Women's Christmas

Twenty five years ago
beyond the wedge of winter
there was an early softening,

when the warmth

of a blackened ocean

kissed the rocks

of an ancient coast.

And on the morning

of Nollaig Na Mna
or just before it,

in the brown earth
at the foot of a wall

I was surprised
by a frail yellow thing

against a gush

of dark and calloused green.

That tender whispish first outbreath

of the soft wet ground carried

on its pale, low-sun, filled face
the whole of the spring

and summer flowering that followed.
Untamable thing, plucked,

won't last a hour.

Now: after all this time

the scent of rosemary

I took from your skin

on my hardened hands,

join the primrose,

signaling an end to winter;

frail promises of spring

I would write you poems

a man should not seem desperate

but I would write you poems

I would make you laugh

I would cook you food

and read you stories

and  play songs by Joni Mitchell

where everything is blue.

Ships can pass but

but I know too much

to let one pass

that catches

I will write new poems

maybe in march

as  buds unfold

and winds on beaches

here begin to soften as

gray waters turn blue.

And you change the face

of summer starting and

I dream an end to longing

I look in your eyes

in hope that you are her;

the her I hope can see

inside men who want to look

and wants to meet one.

A her who holds her heavy lust  

In her gentle hands and

the strength of her thighs.

A her who wakes the sun in winter

and holds it back from hell,

who carries the wolf howl

in her smile at autumn,

she that knows the tears of men

are wetter than any other water

on the tip of a finger

that kisses a shoulder

lately bitten.

A woman

that wants

to know

my river

my river was slow and wide
we swam in it then
largely ignored by
a town of hucksters
that turned its back
chasing shillings
visited by dockers,
working-women and us
boys fishing for salmon
catching eels
bamboo canes from Boyd's
and gut from Nestor's
made us hunters
ever hopeful. seldom lucky
women
the dark subject of gossip
and work-less dockers
longing for ships
of shallow draft
that would clear the silt.
Twice a day she chased
the ocean pushing back
rising, falling
limestone skirts
rusty ladders
old mills watching,
now blasted and gone
over the years
she took our shit.
Dirtied.
'till only the very tired
go in.

my river

my river was slow and wide
we swam in it then
largely ignored by
a town of hucksters
that turned its back
chasing shillings
visited by dockers,
working-women and us
boys fishing for salmon
catching eels
bamboo canes from Boyd's
and gut from Nestor's
made us hunters
ever hopeful. seldom lucky
women
the dark subject of gossip
and work-less dockers
longing for ships
of shallow draft
that would clear the silt.
Twice a day she chased
the ocean pushing back
rising, falling
limestone skirts
rusty ladders
old mills watching,
now blasted and gone
over the years
she took our shit.
Dirtied.
'till only the very tired
go in.

doubting soul

I have no difficulty with

the senseless

stupidity of soul

there are many

simple things

not understood.

Take this stone
piece of  

the earth
in darkness

'til Caesar
slashed her 

to pipe shit

beneath a river.

Welling-up I remember

the damp dark night

I climbed in a hole

to save this stone

it has travelled with me
eight hours around the globe
to this land where
blacker stones were hid
i love it's silence and in it see
my grandfathers face,
his blind eyes
eyes he told me Black and Tans
dripped with candle grease
to help him speak of guns

limestone of

the Shannon

simple rock
of my childhood,

grey and hard and sharp

stuff of David's sling

stuff of railway-beds and
schools and churches,
garden-walls and
Georgian homes,
soldiers-barracks, police-stations
nut-houses, cow-sheds prisons
where patriots were shot
and markers for the dead
the grey and cold

to this grey matter
Add life

Mobility

Consciousness

Danger

Daring

and

Willing.

Something wyrd

is happening

before your eyes

Jack

Jack had large fists

curled to a curve

from grasping at things and people

his fingers seldom relaxed

and never now stretched

to make his hands

visible to the world

or those that thought

they knew him.

Jacks tendons shortened

by repeated hurt and

his aversion to the emptiness

that guards relaxation

gave his body a roundness

that those who work 

sweat or slave

for others know.

Whether jack stooped

or crouched it was hard to tell

no man in the forest

in living  memory went

close enough to check,

no one touched Jack nor

witnessed Jack touching another.

things that didn't work

he fixed or kept for parts,

people that didn't work

Jack dismissed  

a man should not seem desperate

a man should not seem desperate

but I would write you poems

I would make you laugh

I would cook you food

and read you stories

and  play songs by Joni Mitchell

where everything is blue.

Ships can pass

but I won’t let one pass

that catches.

I will write new poems

maybe in march

as  buds unfold

and winds on beaches

here begin to soften,

grey waters turn blue.

And as you change the face

of summer starting

I dream an end to longing

I look in your eyes

in hope that you are her;

the her I hope can see

inside men who want to look

and wants to meet one.

A her who holds her heavy lust  

In gentle hands and

the strength of her thighs.

A her who wakes the sun in winter

and holds it back from hell,

who carries the wolf howl

in her smile at autumn,

she that knows the tears of men

are wetter than any other water

on the tip of a finger

that kisses a shoulder

lately bitten.

A woman

that wants

to know

Standards

Mid-April and meaning,

somewhere it means

sand on the wind

and a dry throat.

Elsewhere snow

beyond the reasonable

being tired of ice

and white, cold and

mittens, impatience 

for warmth without wool,

saying bring us light

and sun and green.

In the west of Ireland

in a small city

steeped in war and histories,

for a child in the sixties

it meant gatherings,

groups of boys roaming

collecting logs and old dressers

tires and inner tubes.

Midnight raids to steal

timber for Bealtaine

and the bonfire.

Crazed nights of music and flames

wishes and lost meanings.

But here and now

mid-April means more magic,

greens of chestnut leaves

over Cook Street

back lit yellowed hues.

Trees with skirts of pink 

turning to understated leafiness

after the flowering.

More blossoms opening:

magnolias, lilacs; 

purples and off-whites,

reds in rushes

of silk and velvet 

flashes,bursts 

of yellow furze invasion.

Planters quit pouring coffee and

swinging hammers, 

gather bags boots and shovels, 

move again to the mountains airs.

A butterfly the size of my thumb-nail

flickers blue and cream

over dark rocks on Dallas road

and the hiss of an ocean

delights in me

the ever fresh wonder

of watching

new nakedness emerge

neither tanned nor jaded.

Poisoning

It started after something
looking back it is difficult to see
how it went unseen, but
it wore a dull coloured coat
that helped it to blend into the everyday
and be unacknowledged for so long.

The cracks in the things
that were one began
as I said, after something,
obliterated by what followed;
the coming asunder of things
made sacred by promise.

It appeared simply;
walking down separate
aisles in the grocery store,
and the shopping cart 

arriving between us
at the checkout, as if it knew.

Lunch and supper-times,
once joint meanderings
became a

rushed relay,

the handover growing
always shorter.

Then like breakfast

that stopped altogether.
At the other end bedtimes began
to include silences and chores.
Small ones at first, a few dishes, 

or cushions that needed patting.

All I know is that it stopped
and by the time it did
I was unable to speak about it
we moved into that
bottomless place
between monogamy and leaving.

Now I name it no-nogamy;
commitment to something
that is no more.

only a crushing,

between desire and shame

until something else, happens.

Planter

I see her descending a cut block,

a broken sky upon her back

her face radiant,

throwing her body

into every single stroke

of her work shined shovel

her hair bounces with

each downward step

and for all that effort

she is not convinced.

No high-baller here

neither the evenings

nor the tenting,

neither the fire

nor the consolation

can fill her heart.

It hangs,

calling back from a room

in her future

where an open page

lamp lit

on an old-oak desk

draws black blood

from her fingertips

siphoning her life

into a story.

Women's Christmas

It was twenty five years ago
just beyond the wedge of winter
that comes early where warmth

from off a wild ocean meets

red rocks of our ancient coast.

On the morning of Nollaig Na Mna
or just before it,

in the brown earth
at the foot of a wall

I was surprised
by a frail yellow thing

'gainst a gush

of calloused green.

A tender whispish first outbreath
of the soft wet ground carried

on its pale, low-sun filled face
the whole of the spring

and summer flowering that follows.
Untamable thing

plucked would not last a hour.

now after all this time the scent

of rosemary on your skin and

on my time hardened hands,

join the primrose

signals of the end of winter,

frail promise of spring

it's coming

Your immanence leaves

taller trees still 

beautifully bare

Grey lithe limbed 
stretch touching 
a swipe swirled canopy.

Below the shrubbery; 

bud and early blossom,

presage green leafy fullness

Intricate tight locked 

layered fleshy pockets

poised and pointed
ready to unfold, 

a timely ordinary 

miracle.

Passion prompted endless 

cyclical blooming.

No neocortex yearning 
for a few days off this year.

No: a bodied

root stem limb

twig bud leaf

fruit and flower.

Surrender 

to the push of

The black ground,

To the pull of

light's  longing.
Summer is coming

Hacky sack

He does not know

where it goes

but it does

it goes beneath,
it goes beneath
and behind
the fallen place.

the place where 

loneliness goes to lay

its frozen thought
on those

it tries to trap

the sack flips

from toe to heel
dragged by her shadow

beneath the light
painting the night

the pavement

and winters bite.

Free
her limbs

a prayer

a poise beneath ,

beneath again

behind,

looped
noiseless practice

a graceful arc

heel to heel
curved communion

arching grace.

Do not lay,

no need to lay
conceptions

holes

beneath

her feet

she liked roses

She liked roses

I have watched through nights

for the perfect rose

and would have reached through

black and twisted bars  

near a mansion had I seen one

but what I got was this

It is no perfected rose

for it grew in my own garden

and many times its mother thirsted

while I, sweating, 
neglected

to bring her water

So take it if you choose

wear it in your hair

do it. near a wild sea,

in wind and rain 

set its fragrance free.