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.

The Falling Star

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.

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.

Sunlight is the Daffodils

Sunlight is the daffodils growing in brilliant profusion
on the bank beneath the trees.

We sit on the park-bench basking in the light
and, mindful of the shortness of their stay, count our own years,

the rush of our time to an end,
the relentless drift of these beauties on its flow.

Gliondar

Ag siúil ar gconair choille trathnóna geimhridh,
caonach fíorglas mór thimpeall: ar stocaí na gcrainn,
ar na carraigeacha, sna locháin uisce.

An cosán go léir mar srútháin glas os mo chomhair;
sámh ar mo shúile, ciúin i mo chluasa, bog ar bhoinn mo chosa.
Anseo is ansiúd, paistí geal buíglas le solas ghréine

– meangaidh gáire ar aghaidh an nádúir –
iad ag rith aerach mar coileáin a bhí ann
agus mise líonta leis an gliondar a thagann leis an radharc sin.

untitled

The whole countryside’s afluster
a tree is screaming,the meadows quivering,
boulders have clapped hands over their ears.

The word is that the stars have been burgled,
a stream’s stolen the silver,
and a cave, (whisper it), has swallowed the moon.

Martin Hayes Playing

Martin Hayes playing a road’s river sheen in
the last light of a November evening as coal
dust of night collects on the North Clare coast.
Telephone wire is sagging between the poles
and the rough grass fangs in the fading light.

A wind blowing angry off Galway Bay paring
away the skins of the rocks of the Burren hills
carrying splinters of rain and occasional piped
notes from wandering dark specks on the shore.
In the distance one yellow-coloured window

under the dark bulk of a disappearing hillside
at once inviting and shiveringly cold.
The notes flowing like drops of rain along a wire
wind’s metal scraping through that empty place
and the ear of God five miles out to sea.

A Minute Perfection

Nothing is plumb in this old pub:
its walls, doors, floors. The dark-stained wood;
patterned, coloured panes of glass;
brass door-handles, taps; globe light fittings;
fist-fulls of solid-looking black Guinness;
the curlicue conversations turned above glasses:
tulip-shaped, fluted, bulbed, hemispherical.

A beam of street light,
finding an entrance between the doors,
cuts like an acetylene torch across the floor-boards.
Bright needle of light, a minute perfection:
what a glorious thing to see.

Photograph

the page

sucking life

to

nothing

ensuing

sandstorm

plugs

the void

This house is a box;

I am a stone inside it.

When you are here it is home,

and I am a wad of cotton wool.

Scale, Perspective

I’m seeing Ireland’s geography, its east coast stretched before me like a map;

Dublin, Swords, Drogheda, Dundalk, north to the Mournes all in one eyeful.

Sitting here, on this mountain-top, perspective changes, quarrels seem petty,

drowned in the grand scale of view. I think politicians should climb mountains.

I think drug barons and generals, angry motorists and cantankerous neighbours

should be compelled to climb, climb,climb and climb as far as needed

to see their kingdoms diminished to invisibility.

(Failing that, I think if political enemies had to await medical operations in neighbouring beds in hospital wards, a lot of issues would be solved much more quickly.)

Lubeck , March 28, 1942 – Palm Sunday.

Lubeck , March 28, 1942 – Palm Sunday.

Hours before the bells of London rang for the blessing

of the palms, the bombers arrived over Lubeck,

a tinder town tied up in the twines of the river Trave,

and blew it to bits from the cathedral to St Marys.

God wasn’t a Nazi and Lubeck wasn’t on the front line;

it was war; anything goes, morality first.

And that’s what the broken bells of St Mary’s are saying still,

though they lost their tongues, their message is plain. 

Dream Song

This, my effort at a dream song,  was first published in  Berryman’s Fate: A Centenary Celebration in Verse (Arlen Press, 2014) edited by Philip Coleman. 
My referring to it as a dream song is more than a bit cheeky, Berryman's dream songs are in a class of their own. I was following his template for the publication, and I found the format  hugely liberating. At the time, I remember thinking I should use this style more regularly, and maybe I should; but would they always be third rate Berryman lookalikes?



Honora loves Hughie;
when Hubby’s out, Hughie’s in;
when Hughie’s in, Hubby’s out.
With pencil and jotter he arrives,
collaboraciously inclined towards writing poetry;
Honora fucks him poetic.


And he humping with winsome wordplay,
peppering words indiscriminate,
till catching the ribbon,
pencilling at speed,
jostling his poultry,
he fillets his jotter with creation,


his wordels  ̶  love children.
Humpy happy
Hughie lozenges back on the pillow,
his foot writing,
receding tides have always been creative
on the sands

Searching

She is old.

She is old and lives in a house that is much older.

Her face is in the front room window;

Her face full moon in the darkness of her room.

The sun has made stripes of her street,

The sun has rent this moldering old town in two.

She is searching in the bright sunlight opposite;

She is searching for the feel summers long ago.