Nothing happens. Ireland’s
(Her weather still) peaceful.
But times across the waves
The wind comes, the rain comes,
And no rainbow’s yet made
To promise charm even
In chaos. Just chaos,
And its wake is nothing
Again, broken light un-
Broken into clearness.
Covenants make nothing
Happen—and if there were
Only gods to geld us
Into belief? But as
The Irish weather, so.
We will stay changeable.
Dawn Night like a sheet lifting, In thin light we lie still, Beasts resting on in this Golden fog of first day; Warm arms soon vine, sifting Slack flesh for the supple, Sudden pleasure, each wish Fulfilled before it’s made
Written in Rain Like children’s footsteps, pit-pat on the pane. Does this rain touch your skin that I cannot? Cloudy eyes, storm-swaddled planets, Search the blackwetblurred reflection— Visages come. Yes, but not the sought one.
[My first blog post, back in 2009, was a far different version of the poem below. I removed it from the site when I started blogging again in 2013, and had no plans to revisit it. But for some reason, more than six years after I first wrote it, I have started writing it again—and have made it much shorter if not much else. So, gentle poem, welcome back to the internet. (And great Achilles will be sent once more to Troy!)]
The deepest past’s mere meters down, a lot of dust no doubt to those who made it, but even ground this trodden—boots, bare soles— is air to a bomb. A wall that rose, and was buried in time,
rises again, its surface glass- like rock, blue as movie-star-eyes. The weathered ones whose hands glossed the standing stone, like skies over Ur long watched for sterile signs of things to pass, have passed.
Colours, populous in nature, do not penetrate the iris, but glass can well invade her eyes, two dirt-red pebbles smoothed by salt water. Something happens with life, some stray contour
around the side of natural beauty shakes its skin and crumbles into want. A thimbleful of chancing chemicals falls in a careful mess, carelessness diluting the dead-still,
slow-dying purity of rock. The girl picks lapis lazuli from her eyes. Fired up and dropped, the shrapnel of history shattered her sight. Stop. Do not worry. Even walls cannot last.
the wand of sage Wergilius turns many a magic trick and given tongues the streams and woods would surely speak of it but Herculean though it stands as proud as elm in leaf without simple Alexis’ hands it could but wave itself
[A meagre offering in honour of the birth of Publius Vergilius Maro on this day in 70 BCE.]
Phoebus descends on Megara, beats down the crops with his coming, anxious so to see the poet shaping in song the trip from Troy to Rome; but the healer in his eagerness falls in weight too great even for this mortal of immortal fame, who pales beneath the gaze of needy gods.
Now from Andes to the Andes Virgil’s dancing lines, lightfoot and firebright, sound, but no more the slow voice speaks fleet Latin, spells the mouth out incantation; still, folding its bones, from Bangalore, from Beijing to Brindisi, the sea holds benthic peacefulness, and all is quietly full of the sound of surrounding water: heavy in its depth and gravity, light as light saturating sky, inseparable, like wind in air, or woven in sea like the smoky foam wringing the waving wash; still life beats on, numbers’ and nature’s forces soaking the sponge of brain, of skin, of eye, of ear, of lung, of gill; and still from distant rooftops twists the smoke—welcome or war. See them!— By campfire, farm–fire, hill–fire, men– at–arms, at ploughs, at pipes, warming to song.