To write a poem now



To write a poem now

To write a poem now
forgotten how,
fingers all too stale,
grown pale.
Unused soul went to sleep,
troubled deep.

Christ rose from the dead,
threw off sheets drenched in blood,
woke up, pushed the stone back
so light and birdsong dawned,
his dream made flesh,

Fear revisited,
traces linger instead,
as if painted over.
Whitewashed 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.



I wrote this in 2011 – shortly after I recovered from a long bout of depression. I began it in Ely near Cambridge UK, & finished the first draft in my local much-loved haunt Cafe Beva, Glanmire, Co Cork. 

I wish


I wish

I wish for Plenty:
manna, songs, dancing, smiles
gin, tonic, lime – even porter and champagne

especially the hugs of others
warm hearths for my belly
I wish for nothing less than a place at the next resurrection.

(I found no seat at the last supper.)

What I’m greedy for now lies beyond
nights of sleep, hummingbirds, smoked salmon, diamonds.
Tis daylight peace without end.

(It is a blessing to want.)

My longing rose from the dead on Monday evening
not long after a shrink  spilled her seed on fertile ground
and stones moved in concert.

I wish I knew the secret of how to sow miracles
the way a spirit splits and multiplies
the rising of the sun.

(At least I remember her name.)

There’s nothing like a breath drawn up an elephant’s trunk
nothing like the atmosphere of air
Lazarus found out  – and so did I.

Maybe I’ll remember how to wish next time round the mulberry
– trees breathe, leaves bud again.
There’s plenty to be found.