Thursday, October 3, 2013

Irish Poetry Day 2013

Here are some poems, penned over the years, about My Ireland, hope you like them ...

The Pagan Field

            Here in a place of Gods
            without worship
            stones without mortar and
            graves stripped of souls

            a tourist silence hangs itself
            from each jagged edge
            air clings with stale memories

            to each niche of ancient art
            river swirls on naked eye
            suns are born and moons consumed
                        by dark

            the dead have abandoned their graves

                        ashes to dust
            they are blown by an aimless wind
            distant from the tombs of men
            without prayer without names



The cacophonous tones of mobile phones
and drumming clog of pedestrian slog
stops abruptly at the gate
As a portal to another world
the Bone Orchard squats between
red brick and concrete
Half-hidden resting place for the Huguenots
sinking ships of stone
table-graves wrecked on the crests
and gorges of a frozen sea of soil
Vine and lily and moss vying
for dominance over urns and names
To retreat into the street is to see
this morbid garden concealed by a modern metropolis  
almost forgotten
the cold bones in the corner of Stephen’s Green
their memories whispering to grey

Alone under a rainstorm on Loch Crew 

The Gods are angry in me
sideways rain above Loch Crew
distant fingers of lightning
encaging Tara Hill
monsters and myths in spray and foam
die in epigrammatic agonies
broken on the beach of Dunany

They are all real
as valid as any Divinity or Demon 
as corporeal as human flesh
as real as the strikes on stone
that spiral into infinity
an infinity as lingering as the ancient
lines on the hand that struck them 


            Breathless the Journeyman pauses
            January cold rising damp from deep in the soil
            through his booted feet and up
            tired legs into shaking stomach and rasping lungs

            The world opens as a magic trick beneath him
            squares of bad land ringed with rock walls
            painted by an ethereal hand
            on his raw windshield eye

            A motionless city is struck dumb by the wind
            filling up the valley with the fungi of buildings
            while above the birds auger what they will
            without interpretation

            The brown mountain slumps
            thrust into the sea like a discarded midden
            raised by ancient giants with it bulbous crown
            atop a snow haired head and furrowed brow

            Hand over hand each stone of Kinghood
            weathering the storms of four millennia
            and the soles of countless souls
            beating on the drum of the earth a long rhyme

            Dead but sleep beneath the pile
            they have no ears for the rhythm
            yet shell-like they hear each and every whisper
            as a scream

            Closed mouth and chilled bone
            the Journeyman rings the crown
            a vigil paid with all Gods, One and None
            he lightly climbs down

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