THE FLIGHT OF DARKNESS INTO LIGHT
( for my little brother Brian )

Ahhhh....here you
are again.

You who
are here and yet not

here
a shadow tossed aside

a breeze stalking
the shrubberies

the ghost of leaves
foliage on the move

that then: stops

silence solidified
...or did it?

The flight of darkness
into light

suddenly a paw
tentatively becomes a snout

then the all of you
"Friend fox. . !"

I call to you
mind to mind

you looking
as if you've heard

stare at my silent
voice

both of us amazed
you ever so

red before becoming
a shadow tossed aside

a here not here
the flight of darkness into light

a  breeze
stalking the shrubberies

the ghost of leaves.

*

One of my last conversations with my brother( conversations could be 3 hours on the phone )and he told me of a fox he had seen. He asked me why I had never written a poem for him and would I write his experience for him. I did so and it lay there in my scribbly hieroglyph until I managed to decipher my own writing( this is easier said than done). I was going to read it to him at the next phone call but there never was another phone call. The fox and my brother now merging into one in the here/not here.

My brother said that the next time I came over he would bring me to Glendalough and Newgrange was to planed for a later next time. Little did I know that the next time would be for his funeral.

So I was thinking of going on pilgrimage to here so I could place the spirit of him there. Then my friend said out of the blue and not knowing any of this: "I'm going to bring you to Glendalough!" And he did!

So I was able to place my brother here amongst the silence and the beauty. In the little museum they have there....there was a stuffed fox who looked back into the soul  of me. One of the last things Brian and I spoke of was a fox that came to his window and he asked me to write the poem of that. I had written the poem but he never got to hear it. The poem now exists tied to the picture off this fox.

I felt nearer my brother here than at a lonely graveside.

DROWN IN MY OWN TEARS

I walk with
my mother.

I hold her hand
tightly as

she is dead
and might fly away

with the leaves
that scatter before us.

She sees again
with my eyes.

The world
delights her.

I listen to Ray Charles
with her

as I did
when a child

and we both sing
DROWN IN MY OWN TEARS

as she ironed and
ironed.

I lend her my ears
and she laughs

at the Shakespearean usage

Calls me her( as always)
"little nuisance!"

When she died
she moved in with me

borrows my senses
occasionally.

Always she
uses my laughter>

"Death..."
she smirks
"...He don't scare me!"

She sits inside
my head

as I iron
and iron.

"You want the Ray again
Mam?"

"A huh!"

"I think I'll
drown in my own tears!"

THEM ****** DAFFODILS!

"Ah...howya!"
said the ink blot

throwing itself
all over my copy book.

"Jaysus...wait 'til yer teacher
sees this!"

it chortled
proud as punch with itself.

I stare at it
in an almost total disbelief.

My bladder clamours
to be relieved.

I...squeeze
my knees together.

King Blot bloated with
its own self importance

has totally obliterated
the last word I have penned.

"I wandered lonely as a
. . .!"

Teacher snaps it up
with great glee

holding it between
thumb & forefinger

with mock disgust
& real contempt.

"So, Dempsey...ya
wandered lonely as...

. . .an ink blot!"

The class sniggers
( glad it's me - not them ).

He glowers them
into silence.

"Yes...yes...Sir!"
I whimper &

suddenly seeing a loop hole
( I dive )into it.

"It's...it's...show
not tell. . .Sir!"

His glasses flash
smile becomes sneer.

"COME...HERE...BOY!"
he enunciates clearly

each syllable
chiseled into an awed silence.

The cane cuts through the air.
The class winces.

The tips of my fingers
scream in agony.

I dance a hornpipe
of pain

palms tucked
under my oxters.

"Them ****** daffodils!"
I groan

moaning through
my growing tears.

AS GAEILGE
( In Irish )

Dún do shúile
(Close your eyes)                

Codail go lá...mo ghrá séimh.
(Sleep until day...my gentle love) .

Codail go sámh go sámh.
(Sleep peacefully...peacefully) .

Éirdeoidh an ghealach seo...
...is rachaidh an ghrian seo faoi

(This moon will rise...
...this sun will set)                

aire 'gus grá
i gconaí
(care and love always)                

gach oíche 's gach lá
gach lá 's gach oíche.
(every night every day
every day ever night) .

Mo phlúirín!
Mo stóirín!
Mo mhuirnín!
(My little flower!
My little treasure!
My little darling!)                

Ach anois...
(But now...)                

codail go sámh go séimh
(sleep peacefully...gently)                

go fáinne an lae
(until the break of day)                

le mise
ar do taobh.
(with me
by your side) .

Losing our baby
late into the night

holding this    little thing
that only attempted to be human

unable to let go

I clasped the foetus
tightly in my hand

& buried it in the dawn
of our local park

under a recently planted
red rose bush.

In my grief
flower & baby
became one

and night after night I climbed
over high railings & even higher stars

to talk to her in the dark      in Irish.

Or sing: My Love is like a Red Red Rose.

Or cry...or...cry.

Almost got arrested one night
by an Irish cop
drawn to the sound
of Irish emerging from darkness.

Guess he let me go because -  it wouldn’t look good
on a charge sheet:

“The defendant was talking
& crying to...a flower.”

- in Irish.

Eist...eist
(listen...listen)      

duinne eagin ag caoineadh
(someone is crying)      

in a dorchasan
(in his darkness) .

Fill...fill...a run o!

Fill a run o is  na imigh uaim.

Fill orm a chuisle a stor

agus chifeadh tu an gloire... ma fhillean tu!

THE EMPEROR OF NOW

robin in church
hopping from pew
to pew

a miracle
made real
its sheer joy of being

I hum Haydn
to its every step
Menuetto: Allegro

my little emperor
dances on the altar
it has become the music

it gazes at itself
reflected in the gold
of the tabernacle

a host of sunbeams
chase each other
little fishes of light

now robin
balances on the head
of the Christ

this the secret
prayer
of the moment

leaving me
bereft when
it finds the open door

*

Haydn's Quartet No. 62 in C Major, Hob. 111:77( Op.76 No.3) - the 'Emperor.'  It's Menuetto: Allegro was the musical equivalent of its happy hopping through the sunny church....as if it was the manifestation of Haydn's notes. It was a little epiphany...a kindness given to me...this robin was my only religion.

When they were in Rome, Severn used to rent a piano and play Haydn for the dying Keats in the next room and Keats was delighted with it and said:  "This Haydn is like a child for you never know what he will do next."

It was also accidentally the soundtrack to my daughter's first tentative tottering steps...as if the music was holding up her tiny frame and propelled her along.

THE BACKWARD LOOK
( for D.B. )


the blackbird
leaves me a note
pinned to the sky


that blue
beyond
blue


the tide
of the moment
turning turning


Time
like apple blossom
falling through my mind


the little boy
unable to believe
that this day is not


made of forever
and only
now


I walk back
through my self
to unpin the note


the blackbird wrote
with his voice
still pinned


to that
self same
sky


the blue so still
beyond
even its self


I, at last, able to read
the birds words
its language a secret


no longer to me
"I  sing..."  it says  "...I sing
because all this must die!"


"I sing the moment's tide
its turning
always turning!"


It's throat
full of song
glorying in being


alive for this
one eternal
moment








A moment ago he had been singing( as he had been singing for me all these years ):

"In the event
that this fantastic voyage
Should turn to erosion
and we never get old
Remember it's true, dignity is valuable
But our lives are valuable too"

I was also reading this 4 line fragment from the 9th century :

"There is one
I would wish to see again,
And give the golden world to win -
All, all, though all were vain."

"Fil duine
Frismbad buide lemm díuterc
Ara tabrainn in mbith mbuide
Uile, uile, cid díupert."

And so I wrote him this little poem....THE BACKWARD LOOK.

CHOCOLATE EXPLANATIONS

“Right...! ”
I try to explain it
with chocolates
that she(girlishly)
keeps trying to eat.

I pick a luscious
dark chocolate seahorse
And I say “Now this is...”
(and she finishes my sentence for me)

“...your hippocampus! ”
She squeals... delighted with herself.
“That’s correct! ”
I praise her
“...it’s shaped like this seahorse! ”

“And it controls
your memories of you
your “who you are”

your “how your self assembles
its sense of self
...with all its past and future mysteries! ”

“Yes...yes...that’s it!
She claps her hands
thrilled to bits

by the familiar telling
the reassurance of sounds.
And this twisted twirl of almond
with a real almond in the centre of it
“... is your amygdala! ”
She blurts out before me.
“You got it”
I smile.

“Everyone’s got one!
a seahorse & an almond
one on each side of our brain.”

“Now the almond tells you how
to respond to the things
that you’ve assembled
into a sense of self

...with the proper emotion
...the right feeling.
...whether you just like
or love it”

“Oh, I love it...I love it! ”
She almost sings.
“Now, explain it to me again! ”
I give her the finished explanations
and she eats them

with much exaggerated
mmmmming & ohhhhhing.
“I love your explanations
about what’s wrong with my thingy”
She knocks upon her head
like it was a door
to a self that she had
locked herself outside of.

Most times
she doesn’t even know
her name
or who
or what
she is.
But she loves this story of
HIPPOCAMPUS AND ITS FAITHFUL AMYGDALA

She loves
each sound
each word
each letter
each pause
of the chocolate
explanation.