The June-July Cavan Poetry Page.
Some more poems by Ann Egan.
Dawn Tree
Dawn shafts tree trunk,
frees the wayward to twine
and curl shadows to airy bark.
Glints mellow a dark crown
and stillness moulds the one
- will not stay, will not go -
in glimmering shades of dance
to a myriad of silhouettes,
mystery to its own form.
Sedge Hen
I stand by the lake's edge
as you sail with unbroken purpose,
distancing me from your day.
Your black back curves
like an upturned curragh,
you tread towards the sedges,
their nets heavy with toil
bend to you in welcome.
Privy to your secrets,
they guard your nest,
plying shadow swords
to seclude you from my eye.
Leaves On The Grass ln St. James's
Leaves lie on wavy grass,
their stemmed jig all done,
their horizons are curled
with mottled memories of
rippled breezes they've puffed
with purple lips to sail wind
that whetted them to the cliff.
Earth sighs and rustle music
crescendoed their veins,
rocking them an instant poised
with lullaby logs of voyages
before whispering chasm pitched them
to the seabed where they scrabbled
a place among the many creatures
lying on the leaves of the sea floor.
The following three poems are by Noel King, Tralee.
Pub Talk
Your hands carry the strength of wise
old trees whose edges of branches
skipped my childhood bedroom window.
A dumb-show plasters our faces
a look for the other drinkers
front to our closeness
thoughts, consolation
to each others hearts
likening the mists of individual lives,
lovers we have now
and one for you in the past.
Likening the softness of trees
to the business of your heart.
I condition myself to this
making maximum use of time
moments that take me
on epic adventures to ponder
until we next meet where renewal
gains fresh confidence.
My style I weave from my hero,
while my return is... more ... practical.
Now your touch is the root of it
from hence I follow to my new world.
J.F.K. came to Wexford
Do you remember this road Jack?
Coming home
that June morning
in 1963?
If he hadn't emigrated
you would be
an ordinary local lad?
Your happy motorcade
six months later finished you.
But we had you,
shook your hand.
Our son made it home.
Jackie
You didn't write paint or sing
They talk about the 'Camelot dream',
Is that a cliché? They never left you alone,
did they? You were an icon,
the 'chosen one' of your generation.
Did you ever wonder why?
A light was snatched from you
When your man died by your side.
Did you ever wonder why?
When you added an '0'
some never forgave you
but you needed protection, didn't you?
I met an American today
who cried when I told her.
She shook your hand once on the campaign trail in 1960.
Some poems by Marco Sonzogni, who has sent me material from some of his collections.
Ballynahinch Lake
for Des and Seamus
The utter mountain stays steadfast
Like the word of the poet,
But reflection persuades me
To look out for movement: then I see
Water birds splashing in and out of the lake:
Unheard, freelancers, thoughts that can’t be
Word-weighted in a believable story.
So on your sixtieth spring-cleaned April
I take your worded memories
Back to Ballynahinch,
Where residents will collect them,
And ‘kindly knock them home’:
The key fully turned, the day will be
Seized between the augural times
Of old and new beliefs.
Ballynahinch Lake, 13 April 1999
The Disappearing Prophet
for Seamus
So as we find a spot along the bay we stop
And park where James and Nora used to go.
We walk. Before I ask, you turn to me and say:
"Whatever is given can always be re-imagined.
This is the music of what happens: listen."
Then we continue our walk, in utter silence now,
I behind you, my uncertain steps straightened
By your clear footprints, digging into the sand.
Until they disappear with you in the sea.
I can’t follow you, I can’t swim: so I return
To the car but don’t find it. In its place,
A life jacket and a compass.
All I believe that happened there was vision.
Unknowable Sea
By the light of an insincere moon,
The waves return remains of life
To the awaiting shore: nobody’s
Left of what was once a proud
Crew: bodies and minds sank
Silent in the unknowable sea.
A sudden storm is the hand
That wrote Neptune’s will;
The soft song of the sirens
Will word the memories
Of the life and death
Of a superb sailor.
From the collection Notes of a Naturalist.
In Autumn
In autumn every leaf is with us,
The sky is reached,
The last grapes are the sweetest.
The smoke of fog
Climbs the mountains.
In the evening I experience
The warm forgetfulness
Of the darkened wine,
Of naked bodies.
Frrom Night Sequence.
Night Betrayal
The half-season of short nights is over:
The shepherds have drunk the moon.
Coming down from the mountains.
The rooster stopped singing:
No woman is in the porch
No birds in the vineyards.
By the quenched fire,
The only song left
Is that of a soldier.
Marco Sonzogni
The Margins of the Night
Skimming the last rays of the sun,
The settled snow lights the blood
Of a wounded fox. Driven by thirst,
She escapes to the margins of the night,
Creeping into the safe sleep of the forest.
As the moon beings to move the treetops,
Abandoned by the doves, you take me
To a room of white linen, to a bed soaked
In the scent of your skin. The roses, cleansed,
Will shine tomorrow on greeting balconies.
Marco Sonzogni
The following three poems are by Peggie Gallagher, Sligo.
BELLY LAUGH
You stand behind the men at table,
balance your wheaten cake
like a drum, between your breasts.
You're full of purpose
guiding the butcher knife
beneath crusty slices.
Laughter creases
a sun-weathered face,
ignites hazel eyes,
draws a mouth wide
- clear to the space
of missing teeth
ripples down shoulders,
cascades into the full
roundness of belly.
A belly that carried
all eight of us.
A belly my daughter
berates
FIRST DAY
Blundering through my bags
Gone ... my purse is gone!
bearing a decade
of my palm print.
Out there somewhere
in the ancient city of Prague;
folded Irish notes,
a postal order counterfoil.
Here in Kolej Petrska, room 711,
a westering sun gilds my daughter
Ourr days spread open –
delicate and miraculous
as a new-born baby.
Peggie Gallagher
YOU TELL ME
You cannot remember
Much from your childhoodI can remember:
Your first entrance
Your pulsing head on my palm
Your velvet skin on my breast
I remember your first tooth
Your first step
I remember you
Lifting your baby sister
Because she felt pale
I remember
All three years of you
Wheel her to and fro
To let me rest
I remember you
Bruttering your bread
Belly down on the floor
I remember your anger
When your Dad and I parted
I remember the puppy
Who brought back your laughter
I remember your bitter tears
The day I had
To put that dog down
I remember you
Every time I find
A toy soldier
Peggie Gallagher