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POETRY III |
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The Glass Case
The butcher reaches across the gigots -
he could be my father, a little old, a little tired,
a little hint of pleasantness, trying to give us
always what we want, no fat, no grizzle...
a woman near me says that she'd like 4 of those
with the little round bone.
The names of the strange shapes
he, and later I, cut out of the animal
like pieces of an abstract puzzle
remain with me everytime I go to buy
a few chops for the dinner.
The butcher reaches across the gigots
for the centre-loins
they are a deep El Greco red...
"Shall I decapitate the quadruped?"
Old Wiley said to poor women who stood
at their doors viewing the rabbit
held aloft and dead.
He had a wooden leg and cycled a fixed-wheel bicycle.
Poor people stewed a rabbit or a sheepshead.
Old Wiley played cricket too,
his wooden leg resounded across the Green,
an extra wicket.
Strange, we inherit the skills and ways
of our fathers, and the people who peopled their world
stray into a foggy day in November
when all the bits and pieces of ourselves
our pasts and our dismembered presents
gleam in the clean glass
of a moment's forgiveness.
Rita Kelly
Loneliness
The taste of blackberries
by the well at Cosheen pier
In September.
The scolding of oystercatchers
When I picked cockles in the slob
By Inis Laoich.
The banging of fire-crackers
At Halloween,
When I lay broken
in Swift's hospital.
Eugene Daly
Luibh na bhFear Gonta
Asal dall ag grágaíl -
gach grág á saolú
go mall anabaí.
Crúbálann leis
i ngort síonbhriste
ag b'lathaíl na bhfeochadán
is na neantóg
go n-aimseoidh luibh íce éigin
a pholláire, á rá
go bhfuil sí ann.
Michael Davitt
St. John's Wort
A blind ass is braying -
each bray long delayed,
aborted.
He hobbles around
a weather-beaten field
snorting the thistles
and nettles
until some healing herb
will fill his nostril, announcing
she is there.
Translated by John Montague
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North Wind
Tractor and driver
see furrows wasted
behind the plough; there
can be no seedtime
after this sterility.
I am held
on the pewter road
not by buffeting,
but by long pressure
downward on the brain.
Gulls hold like flies
in its amber; waves
cannot break; they hang
while the cliffs flinch.
The coral of the house
is warm; outside, some beast
is silently searching
for entry.
We feel him concentrate
on us: the more we distil
light and heat to defy him,
the more his breath fissures
our rosewall cell.
Roz Cowman
Metamorphosis
(for Liam Brady)
Three weeks to Christmas: established in customary nook
With pints and chat we enter into convivial session
Descending round by round from sobriety's clear view
Of life and truth to a more accommodating and pleasant
Dimly-lit territory where perceptions blur, memory is a pedant
God's gift of reason dissolves in cacophonous cackle
While demons who never drink on duty lurk expectant
To lead unsentinelled spirits into deeper tangles.
Beside me a violin case leaned, dark sarcophagus,
'I was having it repaired,' he said. Inevitably, someone
Asked him for a tune. Divesting himself of superfluous
Street jacket he took his stand and laid fingers upon
Four strings. Forty years I know him, a man fond
Of his jar, raconteur nonpareil, artist in haute couture,
Now he reveals himself as Orpheus, his magic wand
Enchants us, garrulous garglers and sippers more demure
Hush into teetotal silence. Massenet's Meditation,
A theme from Shostakovich, Ó Riada's Mise Éire
Played incidentally in a Dublin pub reclaim us
From the underworld and offer us salvation.
Críostóir Ó'Floinn
The Loner
From forehead to nape
His oiled hair
Sticks out
Like a ducks arse,
His elbow
Making a prisoner
Of his pint,
Crossword half done
An invitation to intrude.
His work-shy fingers
Squeezing
A rollie,
The makings
Fleck
The bar counter,
Tobacco teased
Roach funnel
Paper sucked
Like a cow at
A salt-lick.
He hip-shifts
To his own tune.
His peeled stick body
Coaxed into
A grey white shirt
Short tie
Shiny suit pants,
He woman-watches
In the mirror
Then throws the odd eye
To his blind side,
"Young wans" he'd say
As they'd flitter and titter
Like swallows going south,
"Mighty" he'd say
"Mighty"
And thumb another pint.
Margaret O'Shea
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An Loch
(do Chláire)
Táim ag siúl an dtalamh
is sciatháin fém chroí
tar éis scoraíocht na hoíche aréir
tigh Chlaire.
Thar áit ar bith fén spéir
an Loch go moch
a bhogann allas na setanna
amach mar a bheadh
éan ag caitheamh de
clúmh liath sa chleitigh.
Geiteann an guairdeall go léir, léir;
eala-fhlaitheas lonrach sa tsnámh
lacha-pharthas glórach sa láib
is ballet mómhar na bproimpíní
glé san aer.
Na piobaí ag tumadh
go grinneall ag cumadh
ó-anna is ú-anna
is v-anna na ngéanna ag tuirlingt,
aer-iompróirí aibítire.
Tá lonrachas san uile ní fén spéir
is na healaí ag ithe féir
ag dul i mbun an lae ghlégil
mar a mbínn ag iascach tairníní
snáthaidí ag éaló tríd an bpoll i líon
lán mianta óige ná himionn
ach iad ar gor lastall i Magh Meall,
ina ngathanna solais a ghoinn sinn
is a léimeann ar ais ó uisce
os comhair do thí-se, 'Chlaire,
is an teas am chneasú go hiomlán ar bhinse.
Liam Ó Muirthile
Cobh
Quiet familiarity, melancholy mood
Packs of youths patrolling the streets and park,
hanging on the corners.
Tuesday nights 7.30 The Top Ten,
Rugrats, Bay-Watch and The Simpsons.
Gone from that place where the
shadows and the play of light hold
any meaning. All illusion, no seduction
is worth it walking on thin air,
inside it all. Don't kid yourself
it's all a gimmick. Simple pleasures
of trees in the wind, shopping or
stirring the soup.
Antibiotics, steroids and inhalers.
Sarah Iremonger
Seagull
For you
to look on
the sea
is to sense
freedom;
for my part
I walk
and it comes.
Certainly
my way is
the more pedantic -
I
envy you your
eye,
skimming
seagull-like
across the waves.
Fergal Gaynor
The North Mall
We share a vision of hours and dates
Dreaming together of moss
on the river wall and cement
swinging high above the road.
Of cobbles dumped on the river
bed and bikes rotting like
carcasses of great fish.
Railings buried in the pavement
holding out as I go by trying
to avoid eye contact with the
drunks, so as not to inflame some
deep-rooted grudge and seagulls
reminding me there's more air
than ground.
Sarah Iremonger
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