Make dirty a page of new.
My own design, my own to choose.
I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong
to do. To bring the past upon a
page so new. There are no
conjunctions, there is no hope
of Christ redeem. There is none
of that when white becomes
There fault is mine, all here
agree clear. The burden
of resurrection is one
that Pontius could understand.
The sin of woman outmatches
sin of man.
Wounds well sutured still
tear in time.
I don’t care to believe this,
the way I am.
But to die, to be true – the
larks of jealous tone colour
my name and actions of all.
To try my triumph,
to fail my past.
To colour anything so darling is
sharpened with my own mouth’s axe.
My heart has beat
a thousand time, a space of minutes
on tomorrow’s eve – this night.
Jealous Amor, will I see him
tonight? Who inited that beast
with that ignoble heart.
The one whose presence
instant one knows.
Or shall my dancing companion
be one of Lust?
The girl with the eyes,
so large, no room for a heart.
To see her dance one could
assume so pure – but after
the midnight gong he ride
turns wicked, her ribbons down
Shall I dine tonight with Monsieur
Grá? The one whose fluent tongue
entraps the public all?
Stare through candle light,
darling guest of the ball.
Who intervenes all the guests,
who urges mother to pull up
That feeds the embers of jealous rage,
The one whose wand turns men’s whispered
to quiet rage.
He’s great friends to all mentioned above,
though oft times, slandered
as well as by all.
If he sit across dining table,
I’ll treat him truly, and
honour him above all.
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.
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
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
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.
Her denomination of faith was
called, ‘saved by a technicality’.
And that’s how she lived – in the best
of ways. Cailín of Eastern wind
that shallowed the lakes and breathed
warmth on the hearth.