The worls is a festive table, at a large table we dine. A heavenly tree above it spreads its branches above the seas: a sun shines in its roots, a moon in its crown. Only the roots are a zenith and mildly the edges of the universe glow, but stil the centre nests everywhere,
The fruits are falling Jostling Caressing together Breathless and oblivious Over the body of the earth They rot under one name A high fence Keeps vigil over their flesh Reflects itself in the rounded seeds Every spring it rises higher Fences further round That bellied splice Of names Shapes And colours And
The breath of the dead warms the seeds Unswaddles their frozen hearts And shivering with unsaid messages It scatters the sting from their eyes The seeds begin to see in a dark home In the long nights they knock on the walls A night breeze boils in the oil lamps – The lanterns die
THE DREAMS OF THE SEEDS Read More »
a river of cloud drowns the beacons crane lights and petrol signs float along the street in alleyways people hold on to the edge of creation to lowered faces that meet them in the rain the cadence of coins dropped in pools of water the ripple of aeroplanes overhead lonely horses slip
Clouds open over the line and fires burn somewhere across the flat topography. We are crawling through the snow like an endless hunk of metal. When we get there I will have nothing to tell you. Only that along the way we were seated in carriage number five, drew breath through the door that would
Passing the Telegraphs Read More »
1. They won’t grow there my neighbour said in April – no foreign thing will ever grow in the soil of Umbria The Roman tried and we told him – besides it is too early hereabouts to think of planting seed-potatoes And furthermore the moon is growing: no seed will take that is
Irish Seed-Potatoes Read More »
1. Again I heard the horse Last week Again it caught me by surprise Hoofbeats On the hard street A space between the notes And then The fading into silence The silences between the things That come to mind… A single summer voice One night in 1990 Going home alone Olé Olé Olé
Ranelagh Road Revisited Read More »
They’ve kept the servant sitting up; It’s late again, Their fire burning so high they’ve opened a door, And from her room She hears them settling the great questions: How treat a case Of green-sickness, or again, one of unrequited love? The fire burns down, They close the door. She was writing to
i How on earth did she manage That journey on her own? When she was a young woman They had plenty to keep them busy, They were small, they felt queasy, They gripped a pillar in the shade And held on, And as for leaving home – Still, the trains have never changed, They
It is good for a drunk to keep quiet Get going Do not bend over, get out of here Like a sculpture made out of light Go into the cold sea darkness Let me look for you Around the marble columns of delusion Let me find you In the history of water, and in
