Thursday, December 04, 2008
Some things ended in York, some things have started in Edinburgh. I'm thankful that there's more of the second thing than the first. Here's some new stuff, workshopped this week.
These black waves belong to fish
and those spirits whose rumours disturb
our sleep. I lie and imagine myself
among bogland, or watching the rocks
drift into our kenning; but the song
of Oisín flits around in the darkness –
taunting my ears with deep rhythms –
I curse my heart-weakness.
Never again did man see Eden,
and I may never see Achill again.
Memory begins to blur and distort.
The face that sent me to sea
turns to the fatal cast of Moses
still in Moab, Canaan left untouched.
And now I have a book, for my sins,
though I fear that my brothers may forgive
more than Him. I have burned true words,
enraged in my ignorance, and those flames
have enlightened every marvel I’ve seen;
yet I pray in His name I’ll see Achill again.
Tonight I dreamed. I heard
Him call me: Brendan, come home.
No more than a man may measure the ocean
may he see all My wonders in his life.
Come home to the monks of your fatherland.
We have crossed the last time this horizon;
black cliffs rise up and gulls whisper
in the distance. I see the glow of white
blossom, hear singing from the shoreline,
and I know I may never see Achill again.
You! Me! Dancing!
It barely matters
that our morningwatch
of major chords
sweeps away the ghosts
of thorn-woven ruins.
Our smallness remains.
Sun chases grey into black,
houses rise like bruises
from the sickly patchwork
of hesitant string-picks.
Dust rises and towers rise
as starlight forges factories
from the shadows, building
from a frenzy of dischords.
Our dancefloor of nuclear beats
remind me of no earthly
thing more than your eyes
under the flashing blue
and violet light.
A stray reclined in the garden, beneath
a rare open sky in a gloomy summer
which deepened the glamour of its starbath,
untanning itself in the distant glimmer.
It shot off into the hedgerow, torchlight
hot on its tail. The night’s only variety
was the blue-red blink of a red-eye flight
weaving through Orion en route to the city.
That was all; goodnight to woods.
Reeled indoors by the sluggish hum
of my plasma TV, I felt the certitude
of the right thing done. Up next was some
documentary: On our tiny planet
life was created; if this delicate
balance has just once been repeated, as yet
we don’t know. It seemed something like fate.
Thanks for reading,