#IrishWriters
We are old, Old as song. Before Rome was Or Cyrene. Mad nights knew us
Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors . . .
Drab discoloration Of faces, façades, pawn-shops, Second-hand clothing, Smoky and fly-blown glass of lunch… Odors of rancid life’¦
The foreman's head slowly circling... White rims under yellow disks of eyes.... Gold hairs
Do you remember Honey-melon moon Dripping thick sweet light Where Canal Street saunters off b… And the faint decayed patchouli—
I remember The crackle of the palm trees Over the mooned white roofs of the… The shining town’¦ And the tender fumbling of the sur…
Bountiful Givers, I look along the years And see the flowers you threw’¦ Anemones And sprigs of gray
Cherry, cherry, glowing on the hearth, bright red cherry... When you try to pick up cherry Celia’s shriek
I THOUGHT to die that night in… But there was time ... And I lay quietly on the drawn kn… I do not know how long ... I could not count the hours, they…
Old plant of Asia - Mutilated vine Holding earth’s leaping sap In every stem and shoot That lopped off, sprouts again -
The ore in the crucible is pungent… It is dusky red, like the ebb of p… And purple, like the blood of elde… Surely it is a strong wine - juice… I am drunk of its fumes.
A spring wind on the Bowery, Blowing the fluff of night shelter… Off bedraggled garments, And agitating the gutters, that ej… Like lewd growths.
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...
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 -
Radiant notes piercing my narrow-chested room, beating down through my ceiling - smeared with unshapen belly-prints of dreams