I went abroad in Moanbaun woods last nightThe air was crispy sharp and stars alight
Out of the shadow of an old oak tree
stumbled a tall figure following me.
‘ You’ve left your soul behind your back’ she groaned
‘That weight you bore from birth and never owned
it cost a fierce fortune to germinate
and raise from seed divine now rests in state.’ Underground, earthworms slept on roots below
surface, undisturbed by an angel’s flow.
My body freed from care in time for life
Immortal pest intestate cast without a strife. So all I crave and relish on this crust
is Liberty that rises from the dust.
Pick up thy pen
Pick up thy pen
and run
fingers over paper.
Feel the lines,
they crave your attention.
They deserve your touch.
They will suck the ink from your nib.
I promise
you will come
on the page
and wonder
‘How was that for you’.
Grace
She came – like a story – into words
from roots planted deep in the womb of her mother’s mystery.
She came – like a foal – from that womb,
a filly full of windswept curls.
She crawled on kitchen floors – between legs of chairs –
until she stood steady and strode past barricades and cant.
She rode her way into her biography
on ponies that foostered – she put manners on their stride.
She carries the weight of her imagination on her back
every morning – on her way to school.
Are you awake?
I
“Is anyone awake?” said the man in his kitchen.
Is there anybody out there
whose eyes, however brittle, are awake?
Is there anyone there for me?
Is there anyone I can’t see?
II
What about the people across the ocean?
What about the people across the land?
What about the people by the lakeside,
are they all sleeping?
When will they wake?
When will they rise?
Like Lazarus, or like their sleeping dog?
III
Yes, who are these people
who are awake and are not speaking?
Are they there for me?
Do they have any way to see the difference they make,
the meanings they build,
the hours they swill?
IV
It’s time for tea,
the kettle, she boils.
The bag has been thrown in.
My cup is not empty.
The chemistry is about to begin.
V
Who is asleep?
If you are asleep, may you be woken.
If you are awake, may you sleep.
You may be in the dark
ears perked
listening for the commas
There may be wax
earwigs
waiting to soften and fall
Are you still?
your eyes locked?
doorway rusted overnight
When will you ever earn
the flowers in your ears?
Graveyards are singing,
welcome the sound of dawning insight,
clasp the stave of whispering shadow.
Enter the Beast
She’s crossing muddy waters (song lyrics)
[In honour of Robbin T Milne, painter]
Hang up, hang up
Your summer brushes,
Your daytime rushes
Your morning blushes
Hang up, hang up
She’s crossing muddy waters
Going out on the tide
She is crossing muddy waters
Heading for the other side
Because she has to earn her living
Needs more food to keep her going
The paint, it doesn’t come free
Her paintings don’t grow on trees
Hang up, hang up
Those summer brushes,
Your daytime rushes
Those morning blushes
Hang up, hang up
She’s crossing muddy waters
Hanging out upon the sand
She’s crossing muddy waters
She knows you’ll understand
Because her shoes have all worn thin
And her makeup’s all run dry
You know she’ll never win
Until she can afford to cry.
Hang up, hang up
Your summer brushes,
Your daytime rushes
Your morning blushes
Hang up, hang up
She’s crossing muddy waters
Wading through a cotton field
She’s crossing muddy waters
She’ll never ever yield
Because her eyes are losing light
The glass cracked and out of date
You’ll see her virtigo
And always running late
Hang up, hang up
Those summer brushes,
Those daytime rushes
Those morning blushes
Hang up, hang up …
Did Wordsworth capture daffodils?
Did Wordsworth capture daffodils the way bees in my garden capture nectar?
Did DaVinci capture Mona Lisa’s smile the way black birds capture earthworms?
Did Rodin capture the Gates of Hell like Elton John captured Candles in the Wind?
Was Abelard accurate when he said Heloise captured his heart?
And what about Dante’s Beatrice – was anyone captured?
Did my lover capture me?
Have I captured my love?
The way my earthworms capture …
The way Ansel Adams captured Yesemone
And Walt Whitman captured America.
Have you captured anything recently?
A poem in my pocket
I have a poem in my pocket called itch.
It doesn’t have a name, and it certainly doesn’t have a first or last line.
For all I know it might be an epic, or an epigram.
I don’t know when it’s going to come out, when it will reveal its proclivities, what it’ll mean to my grandchildren.
If it collapses, I don’t know how I will feel.
If it turns into a cancer, I don’t know what I’ll do about it.
I don’t think there is a cure – but there might be a remission.
Louis is an English Setter, probably failed his training as a gundog.
Someone gave him to a rescue centre in Cork. All he wants is attention.
He’s a bit of an itch.
He might be the hero of the poem.
