On a Greek Village (A Fragment)
The gods have turned the houses into light,
the whiteness a parody of snow.
An untreelike tree,
witches caught turning their safe-cracker hands.
Cripped by disregard, not an arboreal miracle,
a faded portrait parsimonious with leaves.
Ready to recant its hope of Summer,
a quiet surrender down to witless roots.
The train arrives late.
It is full of animals.
A late moonday. Not much Sun.
We stand as actors.
There are big voices above us.
Faces fall at our feet.
Many skies crash together.
It is a terrible affliction
to be scared of something you love.
A rain hawk circles in the dawn.
The dawn uncovers the trees;
the trees lead to a forest.
The forest sinks into the damp earth;
the damp earth waters the stones.
Stones are under a rain hawk -
a rain hawk circles in the dawn
a rain hawk circles in the dawn.
O tell me about a snoddy gumboot of a soul;
black as Guinness - a drinker of dirty water;
a wordsmith, the conjurer of fumbler; bearer
of a laugh and pork sausages, a stout fellow
with the learning as big as the Cork and Kerry Mountains -
you crazy bloody genius you.
Rows of silverheads bob sideways
as the god eaters gather in the aisle
and an angel with trainers dances under her chair.
A rosenkranz slides between mapped fingers
and a man in green holds a book high in triumph.
Belief has no greater strength than the word.
Outside the traffic.
Maths In The Park (For Marzena)
Park divided by ducks is standard
Dogs plus leads is dictatorship
Sun minus light is evening
Eyes multiplied by hair is laughter
Love minus pity is selfless
Affection multiplied by love is adoration
Hate minus passion is military
Devotion divided by sense is religion
The world divided by humanity is paradise.
Broken Box of Spiders
Why should I care about the past?
a broken box of spiders.
Why should I admire such a lot of paint?
rain is just a lot of water, the sun a light
that is thin in winter, the rest expected,
comfortable and lazy to the eye.
Let me climb out of a ditch next to a road,
and sniff the night air, a damaged seed.
Death of a Poem
Found dead in my study; lines strewn across the floor;
the slaughter of an unborn, a virgin text.
the sun electric, the burnt grass of the next life
that salinates the sea; an apple of the stars;
a dye stone; freedom as a whore and ghost of poets.
And the final pathos:
there are many ways of being dead before death.
Have thou not compassion for my sicknesse?
O fatall desire for your face in heav`n
Behold love`s revenge for my wickedness
That I did treasure you for the while
More than God`s starres in moonlight night
Yet I so foolish did not take his heed
So now am punished with great speede
Blinded by visage, and lost of holie light.