MINE IS THE SUNLIGHT

all night
the dark
held up the sky

nailing time
to time
with tiny silver studs

until a star fell and
the dark
surrendered to the light

morning and its moments
birds composing the score
living notes

on the staff notation
that runs from pole to pole
slicing the sky

into its various sections
adding a tree
here and there

capturing
a family
of clouds

the terrific traffic
of an orchestra
tuning up

a train
cutting across a plain
far away cows looking like toys

a lark throwing itself
against a heaven
as if it could break through

into an eternity beyond
the infinity that
is us

PAYSAGE TRISTE

at age
9 or 10
(who can remember when)  

an early Eliot
pens
little verses

(sunlight & shadow
frolicking across the page
as he writes)  

- his hand moving rapidly
from left to right –
of that intense

“sadness
of having to
start school

again
every
Monday morning.”

see how
to his tiny mind
THE WASTE LAND

stretches before him
stretches before him
stretches before him

*   *   *

INTRO TO THE OUTRO: Writing  PAYSAGE TRISTE

Valerie Eliot talking about Tom in 1966 informs us that the great man “...at the age of 9 or 10 wrote a few little verses about the sadness of having to start school again every Monday morning.”

One can imagine, after so many cakes and ices, this little child forcing the moment to its crisis & thinking it impossible to say just what he means.

And indeed there will be Time…and he will grow old...grow old...and he will have to grapple with overwhelming questions dropped upon his plate and wonder whether he dare(“Do it Tom…do it! ”)   eat a peach...and yes part your hair behind... never mind what the human voices say...dream on...dream on...

...and hear the mermaids singing each to each and despite what you think they will…sing to you!

Trust me! You’ll be alright mate...why you’ll do “the police in different voices” and I (for one)   shall be for ever...amazed. This is a love song for that little boy.

“Hurry up please... it’s Time! ”

Ah bless... poor little T.S.

I break through the time barrier and give the little chap a hug and a kiss.

Good night sweet Thomas…good night...good night..goodnight!

AND TIME A THIEF

She hugged her books
to her *******.

Her ******* hardening into
her Othello and Algebra.

She watched his mouth
move

alive with words
she heard nothing of

only
her name

"...yadayadaMARY...
...yada yada MARY!"

A bead of sweat
trickled between her *******.

She tried to catch
her breath and

what he was saying but
it only gave her hiccups.

She squirmed
under his gaze

a butterfly
held by a pin

pleasure that was
pain.

"And that was how
I met your Dad!"

She tells this story
only when she's very very

tipsy
crying now

for the girl she was
- then:

the Shakespeare & Maths
pressed to her chest

the world
awaiting her.

CHASING ANGELS...FLEEING DEMONS

The morning was
a mountain

that had to be
climbed because

it was there.

She wasn't going to let
the mountain conquer her.

The whiskey helped.

She sat through endless
early morning TV.

She wondered if one could die
of endless early morning TV.

The gone cold fried eggs
with the subbed out cigarette

in its centre
like a flying saucer

invaded her
sense of self

"Is this what I've
come to...?"

she asked a mirror.

The mirror kept shtum .

The plate smashed to smithereens
on the cinnamon coloured wall

leaving a satisfying stain
resembling Argentina

trailing down like a Rorschach test
of how she was

feeling.

Another whiskey wouldn't
hurt...would it?


*

“Chasing angels or fleeing demons, go to the mountains.”
― Jeffrey Rasley, Bringing Progress to Paradise: What I Got from Giving to a Mountain Village in Nepal

A SMALL YARD IN THE CENTRE OF IRELAND
( For Jeremy Loynes )

every morning
the small yard
stole some sunlight

just enough
to cover itself
in gold

before the shadows
stole it
back again

it was only
a small yard
in the centre of Ireland

hosting a coal bunker
a mangle
and an outside loo

the visiting cat
and the small child
knew exactly when

to dash out
and soak up
the precious glow

the yard gloried
in the gift
of such sunlight

and the child
who grew and grew
to become the man

who never told anyone
of the stolen
sunshine

until the words
gave the secret away
whispered it to the page

*

The small yard used to belong to the house that was called No. 31 O'Higgins Road in the county of Kildare. It no longer exists and has vanished into the air losing all the time it was. This was the small universe of both child and cat so much beloved by both of them. Only I can travel back there...find my way there...following the trail of memory and be there whenever my mind needs a place to hide as the man becomes the child he was once upon a long long time ago.

SANCTUARY

this one perfect moment
time rearing up like a wave
that never ever breaks

the train's scream
the dog's bark
chiseled into the silence

dancing to
the bandstand's music
a flock of flags

birds
writing themselves...un-writing themselves
across a page of sky

this moment
flees from time
claims sanctuary in my mind

"THE EARTH IS LIKE A CHILD THAT KNOWS POEMS BY HEART."

the night
had stuffed the dark
into every crevice

of the house
and his life
awoke to a big blue sky

holding a crocus
in the palm
of its morning

the world was
springing into being
all around him

as if existence had
changed its mind and
decided to stay

a solitary oak
reached
a gnarled hand

and snatched a cloud
( that happened
to be passing by )

out of the air
just like
that

the cloud
struggled
to break free

the oak
gave a hearty laugh
and let it go

the cloud scurried away
fretfully looking
over its shoulder

"So, what kept ya?"
he asked Spring
Spring...just smiled