LIGHTLY CHILD LIGHTLY

the wind is reading
Aldous Huxley's ISLAND
dropped among the hollyhocks

the wind speed reads
skips entire sections
a fat fly walks over the title

an obese raindrop falls
upon the author's name then
another & another &. . .

ISLAND
turns to mulch
raindrops batter the book

it comes apart
at his touch
islands of words remain

"...two thirds of all sorrow
is homemade and so far
as the universe is concerned..."

the rest is lost
but he can fulfil the words
". . . unnecessary. . ."

now here at your grave
my fingertips trace
the curves of your name

as a lover might
trace the taut
muscles of a back

a ladybird pauses on
the H of Huxley
as if learning its letters

their metal inlay
glinting in the sun
"...it isn't a matter of forgetting..."

your words scattered
across the years
"...what one has to remember is..."

"...how to remember and yet
be free of

the past..."

I still grieve my lost book
eaten by the weather but
glowing in my mind

I laugh and tell your grave
"Give us this day our
Daily Faith but...

...deliver us
Dear God
from Belief."

*

I live not far from where Aldous is buried and often go to chat to him in his realm of sunlight and shadow. His ISLAND book was highly formative to me in my early years.

SO THAT’S WHAT THEY GET UP TO!
(for Onelia)

The love poems
in my note book

creep from page
(at night)   to page

no longer beholden
to me.

They visit
each other

have secret
love affairs

(well, they are love poems...after all)  

Poems elope
let down a rope
of words

escape the confines
of their particular page

being of one mind
longing to be individual.

Poems 6 & 9
emigrate to page 69

and seem to be
enjoying themselves.

They search & search
for a voice

to say them.

In the morning
bleary eyed & looking

a little the worse for wear

they sneak shyly
slyly back

tip-toeing to their proper places

yawning
& just about

make it

back into their appointed positions

as I turn to...

see them
as if nothing

had happened.

*

“I wonder what love poems get up to at night
between the covers of a book? ”

Onelia

I am afraid I blatantly stole this from a passing comment by Onelia which greatly amused me.  I pleaded with her to turn it into a poem as it was such a novel idea but alas...& so I was forced to write it myself which is a pity because she would have done it so much better than I.

I hope she will still write it as it was after all her idea & I only stole it!

FÉACH AMACH!(WATCH OUT!)

gan guth
i measc guthanna
gan focail

(without a voice
amongst voices
without words)

gan réaltaí
cén áit é seo?
báthadh faoi ghloine

(no stars
what place is this
drowning under glass)

ag breathnú amach as
an taobh mícheart
den scáthán

(looking out from
the wrong side
of the mirror)

ag faire ar mo mhachnamh
ag siúl amach
ag gáire

(watching my reflection
walking away
laughing)

'WELL, WELL. . WELL !" SAYS THE GENERAL

Time falls
like snow
gently slowly

our footsteps
showing where we
go hour by hour

a statue
wears a cap of snow
it cries bitter white

pigeon **** tears
gazing at the years
that come and go

remembering when
it was a man
and snow falling

in this vey square
and he a child who
did not care

about statues
of the famous men
he threw snow ***** at

until he lost
an arm
a life

and became one
looking better than
he did in life

became the statue
of him self
and now some child

hits him dead
in the eye with
a well aimed snowball

and if he could laugh
he would laugh at
how it all

came to this
death now by tourist
oh the shame

the bells of the town
announcing another
new year

THE USELESSNESS OF MAPS

You were always
the bit

where the map creased & tore
leaving us unsure

looking through a hole
at our own big toe.

You were always
the bit

where the map was folded in four
and had to be awkwardly unfolded

just to see
where you were.

You were always
the bit

that was just off this map

ending in mid air...

...see next map:

...the missing map!

You were always
the lost map.

You were often
the wrong map.

The map that there was...

...no map of:

HOW NOW RED BALLOON?

the balloon
crossed the road
on its own

cautiously at first
then becoming
a little braver

there wasn't a human
in sight
the balloon was red

why did it cross the road
you would have to
ask a chicken

it made its way
into a nearby field
just out of reach of

a host of thistles
angry at the invasion
of their territory

a bee followed it
across a ditch bemused
at  such a  solo flight

the balloon came to rest
on the back of a huge
black and white heifer

and there it remained
as I passed
and hurried by

cow and balloon
as one
living on in

my mind
all these 40 years
later.

*

Wish I had a time machine and could go back..get out of the car and see if the red balloon and the black and white cow ran away with each other and had cow/balloon children and lived happily ever after.  

There was also, now you mention it, a laughing dog. And when we went to eat we were both dishless and spoonless. The cat on the fiddle was playing the Divil came down to Cork.

"THE SMALLE RAYNE DOWNE CAN RAYNE?"

you bloom
in my mind
like a fast forward

film of a flower
going from seed to blossom
in a second or seven

I looking down
from on high
as you pass by

under the bridge
you " no bigger
than your head"

that line from Lear
a chestnut red
flowing over your shoulders

you the only one
with head uncovered
everyone else

suddenly become
an umbrella
with legs

a river of people flowing
down the street
like different coloured leaves

and you look up
and even from this distance
of several

years or more
your smile
the only thing

I see. . .
Death
unable

to take
that
from me


*

Westron wynde, when wylt thow blow
The smalle rayne downe can rayne?
Cryst yf my love were in my armys
And I yn my bed agayne!