dán dár chumas
poem I wrote
The wee boat is painfully simple But sure, it must have made light work Of the pathways of the sea, For here it is, blithe boat Afloat but how it’s powered, Heaven knows. In dreams I am never party to its passage I spy it after and only then, aft Poor stowaway of my own imagining.Continue reading “The Maelstrom”
After Seamus Heaney’s “The Underground” I waited until you hunted, Head down in the depths of that first shared wardrobe, for your tie. Muffled by the closet, you unraveled evening plans like silk string The bow of your back, curved as an archer, as you messed and rummaged Babbling your words into my newContinue reading “Going Away Coat”
Don’t forget, but look at the piper, for there’s something loving in the way he cradles the music in his arms. In much the same way as you would hold on to a baby. He holds lightly to what I would cling to, and in the space where holder and held meets is made something new andContinue reading “After the Pipes”
Some handkerchiefs have always been yours; others are those that you have inherited, stolen or been given. Those given come with succour that seems to be weaved into the cloth.
At the age of seven I decided what would be my life’s theme tune, and reminded myself of it 28 years later.
The gloaming is that time in the evening when the light is transforming. In certain places, like Kerry and Cuilleonaughtan and in Sweden in the Summer, the gloaming lasts long enough for a good long walk.
There, in the hand, a small bird Neatly crafted, complete But for one wing One wing in the making One bird in the hand of the Maker The bird in the hand, a soft weight Warm with the lifeblood, Written, sketched, into being Being fleshed, dressed in down Each quill in the hand ofContinue reading “Purpose”
In The Golden Echo Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote “give beauty back to God”. When asked what beauty was, I couldn’t fit the Truth into my hands, and I’m afraid I let the moment pass.
This is revision 2 of this poem. I find myself trying to explain the noises and sensations of swimming at depths I couldn’t possibly know and wouldn’t survive. Dúlemán is a kind of seaweed, collected for food (and other uses). It never grows alone, as one strand, and is ever so fragile, and ever so strong.
After Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, c.1555, Pieter Bruegel
If I write about someone that, whether they know or not, has altered the fabric of me, do I take something from them, is it selfish, or do I carry them, like the finest jewellery, or silver scar?
Two small donkeys, in a field of tattered things.
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