1. More Literary Orphans from the Poetry Ireland Forum 04/11/2013
My Tree at Night from a Different Window
The Second Floor.
From here she begins where two ropes are lashed
to diverging trunks making washing lines for linens
above my riot of weeds.
She ascends to an atrophied branch finished in a dragonhead,
from thence to those pinnacle twigs holding their leaves
up and away from the drowned soil.
Her root burrows 'aneath this language of stone and brick
which forms my room.
I know her seasons of glory and of work.
An adjoining room at 3am.
But I must confess that she is a different animal at 3am,
a static silhouette encumbered by breeze.
No more the warm bodies of tits flock to choir,
No more the majestic wood pigeon haunts her glossy corridors.
Ach! She is become a dark museum
Sometimes bearing a windwrought shadow.
Her life defeated, she is existent.
[This is related to another called 'Transubstantiate' which is also about the tree...
I study it when i cannot write and thus it's in about ten poems. I have tangled
with t'other one for months and it's still s***e ]
soto voce... I like looking at trees in this crazy world ;)
2. More Literary Orphans from the Poetry Ireland Forum 04/11/2013
Bridie Is on Her Way To Prayer,
Past the purple bells that grace the wall
They will not be still
Raising their arms to the breeze
That blows in from the mountain.
[its a Bofara/Croagh Patrick 'Descent' cycle, there are Three interrelated
pomes to this one..]