Shameless Poems

An Abundance Of Mist

2007-11-16T19:01:00.000-08:00

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.

There'll Be Two

2007-11-16T18:55:00.000-08:00

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 Dog Walkers

2007-10-18T19:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Once It's Gone

2007-09-17T12:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Easily Led

2007-07-08T16:42:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-12T12:20:00.000-07:00

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.

A Goodnight Kiss

2007-05-05T17:12:00.000-07:00

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 Pleasure Of Small Sorries

2007-03-18T09:33:00.001-07:00

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.

The Kid Sparrow

2007-03-18T09:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Talking Sideways

2007-01-27T16:48:00.000-08:00

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.

The Flight Of The Chosen

2007-01-19T07:37:00.000-08:00

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.

The Saint Antoine Market

2007-01-10T01:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Drinks At Number 17

2006-11-23T17:07:00.000-08:00

37 ironed envelopes, sealed with a spray of lavender, the names luscious and curvy, the satin hue of Bombay; to Mrs Xinhua, Norris and his frisky labrador, the girl who works in the library, the Mexican potter who no one sees on the top floor, the young lad who plays a maniacal trumpet way after 10 o'clock; all sailing up and down the bannisters in eternal giddiness, limbless dances in the space that buffers them from the world; only four couples, the rest without commitment, assuming no one's managed 100 percent discretion, fooling the spies behind silent cracks in old doorways.

pleasantly cut exotic flowers, punch and spirits to suit all religions, in front of photos of well-meaning but distant relatives; samosas and Turkish delight made to look more plentiful, fanned out across the crystal platters; drinks at number 17, she'd written, from 5:30 until late; a chance to humanise the building, get to know who might be around when someone else's world stops turning, forge a bond for when the heat wave comes, when the lights fail, if bombs ever start falling, God forbid, or if a heart suddenly decides it's had enough of its reliable, regular rhythm.

no replies in person, nor is a note left in her box, although there are more hellos and goodbyes on the stairs, an indication that something heavy may've shifted; already squeezed into her Christmas dress, bought in better times in Paris, waiting on the piano stool, divorced from its lover; sitting by the front door, practising the tone and assembly of her greetings, remembering to include a few words from other tongues for global reach, the names and peculiars of the least obvious, some delightful titbits from her single and married years to tease out plenty of smiles.

the slayer of time creeps around the clockface though, leaving 5:30 back in the distance, making the food look wasted and sad, her dress exagerated and loud, betrayed by the lavender, the cleverness of her pen; not even a scratch on the door, nor a guilty hesitation on the landing, just urgent descents, feet content to be escaping elsewhere, selfish lives not wanting to be bothered by the eccentric notions of her at number 17; another gin flushes memories through her veins, bitter about those around her, for deciding to be in the race but not really a part of it.

and then, just below, the splutters of a trumpet, the growl of the excited dog, the cluttered harmony of voices, meeting, exploring; two flights navigated in a hurry, stopping in front of the merry din, realising with a squeal that 17 must've been mistaken for 11; the owner probably just went with the flow, taken by the unexpected good intentions of his neighbours; her knocking is confident, throat cleared, eyes wiped, heart strenghtened, the pleasure of knowing she has an amusing tale to share with her community, who just may, this new night, become something very important.

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

An Irritable Man

2006-10-16T18:12:00.000-07:00

he was all 50s dapper back then
a cigarette in tender fingers
gel shining under navy lights
stolen weekends
cheeky dancing
hooting conversation
such a splendid sea
of many possibilities

but 50 years have made him weary
the colours of bonhomie scraped off
persistent dreams all but wilted
searing disappointment
stinging regrets
mishandled guilt
no wonder he dissolved
into an irritable man

she's remained beside him though
immune to the habit of grumpiness
anchored by the truth of appearances
indefatigable brightness
busy handiwork
cemented loyalty
impossible to even
imagine anything different

life's edges are sandpapered off
few demands on empty cupboards
no surprises or risk of falling
daily tasks
important order
solid companions
they have a new take on universal happiness

they do hold each other sometimes
glowing about how it used to be
allowing themselves an indulgence
complex complicity
safe autonomy
easy understanding
never a need to wonder if their love will last

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words

Will They Just One Day Forget?

2006-09-03T21:52:00.000-07:00

the same breathless questions
shooting out through the night
agony's very own untiring voice
fingerprints on endless websites
hit replay hit replay hit replay
2417 visits in three cold months

smoke, approaching, screaming,
explosion, screaming, falling
dust, panic, where is he today?
oh my God, oh sweet Jesus
what did he say this morning?
where did he say he was going?

grainy pictures make a shrine
visitors stop their enquiries
no one answers the little boy
so what was it all for then?
who won what in the end?
is anyone else better off?

does anyone cry for my daddy?
did they know he'd be there?
why did he stay to help others?
way way up on the 92nd floor
will I ever get any answers?
will they just one day forget?

Copryright, 2006. Shameless Words.

A Homeless Woman

2006-08-15T10:57:00.000-07:00

it’s not exactly the most fetching plait, one in which an ebony pin would shine, but at least it has some form, a sign that somewhere in the rough morning a hand reached back to say i’m still in this life, not everything is abandoned

her windows are clear with a spirit to connect, her palms move forward with vigour, and behind the dirt one can see grace and gold, the queen of a tiny and manageable kingdom, where there is not one reason to think about leaving

they come in white vans, offering warmth and food, called by citizens who think of their own mothers and grandmothers, but she doesn’t remember the sunday roast or the trips to the seaside or her beautiful daughters’ holy communions

she keeps moving from coffee to coffee, from doorway to doorway, from one donated bun to another, but every now and then she looks at herself in the shine of a metal receptacle, remembering that once she was attractive and so in love

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

A Bench By The Lake

2006-08-15T10:55:00.000-07:00

beneath branches with wide knuckles, where leaves would normally chatter, a soft breath comes over the green of the lake, calming the pulse of a modern man

a wooden bench to rest on is chosen randomly, to claim a pause from the fury of the world, to watch the stillness that beckons those who just can’t focus

with his own story he stays alone, a dialogue of millennium nonsense, his thoughts skimming across the water, beneath the eyes of a church on the hill

a rumbling from beneath seems to stir the past, inviting old footsteps and shadows to make themselves known, long forgotten moments eager to flicker

room is made for a soldier and his weeping bride, for a mother welcoming home an errant daughter, and for a young lad looking forward to 1900

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

The Magical Ship

2006-08-15T10:52:00.000-07:00

I stared up at that wonderful marble deck
saw myself standing up beside the captain
felt my skin tingle with the salt of adventure
a heavy suitcase but a light and stirred heart
they called out names and cheers went up
the lucky ones slipped on the shiny gangway
then the engines panted, billowing smoke
the brief list was left to ride on the breeze
the magical ship is setting sail without me
the wrong money? few cabins? no skills?
a gentle man turned to offer some comfort
look over there, breaking out of the horizon
it's another big ship, on a different voyage
with just as much space in its golden cabins
and if it's not that one, there will be another
there's no shortage of these magical ships

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

This Lion Of Life

2006-08-15T10:43:00.000-07:00

look at this lion of life
in need of constant feeding
her strange desires to roar at the day
forlorn and endearing yet violent and pouncing
an innocent head is beautifully hovered
between her trembling, unstable jaw
drips from savage teeth on the skin
panting breath, burning tongue
her game of irresistible danger

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

A Boy Wrapped In Velvet

2006-08-15T10:33:00.000-07:00

a cranky neighbour uncovered it,
one of the queerest cases the crown had ever been involved in – a boy found wrapped in velvet,
grand affairs of murder, fraud and bigamy slipped down seven drawers in the inspector’s mahogany desk.

the mayor said the boy was rescued alive,
reporters struggled to form their questions – no injuries found on boy in velvet,
they wanted to see the room, quiz the witnesses, hold and measure the terrible fabric that bound him.

a quiet woman was cuffed and booked,
a blanket fending off the entertainment channels - velvet boy wrapped up for 40 days,
a prosecutor’s voice deepened, what were you thinking, how was it going to end, where on earth was the father?

the mother talked about custard and donuts,
loving efforts to keep her angel clean and happy – mystery deepens over velvet child,
a report explained how she wanted him safe from violence, bullying, and the unfairness of life.

a judge said he’d never seen such a thing,
30 years on the bench and no one could see the reasons – verdict in velvet boy case,
it’s decided the child will go into care, protected from the extreme behaviour of an overly-anxious mother.

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

The Young Liberators

2006-08-15T09:23:00.000-07:00

the fences are down around the northern state zoo
mud splashes across exotic skin
big-teeth wonders shake in huddles
barbed wire lashes dainty hooves
virgin paws desert their cages
they’d dance and grimace but they only stare
they’d sing and scarper but they only quiver

the moon is sole witness to the improvised drama
weary guards dream of hibernation
faded manuals hold their tongues
flashing lights shine on no one
dogs beside themselves whip up the night
they’d eagerly chase but their throats are tight
they’d savagely bark but the wind is clever

the young liberators escape across a shadowy gorge
pamphlets float with heavy words
lungs burn with raging slogans
digital screens madly flicker
blackened faces reek of victory
they’d stay and debate but are needed elsewhere
they’d offer solutions but are just not sure

the rude morning light works magic on the chaos
larger bolts cover thick new wire
flower pots are freed of broken glass
sloppy food is dished up from buckets
small eyes repossess their glaze
they’d be somewhere else but have no idea where
they’d be keen on freedom but don’t know it’s missing

the old-fashioned turnstile resumes its gleeful spinning
hampers and cameras arrive in buses
boys put on their smiles and hats
children point to quirky features
parents recite from baffling signs
no one asks why the monkey is not in a jungle
no one asks why the polar bear is not on ice.

Copyright, 2006, Shameless Words.

The Siren Of Absence

2006-08-15T09:19:00.000-07:00

no wonder Dublin can be all grey and misty-eyed sometimes, one far too many sorry farewells causing her fine crockery face to be moistened, more than she ever deserved, soft tears of forgotten legacies. how many sons and daughters does she mourn for?

on heavily-laden ships they departed, dreaming of more than broken eggs in carts and dark-eyed girls selling cockles by the Royal Canal. some famous ones have celebrated her in their musings, but they never returned, their words unable to soften the siren of absence.

sheets of nostalgia sweep over her, in from the sea and along the thick shoulders of the Liffey, but her faded cotton is being exchanged now for lace and silk. finally, her head can be held high above the new pavements of celtic hope, her auburn hair can be left to fall freely.

she takes in the young and the new, in amongst the folds of her generous skirt, treating her new babies to a famous glow and tireless, rich humour. from a grand height she will also steal time to rejoice, pleased to welcome home some of her frail and wandering flock.

her mistiness will always come and go though, her emerald eyes straining back to many generations, the hunger, all the years of missing places at tables. she weeps for the children of Erin, for whom she’s had to brave a goodbye, for whom the siren continues to wail.

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

A Mammy And Her Littlin

2006-08-15T09:15:00.000-07:00

his mammy finds the joy to go out now
her peacock feather hat making its debut
bought for a fiver in Belfast Town in ‘79
the year the littlin went to sleep forever
when the troubles came under the door
a devastating thirst for bright crimson

his mammy’s crackly frame is impatient
her eyes on the new waterfront centre
peace and peace reflected in the glass
a Londonderry songbird smiling on a poster
promising time now for small pleasures
longer breaks in the northern showers

his mammy admires sheep on the road
ragged creations made of dark bronze
hurried along a path by a gentle old man
littlin would’ve adored these, she thinks
how lovely to see something so simple
nothing more than sheep on the road

his mammy spots a noisy armoured jeep
over near the high walls with rolling wire
a compound in which she waited for littlin
where no one could stop her shaking
it’s just a passing bread van though
nothing more sinister than sesame and rye

his mammy smells the tickets in her hands
two places right up below the mighty stage
coloured spotlights warming ashen faces
hearty lyrics exercising many a tired smile
she’s clapping and singing on her own
the cheer of a mammy and her littlin

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

Acting The Goat

2006-08-15T09:10:00.000-07:00

he reminded me that I was 90, the bugger, looking at me all funny, as if he understood what that should mean, how a woman of my era and standing should act in public.

I told him, young man, I've kept the lid on for far too long, and no one ever explained to me why; they've all gone now anyway, no one left to care that I was able to manage it.

I told him to laugh, take risks, be who he really wants to be, but he just passed me a basket full of wool and needles, weakly suggesting that I could make him a nice hat.

give me that thing, you poor devil, I hooted, I've got eight decades of acting the goat to catch up on, and with that I pulled the darn thing over my pretty young girl's head!

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

A Baby's Blessing

2006-08-15T08:59:00.000-07:00

stop, harsh world, don’t even think about taking this one as
your own, leave his hand soft and still, his eyes wide to the
marvels that are opened up with every turning of the wheel

read nothing into those kaleidoscope cheeks, the colours are
not familiar to you, no markings of an ideal recruit, it’s just
the freshness and joy for which even you must now crave

move on from this place, enough black roses have been
planted here, give an aching mother a chance to hear the
music of peace, to sit without a hand on her heart

in this small room, just a tiny corner of your realm, may you
at last understand that the raging fires need to be calmed,
that you’ve been taking far too many and giving nothing back

listen for just a second to that delicious sound of innocence,
untainted hope that even you could bathe in, a newborn
magic that might just wash away your own harshness

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.

The Captured Rainbow

2006-08-15T08:38:00.000-07:00

from Aotearoa's milky tide
comes peculiar iridescent life,
perhaps a testament, an atlas,
or a sparkling purse of time

a rainbow's captured in there,
a sunburnt lad screams out,
thinking of his favourite gran,
unsteady on seaweed paths

they feel warm on his chest
can the colours mark the skin?
paua shell, says a dusty book,
Haliotis Iris, species of abalone

this rainbow, caught off Raglan,
where surfers play with seagulls,
is ready to glow even further,
in a fine anniversary necklace

Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.