Poetry Ireland Introductions Series 2014 – Series 1: Monday 19th May 2014



I did a reading at the Ronald Art Center a few months ago and it was a very crowded dark room and I dragged I took the poems out of my bag and kind of crowd surfed to the front and then when I got to the front to read my poems I opened the page and it wasn't my poems at all it was the Trinity College fitness center class timetable so no I just I just had to start like Zumba for 25 swimming it was the poet's worst nightmare so I double checked today so I've been in Ireland for about five years and for half of that time I lived in a very tiny one-room cabin down a dirt path at the very end of Bray Head which is a great novelty for someone that grew up nine hours from the ocean on the side of a mountain but it was just a tremendous experience so this first poem is dedicated to that and it's based on that and it's called late night in a cabin on the head this wedding cake was a waste of money my mate says back in daily life after the big event he hacked me off a slice and wrapped it now the moon's pale glare is pooling on the floor of this room that smells of old dinner my own small chaos of noise the only thing rearranging the stifling air I leave it to sit on the steps before the oxygen rush of the distance see it's freezing and that second step is useless I swear to god I'm gonna break my ankle some morning but just now it's holding strong and I'm loving that waste of money now forked out of this dry husk of oil the white ganache stiff at the edges watching the moon's milky reflection a wavering slick on the sea my breath in the cold is a lid a pot on the boil the steam rising into the endless air it's easy to begin to begin thinking there's no one in the world to witness this but me that everyone I ever gave my heart needed me until they didn't that there's nothing moving anywhere at all right now but the sea and me but sitting hunched against the cold with a mouth full of sweetness and shivering that moon and its reflection so just off the wexford to Dublin Road British Bay in County Wicklow is where the next poem is says early one morning the year is 2002 when the Celtic Tiger was still very much on the rampage a stop on route to the city colors were subdued that September morning as though it was still the moon and not the Sun behind the cloud every shapes impure every surface hardly smooth a yacht far off on the horizon look static ink drawn the inshore sea was glassy its waves orderly in parallel lines they're lazy rhythm the only sound when I neared the water's edge I saw it all in my mind's eye a feeding frenzy not long since and before me all along the wetted strip stretching as far as the eye could see the gleaming forms of sprats are fry countless motionless and the hearts and with here and there a mackerel tiger-striped martha gape Gulliver sized among them and within each rising wave glinting like coins and dispersing slowly millions of scales you were like my disease invoice Oh this poem is about a fish the fish I aim to catch the elusive fish when the fisherman opened his long poachers caught a short distance from the sea and laid the elusive fish flesh pink on moss green on the mossy banks at the foot of ban Balban I asked him three questions where did you catch this fish what lure did you use to hook it what net did you use to land it with no answers I walked away that spring morning as bunched Clyde's went galloping across a blue sky towards a trumpet son and swimming along the bottomless ocean of the mind was the fish flesh pink on moss-green leader that day I ruled out from Ross's point in a small boat until I could no longer see the pleated Ridge head of been buildin till the horizon was brimming with rippling water flashing in the sunlight like crumpled tinfoil I laid the oars down and jumped into the water the light in my head still shimmering as I sank under the lullaby of the tides to and fro when I drifted down into the dreaming void of the sea passed the slough was the slough sinking shipwrecks of ex-lovers and the floating unopened treasure chests of unlived dreams as I sink into the sleepless vacuum of the deep somber hunger sharks of guilt hauntingly come into being there prowling screams echoing through the hollow dark I drift further down into my own vast emptiness my driftwood fingers reaching out for the fossils of the Dead the fleurs of lost memory grasping to be remembered glaring like lit mercury on the seabed of the mind then all goes quiet as though I have looked into a cave of silence that had been willing to be listened to and in there I see it moving through what darkness sees on what silence here's the fish flesh pink on moss green but as I drew near to touch it the fish turned as though its photograph had been taken and it vanished leaving behind the vivid presence of absence I have tried again on a key and but still I stand here today on the mossy banks at the fruit of been Bouldin yet now with only two questions to ask the fisherman what lure did you use to hook it what net did you use to land it so I'm turning on the pump and leave a note and on shore and by obey and on shore and he had on from here the first form and the next poem I'm going to read is the first movement that was published those of you who have German the house may know there are a few of ye we recognize the title because I did happen to steal it off in 19th century German pause so the title of the poem is I'm fence tareka in some stand at the window I stood alone Honoka ma Farrell m'hijo GaN dinner ere be a market on who HR the newest or H of Hilla one tine be bono realtor and Aragon II assume you're gone Adri a Greek on more cheer we're a spheric krej of or Shalva havoc a baron Myshkin cream EG Giridhar wala a culture ass petition and layoffs Missoula Dalton I real mass muyabiya t heard the doldrum agony NAR unis Gerald and in yoga Hoonah there was a two degree rise in temperature five thousand years ago as a result a blanket of peace formed over the Neolithic farming settlement in kata fields in north male sometimes looking back can show us what lies ahead if we don't pay attention to the signs the inkling to the last Neolithic farm woman of kata fields that first time it breathes a sigh on your neck why did you brush it aside you should have taken it into your head there was still time to build as a shrine offer crowberry prayers on top of the milk weiss breath hung over the cattle pens you carried on felling and burning spread baskets of kelp and sand on the land the inkling shivered your spine did it come from the ocean it lurked in the middle blackened the horse wormed down to your worry bone years have gone by the cradles lie empty summer is wetter than winter rain drenches the land it quenches the sky you break the skin on the earth with your schlong drive the blade deep with your foot bog water wells from the wound grass lies down in the fields and drowns cattle ball their hunger pains there is only one child in the house you can't shake the inkling it Nikolas raises the back of your hair sly and fat as a tick barley decays and the ground the cow is near dry you must choose between calf and child it is out of your hands

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *