Poems that have appeared on my main blog, Shameless Words (link in the sidebar).
if I remember rightly,
the spray undid my curls,
the fountain mocking us
for making it star in
our autumn wedding, for
snuggling up too close.
my dear papa hid behind
the lens, the camera
his crutch, desperate to
focus on the smiles, to
have a task away from
mama’s tear-swollen face.
now we’re back after all
this time, our own baby
happily immortalized in
the same spot, believing
our years of good luck
came from that fountain.
as my sweet man captures
the embrace, I watch from
a distance, finding myself
no longer immune to tears,
hoping with all my heart
for an abundance of mist.
© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney. Poem and photograph.
two moons will manifest,
medallions in a purple sky,
so while one illuminates
a country lane, the other
guides a stray fisherman
back to familiar shores.
there’ll be two willows,
laughing in the breeze,
so while one protects
delicate baby finches,
the limbs of the other
become climbing ropes.
two flowers will rise,
burgeoning with colour,
so while one is plucked
to offer some comfort,
the other willingly
surrenders to bees.
there’ll be two rivers,
forging their own paths,
so while one might slow
down to broaden and
explore, the other gives
way to vital rapids.
This year we became the godparents of the little delights above - Roman and Simon - and this is dedicated to them. But this is also a poem for twins everywhere.
© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.
the hard bucks have never been so easy to reap.
thank you, mam, he’ll be OK in my little pride,
his hair so nicely coiffed, his cutesy wee paws
never been scraped. we can take ten in one hand,
don’t worry; they love making new acquaintances.
they do fall over one another but they really do
enjoy it. two hours for 100 big ones, multiplied
by nine. yes, we take them into the city’s best
parks; they’ll be laughing, walking off all that
energy, watching the birds in the trees. we just
hope you don’t spot us tying them to a pole; they
can sometimes make a right fuss. but we know you
won’t object to an obligatory break: only two or
seven shots, honest. yes, we will take good care
of them; we're the best damn dog walkers in town
© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.
no one dares
take a knife
to the perfect
home-made tart,
too afraid of
erasing moments,
saying goodbye,
knowing too well
that once it’s
gone, it’s gone
keep it whole,
they tell their
host, make it
last, proof
of the bliss
of this night,
an immortality,
the sense that
we could never
be any happier© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.
where are you taking me, lowly members?
awkward and fickle pegs on which I rely,
you could deviate, magic away the risks,
but no, jealously bent on curious paths,
those that our forebears left wide open
advancing casually on the sinking ground,
as if bold hearts were hidden within you,
logic and stamina your stolen compasses,
ignoring my crown’s most urgent appeals,
so far removed from the warmth of reason
when our final journey comes to its end,
down upon you my heavy tears will plunge,
no immunity from the ballad of grieving,
the truth will be plainer than you think,
they will all know that I was easily led
© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.
clink/traffic light stays red/the world’s not waiting/sirens help newborns sleep more soundly/clank/her broken heels/his
bleeding knuckles/night wincing from greasy kebabs/clunk/the fast cars are crawling now/cakes of apricot makeup/executives
eating cold burgers/clonk/dizzy from the cash/in their moon parades/shirtless and feisty/whistle-happy/all sorted/clink
Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.
suddenly
crossing town
between the madness
an old, bedraggled woman
stumbling in just her nightie
elegant fake pistol in bony hand
strangers are my only friends, she wails
and friends now just cocky strangers
hey, sweetheart, don’t be shy
this one for charity
one last memory
a goodnight
kiss© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.
the phrases cling on so firmly
like hot tar on our foreheads
so heavily spread across reason
no quick peeling or washing off
only a familiar, smarting pain
for now we attempt to stay low
so the light seeks out no one
time alone for magical cleaning
our warm, gentle miracle water
the pleasure of small sorries
this snapping dog in our lives
chewing on the best of things
then howling a wretched truth
awaiting that familiar return
our old hunger for surrenders
cosy love has landed so easily
territories delicately marked
absent now the master's voice
calm after the midnight feast
the pleasure of small sorries
© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.
last night I dreamt that our Edith was still with us
no, not the hair salon Edith, I mean tragic eah-deet
that’s right, je ne regrette rien and the hymn to love
la môme piaf is what they called her: the kid sparrow
dead at 47, looking more like some frail, elderly lady
she was in the middle of a duo with our gorgeous Elton
a right scream, up on stage at Caesars Palace in Vegas
a new romance with the Americans with songs in English
her man, Marcel, now a survivor of that terrible crash
the shock that clearly killed her miraculously erased
oh, she looked so well: no stoop, glorious hair flowing
repeating her prayer to the heavens, raving about Paris
she sang Mon Dieu, but that had already been answered,
no more losses, battles for sleep or memories to hide
she reached new high notes with la joie and la passion!
© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.
no, really, we could’ve,
heck, I just don’t feel,
I just ought to, needy?
I’ll tell you what, um,
no, nothing, not crying
if only I’d not been so,
you know, like it isn’t,
ahem, you know, bizarre,
right, caution to wind,
only, tossed right back
that’s cool, I ought to,
aha, absolutely, I see,
it’s just, um, unclear,
talking sideways? maybe,
yep, I get it, I’m gone
© Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.
I wrote this for halloween, 2006.
One of the many stories I remember reading about this festival, Samhain Sabbat, was how spirits of those who will die over the coming year gather for a march through the streets. People are supposed to have left lanterns outside their homes to scare away the spirits, to make sure they didn't recruit any family members for the "flight" at summer's end.
the flight of the chosen
you're not out there, I've been looking,
seen the white faces, for miles and miles,
thanks to the lanterns, guarding the gates,
not on the list for this new year, I promise,
made doubly sure by my yellowy mixture
it's watery, without butter, nor sour cream,
tepid, lumpy, stains across the bowl's rim,
my pumpkin potion, says the sweet child,
stepping back from her wicked coughing,
the high whistling the doctors frown at
in her frozen hand the spoon hangs lifeless,
a faint smile between her laboured sipping,
the legend, the stories, now she's regretful,
sow-en, he'd repeated, the Samhain Sabbat,
the flight of the chosen, their summer's end
he's laid down marigolds, chrysanthemums,
feverish, relentless chanting, until he sleeps,
right up beside her, dreaming of the lanterns,
it'll be better tomorrow, lots more summers,
the surgeons will take back what's been said
Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.
This original poem was inspired by the daily French market that takes place on the pavement in front of my building here in Lyon. (Click on photos to see larger version).
the Saint Antoine market
in between elegant madams
lofty Xaviers and Sophies
a first kiss is remembered
tears tumble on mandarins
this brisk line of folly
becoming his daily ritual
a crowded, wistful canvas
royal hue, timbre, aromas
the Saint Antoine market
the place they’d first met
an ending never imagined
food and wine for eternity
bonjour, a vendor shouts
blue cheese for your love
the woman no one can see
whose pale hand he chases
brioche for one is bought
the old man turns for home
his lover is left to stroll
the playful market zephyr
And just to give you more of a flavour:
Copyright, 2007. Shameless Words.
