Sunday, August 14, 2005

Dince the Dentable Dork Called

A moan poet whose work no-one
will riddle

until the global brain
has brought to its chamber of gas
poetry's cold bloodied carcass
attended by a top-weight team
of sermon-faced sophists
deep in language conversing
abstruse

beyond non-understanding

in a swamp of post-modern thought
addressing webs of hypotheses
resting on the basis of what lies
beyond in the moment unknown
or reached, but connected to now
by a bridge of wisdom conceived
erect with solid reflexive ideas
and the full support of conjecture
believed to be fact
waiting to be found

once XY and Z
turns to
AB and C

and some ustoppable force of truth
turns reason out on its ear and wel-
comes in Derrida, Baudrillard,
Krestiva, Barthes, and the symphonic
absence

usurping 1, 2 & 3 into a possible 6
that may be a 4, or nine, depending
on how the colour of tomorrow's
noon strikes the sound of yesterdays
light

site

where onlookers standing
in swamps of complexity
ponder on unbelief and why
the human condition cannot bend
time to its will

with the knowledge philosophers
make up in time spent farming
and fishing the mind for proof
of being essentially moved
to reason the faith of beauty.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Up on the Tide

Upon the tide flowing from the summer
night comes love empty of promise
offering no choice
chance
or means to utter a prayer

but swelling the muse shed empty and turned
inside out by a rational process of time

returning its skin

less the bones of battered misgivings
the broken truth fully conceived
swallowed, consumed, spat out alone

and searching the mind for a soulmate
when unguarded moments abandon
the impulse of sense.

Untroubled by the pale defeat of ghost light
dawning on past fields lost
seize the gift of faith
confide in belief
keep counsel with the tree of life
rooted in the heart
and pray for hope.

Emerge from the melting absence of a passionate
self yawning awake
and confer change
in the deportment-conscious act of deploying
decorum at all time.

Until the final departure is logged, recorded,
and halts the call of eternal love

surrender a mystery a day, to what clear light
switches on god from within.

Statement

The run of history in a thick soup of rain

}

The brown coloured condiment in a clear bottle

{

The inexpensive aftershave and give away shampoo

}

Two pairs of runners on a canvas chair

{

An empty tin
unironed shirts
and traffic sounds
rattling in the moist breeze on a historic evening
of words surrendering in the mouths of politicians
in sombre dress
grey hair dyed dark
tasteful ties with moderate knots

the co-ordinates of sincerity
in the eradication of war

}

Telly-dressed leaders

- consigned by history
to a passionate cause
lining pockets of co-operation in
the equality of flags and parades -
a jumble of yesterday's news
holding the chips for tomorrow's game;
cold coiled reality, a level of trust constantly
tied, tested and untethered by events
departure and return - and the simplistic
consistency of two tribes, vying in wait for a sign
of belief in each others rights, in conflicting songs
of a patriot dead, who died for truth and lies
put into their heads, through centuries of silent
wrongs, and bloodthirsty rights.

Lóg n-Enech / Face Price

Knowing that time for truth
comes through talk when all
is said and done

come to the trinity
of instinct and two figures
rooted in a single mind.

One an Irish poet
one a homeless migrant
dwelling in the ear
of any who will listen
for beauty in a song.

Separate yet together
remembered and recorded
in a corpus of the work
imprinted in the hollows of the heart

shining from the watch-points of the soul
and lighting landscapes of expression
buried deep as Cuchulain
fighting waves of human forces
warring over cattle in Connacht.

Let us uncover ancient rites
in the migrant's Irish heart
which the poet has composed
on benches at the canal bank
weaving make believe with fact.