when a train is coming
that isn’t
stopping you know
because the
station windows shudder
slightly
vibrating as if rain
hits them
but there isn’t any
a screaming
of brakes that strain
under
the weight of it
heaving
sighing shrieking as
it advances
no haste just speed
a horn
blares its final warning
passing
through at breakneck
speed
its engine churning
making
way to its terminus
wheels
crushing and bruising
the earth
below the moaning
pitches higher
a gust blows
over
******* the noise
dry
but, I missed that one.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
A hush. A fanfare. It begins
As loved ones huddle close
To the marble hearth.
My grandmother’s eye streams
Bitter cold, she says. So is my granda’s
Gravestone – glinting charcoal, that rises
Through a sea of green. An archipelago
Of poinsettias. Words resonate
Off each little island, every city state
With its own legislature. Have you doused
That water on it yet? Have those roses
Seen the end of their days? Quiet, now
First glorious mystery: the resurrection
Of our Lord Jesus Christ. We power on
Standing firm. Forgiveness. Compassion.
Trust; the chant becomes louder
Closer, closer, we cry. I can see Pilate now
Washing his hands. Closer, closer – even louder
They need to make it through. It all depends on us
To light the way. Where are we? Third? Fourth?
Or even further? The beads shimmer as the frenzy
Grows, a pitch higher. Grant it, Lord
Through your mercy, and yours alone:
Bells toll and toll again, seeking the way
It’s time. Anytime now. With just a little push –
Silence. It is finished. A collective sigh
Done for another year. Did all we could
To save those souls; they’ll make it this time around
I’m sure of it. The crowd swells, swiveling the map
Of the yard, inspecting the atlas to no end.
We don’t stay long. Granny’s cold. She’s satisfied
She’s stood for pretty long.
My mate says we sleep till the time; I hope he’s right
I’d rather they rest than run, stay out of sight.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
A C H T U N G
acht neun acht sechs vier fünf zwo
sechs drei eins fünf sieben acht null
the radio spews over and over again
void of meaning. or so they want
us to think as the concrete wall
keeps standing. they came to liberate us
which they did. of thought of speech
of word. see the ashen blocks sit
aren’t they pretty? as dark red blotches
stain their smooth surfaces like lipstick on
wine glasses. an old fan turns slowly
in a dusty room just south of
Leipzig. men dream of hazy Stalinist façades
as she brings a cigarette to her
rouged lips. Belomorkanal. the rusted olive uniform
pulls tighter as she draws in. octaves
bellow from the speakers. it is time
to hear from the homeland. how sickles
gleam for the Union just like they
did for Lenin. we don’t talk about
him now though. sickles don’t gleam here
like they ought to. the reels revolve
unforgiving to the cry of a winter’s
night. the ruby snow glints in torchlight.
the night goes on. it has to.
sieben sechs vier zwo neun drei sechs
eins sieben null sechs acht fünf sieben
E N D E
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
There are days where we meet up
To walk under cool crisp skies
Made up of indigoes, lilacs and light crimsons
Sunnier afternoons. Skimming to and fro
The slates of English Street. The plains of Sprucefield
Sprawling in front of us. Boulevards of Cookstown
That stretch far and wide, skirted with shops
Owned by unloved mannequins. We journey further
In our red Nissan Silvia, with the roll-down windows
With a pile of yellowed copies of the Beano in the back.
Mine, of course. I like to read. You taught me to.
Blur upon blur, we share whispers with each other
The alphabet, songs. I can count to ten, on my own. I did it once
In Marks & Spencer. Everyone was proud.
Taking our bag of tricks with us, we sup from place to place
Chicken nugget Happy Meals. Crumbs of a german biscuit.
Half of a sausage roll at the Trian. Twilight falls, the blurs
Become darker, curiouser. Soon I am home. The day is done.
There are other days where we meet up
Under a slightly greyer tinge. I laugh
I can’t change that, I tell you. The weather sometimes.
Less skimming, less journeying. Sometimes I’ll say
Remember that red Silvia? All the places we used to go?
But there’s no answer. The whispers have gone.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Is a chemical your body releases
When you hug someone for twenty seconds
Or more. It churns through the bloodstream, direct to the
Brain, as we hold to each other
Tightly, intertwined. You gain more trust
In the other person that way. Or so Wikipedia said.
I feel your hot breath sting below my cheek, the hairs
Prickle with something –
Something I wouldn’t want to disclose with you right now.
A dull roar from the pit of my stomach acknowledges itself:
‘Beastly, beastly’ I cry. I say it again. No one hears. I am left
In the shadows of my own dreams, dragged down by ribbons
That coil and recoil themselves around my ankles.
Just one more breath. Just one...
When we hug for twenty seconds or more
Is it released? Or is it something else?
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
I listened to our song today.
Amongst all the cadential points
Sustained pedal, ostinati in left hand
The upward leaps that waltzed passionately
Through the 12/8; trillando e poco rubato
I thought I saw you. But within a crescendo
You were gone. Just a trace
The senza tempo had moved on.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
I shall go to the woods
One summer’s afternoon.
I shall go to hear the cuckoo cry
And listen to the jackdaw croon.
I shall go to seek shelter from the summer heat
Against the cool of the tree bark.
The mantra of old evergreen pines is heard:
Tales of Norse gods, and their lark.
I shall go to visit the heron
Who waits by the stream.
Patiently, she strides down the brook
Until she catches the small bream.
I shall do all these things
Missing the city, where I roam –
I shall go to the woods
And then, I shall go home.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
it starts as
a single
vibration
concert pitch
then
a semibreve.
crotchets
and quavers
the crescendo
builds
notes
scattered.
the bow
lurches;
allegro
e vivace
a melody
is heard.
sweet dulcet
tones
fill the air –
wafting,
singing,
passing us by.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
Bells toll across glens
Calling barren lands to greet
Its Gospel, the Word.
Gunfire rumbles, a
Hungry scream echoes over
The waves, to Tory.
Wind howls. The windows,
Small, chatter: Níl aon tinteán
Mar do thinteán féin.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
The sullen clouds of grey cloak the coast
As the ice cold Cuan whispers upon the land.
I brought in the wreath. Coloured of a small tortoiseshell,
Looking unfamiliar amongst the sea-foam whites and glossy kelp
Greens. Made up of colours that had long since passed.
How we laughed! How this saved soul
Did not plan to take into our blood red wines
Our creamy, fleshy breads
Our cannibalisation.
Silence. Then we turn towards you
Immaculate, pure, in royal blue
Just like the Lady herself.
Peaceful, not a shudder, not a blink –
I remember, in less still times,
Your clouded eye. Misty, cyan,
Like a raging whirlpool on the Lough.
Sullen tones fill the room of an old stereo, bound by the Lord
Disturbing the peace, making the silence
Louder – between us. We decide we’ve had enough
We’ve spent too much time thinking our own thoughts
Each other's voices echoing discordantly, incessant.
We leave you on your horizontal throne
Your floral subjects surrounding you
A grip on your pendant of mysteries.
The door closes. A blurred cold glow emits into the wastelands
The frosted windows of your soulless palace.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC