Razor Wire

 

She said,

I must wear my pain like razor wire,

but when you see me,

you fail to look beyond the wire.

When I say, I live deeper,

come join me, you’ll enjoy it;

you make it a fence;

you wear my pain like razor wire.

The Finest Poem

 

Spare:

the page.

‘How do I

fill such a space?’

a question to no one,

and no one answers.

Maybe the space is

the finest poem,

the infinite idea;

the poem

that dreamed itself

into being.

into being.

Zaknthos

 

Faraway the sea was a night-time city.

I stood unsteady, too much wine;

faraway the sea was shining in the moonlight.

Closer, by my hand in fact, a string of lights

on a clothes line,

a string of lights like a harbour-front on a Greek island.

Zaknthos, but that’s years ago;

the restaurants down by the harbour,

people passing in droves, waves of warm night humour,

boats jangling

and a quartet playing its way up and down the strip,

bouzouki music to clinking glasses.

My legs gone to rubber,

recent rain reflecting light from watching shrubs;

I would have sung, but it was far too cold.

Happy Christmas. 

An Ending That Isn't

 

Your life in all its magnificent capacity

to imagine and dream, plan, remember,

learn and know, create, innovate, love,

be so vital to so many, care and give,

support, achieve, fix, build, persevere;

now, today, reduced to the gruelling task

of maintaining a flow of air into the bellows

of your lungs.

Stop.

A bellows maintains a fire; it has no purpose otherwise,

and your breathing has no purpose now.

Rest.

Rest, let us continue;

we will carry you on.

Trees

 

Dark on this side, silver-white on the western

and seeming to bend under the weight of sunlight,

but, like beech leaves closing their palms,

the branches curve away from the wind.

The intricacy of trees exposed in December,

belying an apparent haphazardness,

here there’s a consistent angle in a tree’s branching,

there an upward sweep of branch-endings.

Beyond, topping the hills, now hay and rust coloured,

are windmills, Calvary-stark against the winter sky,

and they too harvesting energy, trees as we would design

them; spare and artless.

Going Places

 

That way, Ballybofey;

that way, Donegal.

Across the Bluestack mountains, Glenties;

to the east, Castlederg.

But in the direction I’m pointing: Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Draco;

the faraway places, the intimate places;

places I’ve dreamt of,

places I’ve taken refuge.

Roads that arrive,

more that never do

criss-cross

that plain.

I’ve hitch-hiked

since a boy;

those roads are straight and endless,

and take you

not to where you want,

but to where you need.

 

Love makes a meteorite

of lovers,

their world its trail.

What brilliance;

what a zenith!

Part of us dies

 

The fields told their stories

over the walls, through the thorns;

whispered their secrets to silver roads

who, humming like telegraph wires,

carried them to the neighbouring parishes.

Stories that hung dancing on rowan trees

or carried lanterns into the earth;

some were left to simmer in springs

or sent burbling down into silt-filled ponds;

many still mark the earth like ringworm.

Ours, the kith and kin of Garrypat, Bully’s Acre,

Páirc an Easa; that mosaic of landscape,

familar, once, as our parents’ faces,

whose stories, our stories, are no longer heard

but are lost under the roar of passing traffic.

Alone, together,

 

Alone, together,

it seems we all remember our deaths.

Could never be everything to each other

no matter how great the love,

knowing too well the solitude coming.

Forgive me.

Landscape

 

Lifting the cup to your mouth,

I see the old water courses, dry;

parched ridges, infertile now;

desiccated trunks and limbs, forests once;

the semi-submerged human habitations

hazy behind the skittering dust dervishes

that haunt the place.

I would kiss your hands.

Her Gentleness

 

         

Her gentleness was healing.

Friends came when they were low;

she lifted them

back into their heavens

to twitter and wheel,

smile down at her.

Down to where,

watching over their worries,

she gazed up,

encouraged, smiled back at them;

spent her childhood

                 longing for their wings.

My Advice This November Day

Don’t be too fond of owning,  my little love.

As you fly;
let your head be full of the magic of flying
and happiness will be yours.
Be light as a leaf  among the millions;
such exhilaration!

This flight is your life, darling;
unique, incredible, finite.

Question

“What if you slept
And what if
In your sleep
You dreamed
And what if
In your dream
You went to heaven
And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower
And what if
When you awoke
You had that flower in you hand
Ah, what then?”
― Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Complete Poems

Let’s drink to that.

"Need we say it was not love,

Just because it perished?”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

We left through the same door we entered;

the seasons had moved along.

Neither of us turned to look,

the door was already closed.

Other people will stop there: a month, a year;

in our different worlds, let’s drink to that.

 

Unhappiness recreated your face

in myriad facets, as in a cubist painting.

The disarray made it ugly, but alive,

and that was another beauty.