march hare festival 2005 poems - alan garvey.doc

8/14/2019 March Hare Festival 2005 poems - Alan Garvey.doc

1/16

Croan Lodge

On August 30th2001 in Croan Lodge, Clonmel, Deirdre Crowley wasshot dead by her father, Christopher, before he turned the gun on

himself.

On arrivalthere was no thaw.No obvious reason to withdrawfrom sight. No questions askedthough she was seen once or twice.Last Novembers ice remainedon the doorstep.

It wasnt easy to keep to yourself.

he was too youngfor the school a hundred yardsdown the road! the Loretos red "umper#white blouse# green pinafore not skirt.It must have hurt to keep the curtains closedbut no one was allowed pose a threat.$ false name was billed for milk#groceries paid for by cash not cheque.he may have asked for a satellite dish#her Christmas wish your somethingto muffle her cries# to keep herfrom outside.

wallows are still here.ummer beats the Comeraghs drums.%wo years on the run slipbetween someones teeth.%heres the knock on the doorand the grief a few words can impart.One minute more beforedeparture creaks and you kiss

her forehead# chin and cheekswith your stubble.


2/16

La&y Irishmen

ased on the arrest and murder of !i"hard #eates in allitore, Co.

$ildare, during the summer of 1%&'.

'eres a (uaker wife in her kitchen.'ome is pots and pans scrubbed cleanwhere the kettle sings alone# a melody.%he smell of fresh bread draws inthe crowds# a circus ring of yeomanrywho have a )oman prisoner bound.'es tugged along# though the la&yIrishman is lying down.

In their hands are muskets# pikes#they do not sit for tea# thoughthe kettle has been lifted# pours.One takes bread and butter#lifts his chin a little higherbefore a double in the mirrordeclares its time for war.No kneeling priest or seven sonsand daughters# reminders thatnot all Irishmen are la&yand are equal before their *aker

will change this militias drumhead decree.+ods will be done , thoughthe la&y Irishman is lying down.%urncoat# informer# his sleevesshow signs of patching# wear-squires son# he may have numberedmen and weapons in barracks therebut the la&y Irishman lies down still.tretched out behind a mortared wall#mothers and maids his only mournersin simple homespun frocks so (uakerthey do not see the moment when he falls.'ell close his eyes beneath an orchards leavesand a wall of coats the right way round.No bacon will be bought in Irelandfor months hogs gorge on windfallsof flesh# they litter the ground.+ods will be done , thoughthe la&y Irishman lies down still.'is blood trickles into streamsthen rivers that flow uphill.


3/16

+oldgrain

+oldgrain was served where I was the visitor!

relatives# my parents friends# the nuns homewhere I discovered my sister and brother.+oldgrain always appeared on a plate#never straight from the packet like the biscuitsstashed with sweets and crispsin my parents wardrobe# away from the agilewindow leverings and verbal twiststo get the key# in cahoots with my brother# ohn.No# +oldgrain came with grace and saucers#with *arietta and +aribaldi for company#acobs (uakers and /ink 0afers#

the )ising at 1olands *ill. *ost of all#I recall afternoons in $unt Lenaswhen she read my leaves# a special treatto be supped with caution being used to the bag.)egardless of pedigree# loose leaf or Lyons#I dunk my biscuits and frequently leavemy own home and half,baked oracle#a rich tea,mush of burnt raisin# lemony syrupand +oldgrains nuggets of crumb.2ates remained that way# in front of my nose#

beyond the reach of my lips and tongue.


4/16

'earth

0ish we would rub our tindrous limbstogether and lie in this hearth for weeks#

two briquettes buried in blankets of timberand coal# pages of newsprint coiled like snakes

where flames catch# wood crackling slowly spitsas kindling fires lick# the hot sparksfly and we ache to be consumed by thisfurnace of bliss where old boles and bark#

knots too unwind in time. %he decades cremate inhundreds of thousands of kisses and thenwe bla&e into one# a choir trembling in its hymns

to an undying +od# his promise of sun.

It is Christmas and 'ark3 the herald angels singof a molten grail and its heavenly 'ost as wegroan in tongues suffused by the 'oly +host.%hen# when I bumble off to brew tea4coffee#

your knees# bum and shoulder shuffleover to settle on my smouldering spaceand you lie there# cocooned and foetal#in a calcined state of /ompeian grace.


5/16

0ord Collector

All that(s left of them is print.

)*erything about them is silen"e and in+.e-n Dunne, he /ord Colle"tors

Living in 0aterford and Cork# the rivers uir and Leecradled you in the absence of a mothers arm# teacalled with the ring of a cracked cup# a fall of leaves.

5ou measured and treasured time with little things!a rusted iron gate# a blackbirds broken wings#moths and marmalade# brooches and bracelets- they sing

with a voice that belongs to history. It was your own.5ou gathered words for blank pages and left them sown.%he land was yourself# an open book cut to the bone.


6/16

$ 1rush with ilence

after a painting by aria allwey

%hey are silent thornscaught on our skin#cartography in crimson.

'alf,moon# broken communionhung overhead# there is solace

offshore from the thin

smear of gore on the strand.(uotidian surf scrubs it clean.

5ou# moon# grow full as days pass.

*y highest dose of codeinedissolves in mist. /ain

ebbs with her caress and kiss

only the night teems onto canvas#the ink of a million whispersbrushed from our lips.


7/16

Love Letters

1urning love letters never deliver

the longed,for release from smoky affairs.%hey flare in an absence of light.2eeble ashes# charred and cheapas the rubbish bin theyre incinerated in#their promises crumble if touched for relief.

5oure a thief who creeps through timeand memorys consumptive curtain of smoke#its envelope of perfumed pleas racyas Catullus Latin# fanciful as )egency lace.It all blows back in your face.

%oo late to twig youve no grip

so you slip on the past tense# the futureimperfect sheets of black satin#things you should have forgottenthat you had and now have not!theatre tickets and best wishes# a lockof blond hair# the invitations of a spider in its lair.

*ementoes realise the poverty of writing

lie after lie# wriggling signals )ed Indianstyle# small in an e6panse of plain.5ou are free and alone# unlettered in pain.Count your blessings one by one# they burn tonight.0atch them go. Once it was they that led you home.


8/16


9/16

+reat 0ar +host

!ugby

0hy watch the scrums of rugby# the clashof flesh a cry from where you sleep90ind backhands the leaves of oak and ashover mud churned by boots and feetbristling with calves streaked by sweaton the pockmarked yards a team must keep.

or #ou orget

%he face is all# for you forget! words becomeredundant in this tower of dark. omme

and 5pres are wounds with no point of entry.0e know your name was /eter- 1rown,/latensfriend# shell,shocked member of the gentrywho sank beneath a green and grey hori&onthat washed over this troubled :nglish scion.

he ammered

%he hammered ob"ect is brought to bearon earth torn by hooves of cavalry.%here is no first or working class it learns#no upper4 lower form in ;eaths $cademy.;ecembers sun throws rows of plantersbeech into a mottled and pitiful shade.2rom behind that $nglo line a cannonade#a triumph of the will that it remains betweentwo worlds to man the gate and do its duty still.

Ar"h

+ranite may be seen as marble from afar

when we whitewash this arch# this portico to 0arwhose target is the sky# the eye of heaventhat sheds its tears for the millionsof reasons it takes to make a man

and see him die.


10/16

Odeveryday

%he neat blue smoke of my cigarette

swirls into then blendswith the rela6ed white of my e6hales.

8arious waves roll up to and breakagainst the matt black beachof my midi system.


11/16

Newfoundland 'aiku

for )mi+o iyashita

ilver birch blush# barewhere conifers are carefulto keep their clothes on.

No matter if stormsare days or months long# trees shrugtheir shoulders# snow melts.


12/16

nipers in ;erelict 'ouses

4hese se"urity people, the pointed end of ritish "ontrol, and their

"i*ilian se"urity "olleagues are always at ris+, ea"h a target 5 the6udge, the "ustoms offi"ial, the infantry bri"+ 5 and the 7!A sele"tionof the parti"ular is determined by "onditions on the ground,

patterns of beha*iour, unanti"ipated *ulnerabilities and lu"+.89. owyer ell, 7!A a"ti"s and argets

Now clouds creep away# hushed windwarning footpath and kerb# the trampledgrass and busy doorway where winos camp

in ammoniac stink of vomit# urine

and dirt,cheap drink. Newspapers barrackthemselves into blocks and damp black

slogans crawl along a crumbling hallwhile I search for a knothole or twoin boarded windows too mean

to let in more than slivers of sunshine.till# work must be done. Long 7eshhas my brother# his grilled fingers# mesh#

barbed wire and pigeons feet# hard rain he seesbut cannot see glistening his native streets.$ neighbouring bell,tower levies a toll# rings its

hymns for a brick framed by a tattooed wall.Its heads or harps# the fairest of bets#but the coin is mine and I havent called yet.

'is head and shoulders are caught in the nookof a crosshairs quadrant# a gallows tree crook.

+o ahead = rub your neck# maybe its bruised9

*aybe some sweetheart took a chunk out of you.*y rifles butt brushes my hip as I roll to geta better view# a lover in discoverys delight

at something new# like a barrel smooth# snugas a cigarette between lipstick teeth#impatient for a spark# for the shark to rise

from beneath. %his pleasures momentary# pos,


13/16

ition absurd! a few column inches# an archof gunshots pious words# the draped flags

parsimony of tears wrung from stiff upper lips. Osword which summons our blood and controlsthe image onscreen# the printed word# little

things like when and where we walk# with whomwe speak# the meekest of cheeks will turn.5ou know for what we yearn-

ravenous graves whose earths heaped highand your blood bleaching the rods in our eyesas the rising sun reveals an open sky.


14/16

'ymn

with apologies to yl*ia :lath(s ;)lm(

I know the bottom he says. I know it with my oesophageal tube!It is what I fear.$nd I fear it! it is far too near.

Is it the sea you hear in me#Its dissatisfactions9Or the voice of nothing# that is my madness9

+rub is a shadow.'ow I lie and cry after it

Listen! these are its booms! it has gone off# like a gong.

$ll night I shall rumble thus# hungrily#%ill your head is a %,bone# your pillow a 5orkshire pud#0ith gravy and gravy.

Or shall I bring you the smell of cooking9%his is done now# this big pot.$nd this is the fruit of it- red,brown# like bolognese.

I have suffered the atrocity of brunches.corched to the base of the pan*y bolognese is burnt# I leave it stand# the chip pans on fire.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like baguettes.*y wind is of such violenceNo bystanders will tolerate it! I must scruff.

Noon# also# is merciless! it would drag meCruelly# being barren.Its emptiness scathes me. Or perhaps I have taught it.

I let it go. I let it go;iminished and flat# would not wait for lunch.'ow dreams of dinner possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.'ourly it flaps outLooking with its fork for something to eat.

I am terrified by this dark thing%hat wakes in me-


15/16

$ll day I feel it rattle a plate against prison bars# impatiently.

*eals pass = and disperse.$re those plates empty# those pale irretrievables9Is it for such I agitate my heart9

I am incapable of waiting any longer.0hat is this# this faceo ravenous in its strangle of gut9 =

Its stomach acids hiss.It petrifies the will. %his = the isolate# slow halt%hat fills# that fills# that fills.


16/16

*ein 7ampf

%he mirrored echo# crowds roar$s 'is words hammer

On eardrums#

7ept in time by 'is step#;igits and fists# 'is voice towers$nd falls# 'is pace of breath#

'is burning heart and sorrow#$nd all like the drum'e beats against

)esoundingly hollow.

march hare festival 2005 poems - alan garvey.doc

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