It would be easy to miss the poets
in the Farmgate Cafe
encased behind glass
as you sip espressoed coffee
on a Saturday afternoon
in the English Market.
Poems slip by without fuss,
prefer to let you pass
until you’re ready to listen
to your breathing heart
– the minute they sense you ache
for a set of fingernails
with which to grip on to fragile life
ticking like a fading metronome.
Poems are used to coffee drinkers
who turn their backs on them.
Poems become taken forgranted
even when handwritten and hung.
Poets never have the last laugh.
Ink fades gradually away.
I wonder whether the spirits stay
hidden among fushia encased in a water jug.
This was composed in the English Market Farmgate Cafe in Cork Ireland in May 2015
Click on this link please – it leads to “The Walt Whitman Show (14 September)
Warning: it’ll take a minute to load up.
I submit for your consideration:
- Walt Whitman (1819-92) is the greatest of the American poets.
- On Periscope you can meet wonderful, interesting & connecting people.
- Katch.me is the way to save “scopes”.
(You can save video from Persicopes on You Tube & Vimeo – but not the interaction you have with people during scopes.)
Note: I shall publish my readings of Cantos 1-6 in the next few days. My plan is to read, record & share all 34 cantos of “Inferno” by Dante.
This was a bit of an experiment: to learn how to embed a file from Audioboom.com into a WordPress.com blog.
To write a poem now
To write a poem now
fingers all too stale,
Unused soul went to sleep,
Christ rose from the dead,
threw off sheets drenched in blood,
woke up, pushed the stone –
so light and birdsong dawned,
his dream made flesh,
traces linger instead,
as if painted over.
Jesus wrote his poem
on the road to Emmaus,
recovered from Gethsemane.
The words even ascended into Heaven
and were repeated.
To write a poem now…
the least I could do.
“To write a poem now” – read by the poet – my first effort since depression lifted (mp3)
First published 10 November 2011 in “From Bath to Cork with baby Grace (1)”. This was my first effort to write a poem since the lifting of depression. I began it in Ely, near Cambridge UK, & finished the first draft in Cafe Beva, Glanmire, Co Cork.
I sing to the rocks on the road to Roundstone
and they sing of home to me.
I whisper my secrets to blooming heather
and she whispers back to me.
I hum a tune to silver stream that rushes past
and she hums my melody.
I wipe my eyes in the mountain wind
and she cries her heart for me.
I see the sea wave on every tide
and she comes and comes for me.
She’s catching me
by the smile she wants
from the face I’ve written so long.
how much women chase
in search of an image.
She looked deep
deep into the mirror
to where her mother lived.
Inside her fading hair
from where that ghost slept
as if she heard an echo
laugh into eyes
that list their way
long ago before her self
wobbled step after step
away from a haunting house.
She looked deeper now
past the past
into the conundrum of being.
It would soon be time
for her to teach
the metaphysics of daily repentance.