Issue #1 of The Burning Bush 2

Open publication - Free publishing - More ireland

National

flags wave on the precipice
lead down to the sound

of horns and harps

unknown songs
dictate the pace
heavy boots

thumping slabs in time

flags wave on the precipice
music plays
from deep historic drains

how little we know of these others
these patriots using our names

speaking of indivisibility
from out on the other side







from Strasbourg (Salmon Poetry, 2010)

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)

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

Commute # 1

rats run under the track
the tracks are rat riddled
we travel on skeleton trains
carting our bones over the river
like cells in blood pumped
around the body; falling leaves
and creaking voiced stations
wait for us


the shopping bags and boys
in nylon suits take up space
left by women of a certain age
encased in proteins and immunitas
wrapped in hope against decay
the throwaway brides fancying
fast affairs in warmer places;
dead flowers in October streams


in Polish the bank advertisement
is the same as the native –
only words have been reshaped
as if all language works one way
discrepancies eradicated
by keen interest rates or photographs
of a telephonist smiling
back through the grubby window


by the shaking of hands
the secrecy of backrooms
and done deals of dirty governments;
the rats run under the track
the tracks are rat riddled
we rattle through on skeleton trains
wait for autumn leaves to fall
for some sign of grace

Refoundation

Shine light on the edge of the square
and there a clutch of the creatures
brass necks and ostrich eyes
guffaw grins and slapped sore thighs


walk without waking through the lanes
the baton charge and horseback riders
weighing up with pounds and ounces
how to stop these kilograms


from taking hold and spreading over
the marble halls and archways     now
calculate in museums of science
the length and breadth of grotesques


the passing down of tiny charters
the illness of self delusion     creeping
quicksand rising around
bonded children’s necks


shine a light on the square
illumination and refoundation
impossible words to comprehend
for old grey men with ostrich heads

Pipeline | Italian

Condutture

Quando esci in balcone
sospesa sul ciglio del 15° piano
ti protendi nell’aria
come potendola toccare
e la attraversi come se fosse
una specie di cosmo
la cui mappa e tragitti sono noti

e le nozioni che lei aveva
su particelle degli esseri umani
che spariscono nell’abbraccio di un altro
o in leggi naturali assolute

pensi a questo poi no
a questo livello
l’ossigeno non serve
puoi allungarti e toccare
la coda alle comete
riportando indietro le fiamme
in risposta alle di lei domande
sulla fisica delle cose

appoggiato sul ciglio del 15° piano
senti il calore della città sotto di te
fughe di vapore e stazioni di metrò

mentre ti allunghi per afferrare l’aria
sogni che dondolano su cavi nascosti
tutte queste condutture e connessioni
ci hanno portati su un’isola.




Alan Jude Moore / Translation by Rita Castigli

Pipeline | Russian

Вытяжки

 

когда выходишь на балкон
прикреплённый к стене на 15-м этаже
попадаешь на воздух как в космос
потянись и дотронься рукой
пробегись по нему
как по карте звёздного неба
у себя на стене


всё что знала она
из чего состоит человек
исчезает в объятьях другого
пропадает в законах природы


ныне думаешь обо всём об этом
на ином уровне
кислород тебе больше не нужен
дотягиваешься и хватаешь
кометы за хвост
отвечаешь огнём на её вопросы
о законах природы


отдохни на краю на 15-м этаже
ощути по собой городское
жаркое жерло
вытяжки трубы метро


тянешься хватаешься за воздух
мечты на невидимых проводах
эти вытяжки каналы и связи
привели нас на остров








Alan Jude Moore / Перевод с английского Александра Беляева (Translation from English by Alexander Belyaev)

Poems in 3:AM Magazine

A couple of poems from Lost Republics, along with a new poem, have just been published at 3:AM Magazine. There's also a photo of the inside of a lift made out of a door from an old Aeroflot plane. It's all at the link.

Passing the Telegraph

Clouds open over the line
and fires burn somewhere across the flat topography.
We are crawling through the snow like an endless hunk of metal.
When we get there I will have nothing to tell you.
Only that along the way we were seated in carriage number five,
drew breath through the door that would not shut completely
and drank beers with a girl from Peter.


Trees continue across the plain.
It’s deep out there in the space between us.
A dog lay down on the platform at Tver
and maybe on kinder days was fed sausage by old ladies.
It’s harder now to look into peoples eyes
and reprimand them for having left
another living thing half dead and alone.


Bursts of daylight exhausted like neon explosions.
Night falls past the silent tapping of telegraph poles.
Having sold themselves across the Empire,
the women of the Kavkaz gather up their bags
and sit for a while beneath fluorescent lights.
Fires are burning somewhere on the flats;
we are waiting for the station to take us in.






(from Lost Republics, Salmon Poetry, 2008)

Moscow Calling

Poems from "BLACK STATE CARS" were recently published in Russian by the Moscow literary journal, NOVAYA JUNOST.

Poems in Italian

Some poems published in translation by Italian literary journal PELAGOS. They did a special Irish edition and several Irish poets are included in the issue.