23 February 2017

Swell of the Liffey go,
and away my soul within its waves go.
Tobacco sour turns into tobacco nice
Wave my hair down days
later and I smell it still as I go.
Tobacco smell and North Beach
sand do not leave easily,
and nor would I grant them easy leave to go.

To Dublin City where I met my one,
To Dublin North to consecrate
the meeting of joined words.

Liffey swell
and Nicotine sing.
Shared drinks unite
locked in with trad band and we.

His greyed hair.
Mine blue eyes.
Alone he sits,
with thoughts within.
Dublin man, Dublin true.
Chasing current politics from
de Valera and Collins,
fifty year on
since tainted treaty.

Centrist right governments, Dublin
man says. To my left he sits and
thinks of changed governments.
He’ll vote now Sinn Fein but Adams,
he says, has got to go.

Fifty years of Liffey swells,
of broken hearts and thrown rings in its
beds does it keep.
Fifty years of same Fáill and Gael.
But Dublin stays and so it goes,
with my troubled Dublin man and I

5 February

Do I prefer the ink-stained fingers
to a purple-blue heart?

Little will I care to share.
Little less will I care to know.

Behind covered eyes + quickened pulse
my act never brought me close to this
collapsed heart.

Will I never look up to see God’s command?
Forever will I sit head fitted against
songs of freedom

only made from a purple-blue bruised

My hand grows nicer by the night.
Alone, sit, to this detention of heart’s desire.
‘No not yet’ St Andrew whispers.
‘No not yet despite your heart’s desire.
Trust in me, will you fellows see.’

Listens the beggar beyond belief.

For whom the bell toils

Quieted audience
patty-cake they played and won with
themselves. Their thighs wearing soldiers marks
from a soldiers tune march.

They all would away from Jungle and play
war until their deaths. Saved by the Western world,
ill thought of their graves.

Life to them, saved by faith, was of childish wonder
and even more childish taste.

To those I envy behind my wooden scowl.
To those whom God blesses in his prayers
before he rests.

To those who away and anger by all who didn’t
pass the test.

For whom the bell toils, it ain’t for all. God’ll
only know.

For whom the bell toils, send my regards from this
godforsaken foreign soil.

5 February: Musings

oh what changes + escapes
a single week makes.
A single week.
A single week.
A single shot
of heaven divine in a glass of glennfiddach.
Ach, slán. Slán my dear.
Tonight we will depart well and walk
from the reverberating tracks.
I wish you not to look back.
For I will be watching you walk and I couldn’t bear
you to look.