I want to watch watching arrive.
I want to watch arrivances.
—HÉLÉNE CIXOUS
I think back gladly on the future.
—HANS MAGNUS ENZENSBENGER
Think of things that disappear.
Think of what you love best,
What brings tears to your eyes.
Something that said adios to you
Before you knew what it meant
Or how long it was for.
—NAOMI SHIHAB NYE
THOUGHT-WORK
In memory of Joe Pilkington
Off course from the frail music sought by words
And the path that always claims the journey,
In the pursuit of a more oblique rhythm,
Creating mostly its own geography,
The mind is an old crow
Who knows only to gather dead twigs,
Then take them back to the vacancy
Between the branches of the parent tree
And entwine them around the emptiness
With silence and unfailing patience
Until what was fallen, withered and lost
Is now set to fill with dreams as a nest.
FIRST WORDS
For Shane O’Donohue
Parents know not what they do
When they coax those first words
Out of you, start a trickle
Of saying that will not cease.
Long after they no longer hear
Your talk, the words they started
Continue to call out for someone
To come near enough to hear
The cadence of what has happened
Deep in the inevitable growing
Heavy and weary of heart
Under the layer of days
Where memory works cold fusions,
As if your voice could carry you
Out of the stillness to the warmth
Of someone who would linger with you
To search the frozen parts for tears
Until a forgotten line fires
Down through the word-hoard
To where your first silence was
Broken, and your rhythm born.
NEST
For J.
I awaken
To find your head
Loaded with sleep,
Branching my chest.
Feel the streams
Of your breathing
Dream through my heart.
From the new day,
Light glimpses
The nape of your neck.
Tender is the weight
Of your sleeping thought
And all the worlds
That will come back
When you raise your head
And look.
BLACK MUSIC IN CONAMARA
For John Barry
To travel through the trough
Of this Sunday afternoon,
As mist thickens into a screen
All over Conamara,
Holding the mountains back
From the clarity their stern solitude
Strives after, releasing the spring
Lustre of the long grass, ever further
Into a fervence of indigo, so much
So that the granite rocks strewn about
Seem eventually abstract, afterthoughts
To something that took place before them.
Take the silver bucket
Full of coarse turf cut from under here;
Light its brown shape in the grate
Until it blooms into a red well.
Put on a disc of smooth steel
That slowly builds, yields up a pulse
Of jazz from Roland Kirk,
Who never was here, but somehow
Played a live concert once, so full
Of the withheld litany
Of this shy, Conamara day.
The saxaphone catches onto
Some riff of murmur,
Deep beneath the roots of the mountains,
Where granite relents, giving way
In tears, to the blanket poultice of the bog.
THE WOUND AT THE SIDE OF THE HOUSE
For Pat O’ Brien
The glistening, neon dome
Turned the night bathroom,
With its window open,
Into an addictive sanctuary
Which had drawn in
The masses of the night.
Thousands of demented ephemerae,
Needle specks of shivering flies,
Moths and myriad winged things
Congregate around its merciless,
Unrelenting light.
Having waited all day for the daylight
And its vestal colours to leave,
They arose from the bog,
Navigating rushes, grasses and briars.
Rising into the wonder
Of this night, with its moon
Casting mint light from behind
The mountains of Conamara.
On the adventure
Of their few hours of life here,
They had the misfortune
To pass by on this side of the house
And become at once entranced
By this strange window of light,
A white wound in the night,
Its drawbridge down,
And flew in to the blind worship
Of its deadly brightness.
BEFORE THE BEGINNING
Unknown to us, there are moments
When crevices we cannot see open
For time to come alive with beginning.
As in autumn a field of corn knows
When enough green has been inhaled
From the clay and under the skill
Of an artist breeze becomes gold in a day,
When the ocean still as a mirror
Of a sudden takes a sinister curve
To rise in a mountain of wave
That would swallow a village.
How to a flock of starlings
Scattered, at work on grass,
From somewhere, a signal comes
And suddenly as one, they describe
A geometric shape in the air.
When the audience becomes still
And the soprano lets the silence deepen,
In that slowed holding, the whole aria
Hovers nearer, then alights
On the wings of breath
Poised to soar into song.
These inklings were first prescribed
The morning we met in Westport
And I was left with such sweet time
Wondering if between us something
Was deciding to begin or not.
THE BANSHEE’S* GROTTO
After a photograph by Fergus Bourke
The…bean sí is a solitary being…
—PATRICIA LYSAGHT
I heard her across the river crying; a neighbour was dying.
—PADDY O’DONOHUE
The tear is the anticipation of the eye’s future.
—JOSEPH BRODSKY