Sunday, August 14, 2005

Dince the Dentable Dork Called

A moan poet whose work no-one
will riddle

until the global brain
has brought to its chamber of gas
poetry's cold bloodied carcass
attended by a top-weight team
of sermon-faced sophists
deep in language conversing
abstruse

beyond non-understanding

in a swamp of post-modern thought
addressing webs of hypotheses
resting on the basis of what lies
beyond in the moment unknown
or reached, but connected to now
by a bridge of wisdom conceived
erect with solid reflexive ideas
and the full support of conjecture
believed to be fact
waiting to be found

once XY and Z
turns to
AB and C

and some ustoppable force of truth
turns reason out on its ear and wel-
comes in Derrida, Baudrillard,
Krestiva, Barthes, and the symphonic
absence

usurping 1, 2 & 3 into a possible 6
that may be a 4, or nine, depending
on how the colour of tomorrow's
noon strikes the sound of yesterdays
light

site

where onlookers standing
in swamps of complexity
ponder on unbelief and why
the human condition cannot bend
time to its will

with the knowledge philosophers
make up in time spent farming
and fishing the mind for proof
of being essentially moved
to reason the faith of beauty.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Up on the Tide

Upon the tide flowing from the summer
night comes love empty of promise
offering no choice
chance
or means to utter a prayer

but swelling the muse shed empty and turned
inside out by a rational process of time

returning its skin

less the bones of battered misgivings
the broken truth fully conceived
swallowed, consumed, spat out alone

and searching the mind for a soulmate
when unguarded moments abandon
the impulse of sense.

Untroubled by the pale defeat of ghost light
dawning on past fields lost
seize the gift of faith
confide in belief
keep counsel with the tree of life
rooted in the heart
and pray for hope.

Emerge from the melting absence of a passionate
self yawning awake
and confer change
in the deportment-conscious act of deploying
decorum at all time.

Until the final departure is logged, recorded,
and halts the call of eternal love

surrender a mystery a day, to what clear light
switches on god from within.

Statement

The run of history in a thick soup of rain

}

The brown coloured condiment in a clear bottle

{

The inexpensive aftershave and give away shampoo

}

Two pairs of runners on a canvas chair

{

An empty tin
unironed shirts
and traffic sounds
rattling in the moist breeze on a historic evening
of words surrendering in the mouths of politicians
in sombre dress
grey hair dyed dark
tasteful ties with moderate knots

the co-ordinates of sincerity
in the eradication of war

}

Telly-dressed leaders

- consigned by history
to a passionate cause
lining pockets of co-operation in
the equality of flags and parades -
a jumble of yesterday's news
holding the chips for tomorrow's game;
cold coiled reality, a level of trust constantly
tied, tested and untethered by events
departure and return - and the simplistic
consistency of two tribes, vying in wait for a sign
of belief in each others rights, in conflicting songs
of a patriot dead, who died for truth and lies
put into their heads, through centuries of silent
wrongs, and bloodthirsty rights.

Lóg n-Enech / Face Price

Knowing that time for truth
comes through talk when all
is said and done

come to the trinity
of instinct and two figures
rooted in a single mind.

One an Irish poet
one a homeless migrant
dwelling in the ear
of any who will listen
for beauty in a song.

Separate yet together
remembered and recorded
in a corpus of the work
imprinted in the hollows of the heart

shining from the watch-points of the soul
and lighting landscapes of expression
buried deep as Cuchulain
fighting waves of human forces
warring over cattle in Connacht.

Let us uncover ancient rites
in the migrant's Irish heart
which the poet has composed
on benches at the canal bank
weaving make believe with fact.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Late May Day

A fluttering
above
in the kid-skin
soft slither-thin
leaves
of a beech tree

alerts her
to a bird
in the branches
hanging over
the oak bench.

A grey
feathered fledgling
awkwardly flaps
to the pitted
tarmac and nestles

its downy breast
against a coping
stone border
of the oval green.
A cricket match
has just ended

and the bird's first
flight from its nest
into the unknown
traffic of a new
world view

begun. The creature
taking its bearings
from earth level

looking into
the depths
and complexity
of existence

anchors her
eye-line securely
on the confusion
life's nexus
of glimpses distills

across the freshly
stretched backdrop
of a silent dumb sky

offering no foothold
of slender wood poles
with which she can
measure her ascent
through understanding

up to God's hand.

Monday, March 14, 2005

O'Watt's Imagined

For Leanne O'Sullivan

What O'Watts imagines is
she may fly as Fiontan
flew, if she attempts to launch
like the old Irish poet flock
who thought themselves as birds
and made her realise how wings
are crucial to suceed in flight as a shapeshifter.
So now she nows all her slim options
she decides to try out her wings
with no cutting quips
or wry observations
by flying in the form of an elegy
to the dark one who caught her imagination's
ember alight.

          -----------------------------------

Western star gathers with the druid-spawn
in full blather-wear,
making well-worn anecdotes of one another,
and lies before their surety in tongue
to find, hanging from the mythical branch
where pure-nut fruits of the poets' toil are torn
Manannán's raiment in ancient straight cry
stating:

You've now found your soul so sing all
your song, as fear or doubt cannot haunt
where you belong. Your flesh fits and my
measure's this gift; go, weave the thread of life's
ageless truth twining timeless within your
spirit, and tell of what is to all
those who are yet to cross your ever wide
path from this moment onward.

And in tall dreams
with future high hopes
for all those sorts of people
who urge their love not to hide
O’Watts imagines.

DE DANNAN TALL

One standard geometric chariot
has stopped, paused in transit, immobile
in angular repose, nestling atop
a row of poplar trees in thick foliage
three fifths exposed to view, whilst the bottom
unseen, seemingly weightless, rests its ridges
in a cloak of viridescent cotton
wool soft leaves, just forty short yards distant
from her silver form waddling onward,
nose stuck in the grass and oblivious
in the still humid silence to the whorl
above her, swirling low light in rhythmic
crystal perfect colour which trips
across their path.

He sees the seldom lifted
veil slipped revealing the unknowable and stops,
his mind frozen, momentarily awed limpid
by the weird sight, but strangely unshocked
or struck agape in real wonder with
the thing her eyes have not chanced upon; what
his mind has only ever dared to think
exists unknown in fantastical thought.
Ambling headlong straight into the drift
of light, seeking scents to follow and lost
in search of imagined quarry, she sinks
his chance of heading back to the unlocked
gate they entered through several long minutes
ago in night’s last dark breath when his watch
sounded at four, and he motions her by swift
action running down the track, keeping soft
footfalls, heading straight towards the cut-through.

LUAS Red Line

The LUAS stop at Tallaght on a raw
November afternoon is a chill sprawl
of hospitals and shopping malls; a mid-term
pregnant concrete project in construction
sired by the Celtic Tiger, giving birth
to troops of high-viz jackeroos conducting
the business of corporate-ordered paradise.

Trams slip out smooth from wombs of blue and white
hoardings, housing five cranes here, eight cranes there,
pull up the dip and sharply swing a right
through a swathe of hospital and houses
snaking round the winding perimeter
walls and rails of low-rise commercial outlets
along Belgard's dollop of urban countryside;
then down a slope to Kingswood's black cambered
cobblestones and a hamlet of Alpine
style picture postcard abodes in stout set
perfect lines which meander to a standard
stop beside the bare black faery bush at the
Red Cow depot's toy-town-like tram-park.

This commuter bus interchange-complex
awaits a final lay for the sod-fed
turf-green service-landscape to shine complete,
and as our low-slung tram passes over
the M50, past a lumpy scrapheap,
business centres stretch as far as the eye
can see. Harris Hina, an Esso
garage, Electrolux, Woodies DIY
and McDonalds, all merge to a wrapped-neat
blur of consumer-central logo
flags blowing in the breeze at Kylemore
shopper heaven, where a wind-whipped sapling
bends like a fishing rod reeling in the bargains.

Houses start at Bluebell, and a bright horse
and Mother Theresa relief pass in
a slow moment of double-take, startling
the eye to other incongruous sights;
sleek swans and gulls at paddle side by side
along the Grand Canal as a child flings
bread loaf from a buggy at Goldenbridge
whilst dad sparks up then leans against a wall.

An assortment of corporation housing
glides past in a variety of form
from three-storey strip-block flats at Rialto
to one small box of red-brick cottages
at Fatima, where town begins to show
in the barbed razor-wire strung on top
of high walls hugging St James Hospital,
and drunks in garish tracksuits and bubble
jackets dirt-burnished to a lard-like sheen
sup their gargle and stagger befuddled
as the city-centre's pulse begins to beat
in earnest.

At the gatehouse of St Patrick's
scruffy pigeons perch on leafless branches,
a poncho princess alights at Heuston
and the grey stone walls and bricked-up windows
around Smithfield and Four Courts juxtapose
the dilapidation of the Cobblestones
pub with a billowing new commuter
friendly layout running ribbon straight
across O'Connell's heart, through to the
bargain district of the bus station
before lipping round left to terminate
at Connolly, where doors swhoosh open
and we exit and melt into the cold strolling
crowds of Dublin heading homeward.

LIAM

You will always live
buried in a deep beyond
and beckoning to me
from lambent thought's eternal path
through conduits of melancholy.
Your spirit flames alive there
fused within our heart
of sorrow's weathered love
and threads the soul within
the shadow where your spirit
speaks the poem of us all.

Mark's Valentine

Curled red hair like sun-flame
streaming through the ether
of a February day
has captured every moment
of the time it took for love
to ripen, and the suddenness
with which I fell for you;
sensuous butterfly
who makes my spirit quicken
to the music of the thorn-bush
and the cherry blossom
sung in spring to the lilting
beat of love song singing
Karen

TIME

Remember when we laughed at life square on,
in days existing now as only memories held inside,
distanced from this moment
by rotation measure time
we'll never halt
or with any words define?

Words will conjure images
and spark all sorts of trains of thought
careering through the mind,
like kaleidoscopic pictures,
but these we only glimpse upon in passing
with internal eyes
that swiftly frame in wordless abstract
any meaning they divine.

Some things lay beyond
where conscious grasp can't reach,
for time, like truth, is each our own,
unfolds unique to one and all
and lives are lived as days have gone,
no two the same
beyond the passing of horizons by the sun.

And should the echoes of our laughter then return,
when suns now set
outweigh the suns for rising,
will they live with those we leave behind,
when our stream of time no longer flows
and lips of life cease smiling?