Saturday, February 17, 2018

Honesty and recognition.

Two brave souls believe in your book,
and would like to see its plaited
letters track closest to the contours

of love. That will come fall show sit
sue sing and grain the faithfulness
of a champion under God your head has

taken refuge in. A word crop cut from
branches of them. Smart sharp particles,
stripped sheaves woven and whispering

a silken fresh-mouthed point by point
commitment in the act of setting up
finely formed protection of an early

age-old bookmate. Compositional charm
and lock, dark and speckled, black and
curling, melancholic, mournful, drawn

mystical, religious, from the calf
to the oil of equations, a clever
skilled comportment that is worthy

of acknowledgement for yourself and
everyone. Mortality under that head
a blank body supervising Sisyphus

it was difficult for you to get rid
of. That state of loneliness you were
in comparable to the main goal

O Music far away, the cloudy stone
you swallowed has established Her.

Dublin February 2018

Inspirational source text was a poem by Nessa O'Mahony I saw on her Facebook. This poem bears no resemblance to its inspiration with a handful of words perhaps the same, most being totally different.

Later I Sing

Overnight a blue-blood moon on the sea's clear water,
their voices sloshing through an open window, recurrent
light in the evening skies stretch out in waves, mermen
of mauve that murmur from the harbour. Rumbling

on the road slowly sprung the future time backs out
a vast breath and buzz of human birdsong. Come fly
with me across the sea new age beauty tools of rage

spring much like life, this shadow noise a tiny ego.
Hopes newly thrive sight through from what next
door a crashing quay of building's beep, mid-morning's

prayer waking from fear, clops quiet upon the pillow.
The year's roar in tooth and claw from the safety
of a honking car, chained our beaks one last time,

in such voices of our sea-worn breath that opens doors
when morn comes round, and the mere fact of our existence
remains, flickering naïve their wonder that has come.

Powerful it coasters out, enters our minds, even
in these days of endless ordinary language, magical
opens up our returning tribe of Her spiritual mermen.

(Write-thru of Rising Late by Derek Mahon.)