ABSTRACT HEAD
By Jawlensky
When I saw that painting
for the first time
it blew my
eyes away.
He studied that form
‘The face’
for ten years
to see what we
cant see.
I can see myself
evolve
In the brush-
Strokes of
his mind.THE LIGHT ON THE STONES
I retrace your final journey now in a blue car,
Not black, alone on the motorway.
Passing the Maze prison the stench of my engine
Overheating is like gunpowder, spent shells,
Lingering, your dream of Irish freedom.
Not black, alone on the motorway.
Passing the Maze prison the stench of my engine
Overheating is like gunpowder, spent shells,
Lingering, your dream of Irish freedom.
I climbed the mountain graveyard
Above the violent divided the city,
Above the peace-line that stood between us
In the living -room.
Above the violent divided the city,
Above the peace-line that stood between us
In the living -room.
Your plot all weeds,
And wild grass cries out for order.
The fallen wooden cross bears no name;
But you are there. Like a sculptor
With clay I reach inward, my hands
As delicate as salmon wings riding
The white water, struggling
The strong currents of grief.
And wild grass cries out for order.
The fallen wooden cross bears no name;
But you are there. Like a sculptor
With clay I reach inward, my hands
As delicate as salmon wings riding
The white water, struggling
The strong currents of grief.
I brush the soiled tears from your eyes
And you wake in me, swimming
And glistening in mine. My hands
Shape the clay moulding our wounded past,
Emerging in the light on the stones.
And you wake in me, swimming
And glistening in mine. My hands
Shape the clay moulding our wounded past,
Emerging in the light on the stones.
Nucella
‘Imperfection is the language of art’
Robert Lowell
I was reading your biography by Ian Hamilton;
During the 15th chapter I discarded the bookmark,
A postcard I bought in Galway.
The title was: Happy Dogwelk, (Nucella):
A finger, the pale shade of marine life,
Blending with starfish and seaweed, pointing
To the seabed.
Now I know where I stand in your intricate
Hard waters.
I sit here at the dining room table, filled
With whisky, beer and poetry.
I look up into a mirror that shows my way
upstairs, if I dare move from this spot
And chance my way into the reflection
of the first day of March.
Then, only then, will I descend the stairwell
Of my youth.
"Dolphin"
" My eyes have seen what my hand did.”
I wish I had known you,
Even to say hello in the street.
To know why I cry on your words,
To know why I cry, full stop.
NEW CITY BLUES
There are houses
and houses and houses
and trees and stains
of rain on cracked slabs.
Dogs and kids play
in inquisitive ditches
The flowers and the grass
are trampled.
We live deep
in shadow
like stains
upon the paths
or the shadowed wing-
span of a crow
on concrete.