#IrishWriters
A late snow beats With cold white fists upon the ten… Hurriedly drawing blinds and shutt… Like tall old slatterns Pulling aprons about their heads.
Cherry, cherry, glowing on the hearth, bright red cherry... When you try to pick up cherry Celia’s shriek
Out of fiery contacts ... Rushing auras of steel Touching and whirled apart ... Out of the charged phallases Of iron leaping
Crass rays streaming from the vest… Cafes glittering like jeweled teet… High-flung signs Blinking yellow phosphorescent eye… Girls in black
Out of the lamp—bestarred and clou… Snaring, illuding, concealing, Magically conjuring - Turning to fairy-coaches Beetle-backed limousines
We are old, Old as song. Before Rome was Or Cyrene. Mad nights knew us
Spires of Grace Church, For you the workers of the world Travailed with the mountains’¦ Aborting their own dreams Till the dream of you arose -
Oh, God did cunningly, there at B… Not mere tongues dividing, but sou… So that never again should men be… To fashion one infinite, towering…
Nasal intonations of light and clicking tongues... publicity of windows stoning me with pent-up cries... smells of abattoirs...
The earth is motionless And poised in space ... A great bird resting in its flight Between the alleys of the stars. It is the wind’s hour off ...
That day, in the slipping of torso… on the bloodied ooze of fields plo… And the smoke bluish near earth an… floating like cotton-down, And the harsh and terrible screami…
A spring wind on the Bowery, Blowing the fluff of night shelter… Off bedraggled garments, And agitating the gutters, that ej… Like lewd growths.
—Albert Parsons went to his death singing Annie Laurie; didn’t another have a rose in his coat–
I love you, malcontent Male wind— Shaking the pollen from a flower Or hurling the sea backward from t… Blow on and over my dreams...