Filíocht Nua: New Poetry
1999; Philosophy Documentation Center; Volume: 3; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/nhr.1999.a926657
ISSN1534-5815
Autores Tópico(s)Island Studies and Pacific Affairs
ResumoEamonnWall Filiocht Nua: New Poetry THE BAKEHOUSE As Sean Lemass planned the great leap forward, I walked a concrete path between high, limed walls on the dark passageway to the bakehouse by sheds full of coke and anthracite bottles of methylated spirits hidden under blocks in the corner kept company by old rags and a box of matches. Looking up, I saw where stone met cloud as I moved through chill, familiar blindness into the flour-white blaze where trays of sponge cooled side-by-side on metal tables by a window opened wide to Jimmy Dale's yard where weeds stretched hard under damp winter light. The women talked about dances: Brendan Bowyer & the Royal Showband, Larry Cunningham & the Mighty Avons, The Castle, the Barrowland Ballroom, Adamstown, the home of country music, "The Hucklebuck;' the nation's favorite song. NEW HIBERNIA REVIEW /IRIS EIREANNACH NUA, 3:1 (SPRING/EARRACH, 1999), 61-70 Filiocht Nua: New Poetry On my corner stool, I watched them fill sand castles with fresh cream, attach wings to butterflies, decorate wedding cakes with blue and silver balls, learned what we mean when we say "lustre" and "dough;" I drank my tea and wondered what would appear from the oven, four-score Christmas puddings hanging overhead. TWO RACCOONS Two raccoons stand smelling pungent markings by the kitchen door continue their deep evening route along the alley through bins &over fences homeward to the garage. Two nights later it rains so heavily water pours over gutters & races groundward through the downspouts. In my kitchen, vases are set in order between teacup, lamp, telephone. Outside the cans are heavy with rotted spaghetti & meat sauce, wet bread & cereals for the morning collection. How long this night must we sit waiting? Who can assuage our hunger? Two raccoons appear from the breezy darkness. Close the downstairs windows! Stop your God-damned ruminations! Check the stove! Get up the stairs! We're raccoons, remember: we handle the difficulty pretty good. 62 Filiocht Nua: New Poetry LOUGH ARROW First evening in August setting out for the islands across Lough Arrow. In low late light rain hood raised on my navy windbreaker I peer like Marco Polo at a far shore, the surface broken softly by the fluency of Michael's motions with oars, slap slap of the water against boatsides. Above, the clouds are as heavy as lead. I have drowned out the smoky shores we have departed from. I have come into the West car & boat, heart & soul, just a short drive from Boyle, Co. Roscommon. Connected only by the blowing rain, that nation put at a distance. I remember for you my first journey westward. As the blue car climbed toward Ft. Morgan, the fields had begun to change from tended corn to wilder pasture of Colorado green. And my vision of my parked car as night falls, my porch light shorted out, distant thunder barking over far symmetrical suburbs where frontier life begins again, children's faces pressed against the foggy panes. Filiocht Nua: New Poetry West. A narrow road to a modest pier. I am this evening on Lough Arrow. My brother has stowed the oars and cranked the outboard engine & we are gliding away from the shore in our approach to the mottled patterns of the islands, darkening grounds obscured from childhood by climbing smoke from chimneys of the Market Sq. &the Blackstairs mountains, my heart now beating to evening's breath on Lough Arrow. SOUTHWEST, AFTER HAICEAD Awake, I drive by the boathouse slowly: Courtown Harbour in late July. Sleeping, I race to her old wood frame: water trails of the old Ceriso. Filiocht Nua: New Poetry IN THE LAND OF LITTLE RAIN I'm talking to you, Mary Austin, as I sit sipping a cup of coffee in a McDonalds on Interstate 25 outside of Truth or Consequences, NM, not far from Elephant Butte Resevoir & on my way to Socorro to fix, if I can, the mess I left behind when beyond the broken screen door I turned my wheels madcap for the highway. The was last Friday, a quiet house & a full moon & I raging with High School teaching & Jim Beam & far from the damp air which one evening turned its back on me so I would be cursed...
Referência(s)