Firefly

Last night

wandered completely
through the terminal
In the morning
some October
a sort of sunlight
slides down the building

These spaces surrounded

by effigies of love
burn a little less
Across the balconies
familiar bodies
fade into each other

Outside the window

heartbreaks
tripped on the street
faces fly in the face of another
shadows lost
in the brown glass hulk
of Alfa-Bank
and another woman waits
for her song to be sung

Late for something

lost voices
turn the corner again
These places
by 9:45
will be touched
by nothing more
than low blue flames
and the noise of afterburners

Out by the airport

a car door slammed
Wings rise in the sky
like a photograph
Someone took a walk
in the woods today

Born from concrete
and the noise of aeroplanes
It is not unusual
to be aimless in nature
 
Do not remember
It will leave you breathless
leaning from the window-ledge

Today they held a parade

The long dark steps
and big salutes
will not be interrupted
in their cursed trajectory
 
A new holiday
a distant celebration
Like always
the patriots have got there first
 
to straighten up their arms
in a hopeless march
Deep in different streets
millions of bones are rolling
into dust
 
and someone
took a walk in the woods today

These spaces

these creations
dragged moments of speech
across Moscow Warsaw and Kiev

Do not remember

It will leave you breathless
leaning from the window-ledge
 
At night there are fireflies
 
I am not the one
who draws you here




from Lost Republics (Salmon Poetry, 2008)

1st May

 

The Palace

The cobblestones have been cleaned of blood.
With the sun they almost shine in the morning.

Three young women walk in Pushkin’s steps.
Mapping their way around the palace.
 
Shouts from on top of frozen water.
The others are running in the wrong direction.
 
Where are we going through the deep snow?
Deep through the snow where everyone goes.

I have seen these faces in silent movies,

brushing against a Cossack’s blade.

I have listened for horses coming up the street
and the tiny knocks on apartment doors.

I have run my fingers along the window-ledge,
looked for heads split open like water melons.
 
Where are we going deep through the snow?
Through the deep snow where everyone goes.

Past the girls out walking towards the port,

pulled my collar tight when I heard the bullets.

I have held my breath against the frozen wind,

waiting for the air to be light and clean.

I have left my initials on the frosted glass
of galleries and stations from here to Siberia.

The cobblestones have been cleaned of blood.
With the sun they almost shine in the morning.




from Lost Republics (Salmon Poetry, 2008)

Mr. Monck

16 Earlsfort Terrace,

Dublin 2


Here Mr.Monck first made
electrical measurement of starlight,
around the corner from the synagogue
and all the ancient gauging of God.

So we carry on:
to measure the pressure
of effervescence,
the weight of joy
on some,
the length of sadness,
the depth of sin,
the carbons and proteins that hold us together.

Down long dark lines

of cobble and leaves,
it finally arrived; on Adelaide Road
I hear the hoofing

of ladies and gentlemen
who still have miles to go.





from Strasbourg (Salmon Poetry, 2010) / also published in MARKS (The Stinging Fly & Circa Magazine)

Ship Street

the castle sits on top

of streams and remains

buried deep in the solid

tracts of all that time

passed since founding

since walls formed

over forgotten gold and silver

running beneath us

in underground seams

another thing undiscovered

like the bore holes

and well shafts silted over

half driven into the world

our small communications

measured in torsion

our paw prints marked

on iron railings and steps

straightened up on exit

tunnels left to fold themselves

back into the earth




from Strasbourg (Salmon Poetry, 2010)

Attendant

I am waiting here for the running of the bulls
by the broken chassis and humming bird voices
the tears of candles melting from the balcony
and the perfume of burning funeral flowers

I am waiting here for the turning of the tides
by the foundation walls and cracked Grecian tiles
the fundamental noises deep beneath the oceans
dead gulls pulled down strangled shores

I am waiting here for trumpet players
to go passing by in golden caskets
for the flaming wheels and dancing girls
feathers waving in concentric circles

I am waiting here for the revolution
from deep in the mud of our hearts' surrounds
the pulses and shudders of the final moments
the new edge of love the razor waves

I am waiting here for Venetian vases
expectant ashes and the last exploration
the citizens and me go dragging our heels
laying down our markers on sinking ground




from Strasbourg, (Salmon Poetry 2010) / published in The Stinging Fly Winter 2009 / 2010

Dark Green Water

this dark green water
dulled by rain clouds
hung over rusted
barn buildings and outhouses

corrugated shelters
barely standing
by rested rolling stock
and motorway plumage

cable
              lines
                          broken

pieces of tile and porcelain
scattered on the tarmac
in heaps behind the depot
will be washed away

into effluent and leaves
become ancient someday
buried in the groundswell
fingerprints erased

          through units of foliage
flow slightly towards the road
between cattle batches
and cellular masts

deep behind the fields
bells ring     hopefuls
hobble up and down
stone streets and the small
city walls

seeds to be sown

tired pools of nightmare
reflect the spectrum
caught on spare branches
air and space fought for

every evening


             *


substation warning lights
dip in the distance
vast all our carbon remains
breathing in time

with the carriage sway

track clicks our measure
light flickers in darkness
final actions boxed objects
dissolve in due course

outlines

             hair
             tooth
             and
             nail

but we
do not own this
we are not planters

we are transit
from one place to the next

aiming our greetings
and appointments

at satellites
and outposts

at the end of imagination





from Strasbourg, (Salmon Poetry 2010) / published in The American Poetry Journal #10

Galway Reading

Reading at Dublin Book Festival

SATURDAY 5 MARCH 1.15pm: The Cube, Project Arts Centre, Essex Street, Dublin 2

DUBLIN, ITS PLACE IN POETRY in association with Dublin UNESCO City of Literature

Peter Sirr, Gerard Smyth, Michael O’Loughlin, Iggy McGovern, Jessie Lendennie,

Alan Jude Moore, Máighréad Medbh

Tickets: €5 – all tickets can be exchanged at the event for €5 Dublin Book Festival Bookshop Voucher! Click here to BOOK NOW!! or telephone the Project Arts Centre 01 8819614 / 01 8819613.

&

SUNDAY 6 MARCH 12.15pm: Come Celebrate!
Main Stage, City Hall, Dublin 2
SALMON POETRY: 30TH ANNIVERSARY
Anne Le Marquand Hartigan, Nessa O’Mahony, Maurice Harmon, Patrick Chapman
Admission Free – no booking necessary!

There's other stuff as well of course; the full programme of the Dublin Book Festival can be found here.

U.S.A.

Got back last week from the USA where I did readings in Pittsburgh and Washington DC. Big thanks to everyone at The New Yinzer Presents reading series in Pittsburgh and to Manuel in DC for hosting the Salmon Poetry reading at his Pigment Art Studios in Adams Morgan. All went well, all was good. Until the next time America...