they, too, in their turn, drank .

The Silver River

 Jacket, shirt and shoes;

 his socks and trousers

 neat on the bank;

 a small crowd watching from the bridge.

silver river running

 He was coming from a card game, late;

 the winnings in his pocket.

 There had been a woman,

 they had visited the priest.

silver river running

 But that’s long ago now;

 he worked the farm;

 a good worker, his neighbours said,

 always busy with the tractor.

silver river running

 He lived with his mother,

 who cooked his meals and managed the money;

 now, she was a great farming woman,

 everyone agreed.

silver river running

I have a photograph of him holding a child,

he didn’t look comfortable;

he sat for a while in the garden

but didn’t stay long.

silver river running

Ominous

There is a blue box on the hall table.

A cube, transparent plastic, maybe three inches high.

It capsules twilight,

and there are objects drowned in it.

Sitting there,

it’s like something is going to happen. 

Scarecrows.

We are two scarecrows: rags and string;

what the rain softens the wind picks clean.

We are two scarecrows: sticks and straw;

crows fly out from underneath our jackets.

We are two scarecrows: nails and wire;

each day drowning as the corn grows higher.

We are two scarecrows: sacks and hay;

nodding toward eternity, we tip toward clay.

Your Crying

Your crying:

The silver streams

Of your eyes,

The radiant red cheeks,

The choking on words,

The gullish.

Somehow

I think of a voice

Curling up

From inside a hollow oak. 

Bones

(in response to this week's awful discovery in Tuam)

Bones in the soil,

broken bones.

Bones that sheltered a mind,

and a heart.

That had a name,

that rested on a pillow,

that might have run a race,

maybe won if they were fast-

moving bones.

That might have grown

to adulthood,

crooked around a lover’s neck

and been happy then.

Might  have aged to venerability,

or been fond old bones

carrying liver spots,

showering gappy smiles

on grandchildren.

Bones,

those bones in the soil.

In The Park

      

I met an old man

with seawater eyes

sweeping together

the leaves of his life.          

Into a sack they went,

each golden one.

Child

         

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.

The way of the world

I came across a written piece in which it said that you can be very friendly with a person. The friendliness grows towards a sexual relationship.  A time comes when that  relationship might be consumated, but if the moment passes, the relationship  unravels, even appears somewhat sordid to the other person. 

It always surprises me when I see the closest relationships break up, only to descend into a version of open warfare.

You see it, often in families: is it because there's a sense of betrayal? Closeness turns to outright hostility.

The Way of It

I can't fit you into my scheme of things  

nor you me,

now that we've finally become ourselves.

I turn on you sharper than a scalpel,

spit words chiselled to wound.

Out from beneath the quilt of affection,

our naked selves so vicious,

we bruise each other with the same fervour

that once marked our love.

She Swept into the Sky

That day Maggie Allen,

propped up in her bed,

was staring at the bedspread.

Snow, melting in her eyes,

fell, tiny bells,

into the valley far below.

Suddenly, arms spread wide,

a blizzard of hair,

she swept outward

off her ledge,

into the sky

across the room.

We stared at her

nonplussed face,

the four pillows tucked behind her.

Reflection

The sunlight on the back of your neck,

ear-lobes, hair.

A page-reflected glow onto your chin,

dimming upward towards your eyes,

and all else darkness around you.

If I’d never seen that you are beautiful;

that day, as the light chose to steal up behind you,

to settle on you  so gently, but dazzlingly;

that light would have been light enough

to reflect forever in my mind.

Lost in Adulthood

Explorers

Poem for Elaine

Then, I was the explorer

with that pedal happiness in my feet;

down a tunnel of laurels

or wellington-deep in water.

Now I have to be reminded:

there are furze trails to be charted,

tracking to be done in the tall grass,

and we should be deadly quiet

in the hedge caverns after dark.