Miming (by Martin Burke)

Miming

Show me red by pointing to not-red

direct me north without a compass

Blind up my eyes and show me pure light

use every word to speak silent

Point at the wood to show me a road

Talk of snow at mid-summer solstice

Summon the living and summon the dead

describe one to the other

 

Bypass one and two and count to three

where musicians are miming their parts

Show me by shadows the hand on a page

writing what the page requires

 

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This poem is a selection from Martin Burke’s 2014 Crisis Chronicles Press chapbook, YES, but…..

Martin Burke was born in Ireland (Limerick) but lives now in Flanders (the northern Flemish speaking area of Belgium).  He has published a number of books in Ireland, the UK, USA, and Belgium.

Lord, It Is Easter Time (by Séamas Carraher)

Lord, It Is Easter Time

Lord, it is Easter time
and Niamh’s hair is dressed in braids
the broken down trees are budding
and the broken walls
and the unswept streets
washed in sunlight.
Lord of light,
when the children are
dressed in suits
and marched to church
and the seasons turn
and the earth’s hard skin cracks.
Lord of broken promises,
when this life like a prison sentence
is absolved,
when this place like a disease
goes into remission
and hope is kick started at dawn
like a broken engine.
Lord in the desperate silence of
time passing
year after year like an excess of
lifetimes
as if one life was not
enough,
when this hurt woman
lifts her life from her hands
and asks what does it mean?
Lord of loss and lives
unlived
in the early hours
when time falls soft
on the ground
when the wind is stilled
and this grim procession of ghosts
descends the stairs
in Ballyogan or another town.
Lord of altars and priests
when words lie empty and wounded
in laneway and cul-de-sac
like old beer cans.
Lord of the ritual,
our own birth and death
and the unspoken hours
of sickness,
this prayer like smoke from a fire
like heads and hands lifted from kitchen tables
of cold tea and half smoked cigarettes
when the children dressed like angels
still sleep
and her hair is uncombed
when the barking dogs dream
when the busstops are empty
and all the doors closed,
this prayer at Easter time
rising like an unwashed plea
over alarm clocks and rooftops
over the landfill and the deserted roads
like life itself
in a howl of rage
lifted on its wings like a bird

the strength to go on
the unanswered questions asked
the questions answered
in the living.




“Lord, It Is Easter Time” comes from Séamas Carraher’s unpublished manuscript The Song of Poverty.

Séamas Carraher’s poetry has appeared in a number of print and online journals and anthologies, including Dead Beats: CANTOS, Pemmican, The SHOp (Ireland), Full of Crow, Word Riot & Poetry Ireland. He has recently been published in The Camel Saloon, Red Poets 19 (Wales) and The Poetry Bus 5 (Ireland). At the moment he lives in Ballyogan, South County Dublin, Ireland.

Find him at www.seamascarraher.blogspot.ie/.

[Coda to Responsibilities] (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

[Coda to Responsibilities]
by William Butler Yeats
[1914]

While I, from that reed-throated whisperer
Who comes at need, although not now as once
A clear articulation in the air
But inwardly, surmise companions
Beyond the fling of the dull ass’s hoof,
— Ben Jonson’s phrase — and find when June is come
At Kyle-na-no under that ancient roof
A sterner conscience and a friendlier home,
I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs,
Those undreamt accidents that have made me
— Seeing that Fame has perished this long while
Being but a part of ancient ceremony —
Notorious, till all my priceless things
Are but a post the passing dogs defile.


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A Coat (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

A Coat
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.


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The Dolls (by William Butler Yeats)

 

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

The Dolls
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

A doll in the doll-maker’s house
Looks at the cradle and bawls:
“That is an insult to us.”
But the oldest of all the dolls
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: “Although
There’s not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.”
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker’s wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
“My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.”


* * * * *

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The Magi (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

The Magi
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.


* * * * *

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An Appointment (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

An Appointment
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

Being out of heart with government
I took a broken root to fling
Where the proud, wayward squirrel went,
Taking delight that he could spring;
And he, with that low whinnying sound
That is like laughter, sprang again
And so to the other tree at a bound.
Nor the tame will, nor timid brain,
Nor heavy knitting of the brow
Bred that fierce tooth and cleanly limb
And threw him up to laugh on the bough;
No government appointed him.


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That the Night Come (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

That the Night Come
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

She lived in storm and strife,
Her soul had such desire
For what proud death may bring
That it could not endure
The common good of life,
But lived as ’twere a king
That packed his marriage day
With banneret and pennon,
Trumpet and kettledrum,
And the outrageous cannon,
To bundle time away
That the night come.


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To read more Yeats in the Online Library, please click here.

The Cold Heaven (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

The Cold Heaven
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?


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To read more Yeats in the Online Library, please click here.

Friends (by William Butler Yeats)

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

Friends
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

Now must I these three praise —
Three women that have wrought
What joy is in my days;
One that no passing thought,
Nor those unpassing cares,
No, not in these fifteen
Many times troubled years,
Could ever come between 
Mind and delighted mind;
And one because her hand
Had strength that could unbind
What none can understand,
What none can have and thrive,
Youth’s dreamy load, till she
So changed me that I live
Labouring in ecstasy.
And what of her that took
All till my youth was gone
With scarce a pitying look?
How should I praise that one?
When day begins to break
I count my good and bad,
Being wakeful for her sake,
Remembering what she had,
What eagle look still shows,
While up from my heart’s root
So great a sweetness flows
I shake from head to foot.


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