#Irish #NobelPrize #XXCentury #XXICentury
Up, black, striped and demasked li… At a funeral mass, the skunk’s tai… Paraded the skunk. Night after ni… I expected her like a visitor. The refrigerator whinnied into sil…
The wintry haw is burning out of s… crab of the thorn, a small light f… wanting no more from them but that… the wick of self-respect from dyin… not having to blind them with illu…
As a child, they could not keep me… And old pumps with buckets and win… I loved the dark drop, the trapped… Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss… One, in a brickyard, with a rotted…
When all the others were away at… I was all hers as we peeled potato… They broke the silence, let fall o… Like solder weeping off the solder… Cold comforts set between us, thin…
He would drink by himself And raise a weathered thumb Towards the high shelf, Calling another rum And blackcurrant, without
“We were killing pigs when the Yanks arrived. A Tuesday morning, sunlight and gutter-blood Outside the slaughter house.
A rowan like a lipsticked girl. Between the by-road and the main r… Alder trees at a wet and dripping… Stand off among the rushes. There are the mud-flowers of diale…
I sat all morning in the college s… Counting bells knelling classes to… At two o’clock our neighbors drove… In the porch I met my father cryi… He had always taken funerals in hi…
My father worked with a horse-plou… His shoulders globed like a full s… Between the shafts and the furrow. The horse strained at his clicking… An expert. He would set the wing
There was a sunlit absence. The helmeted pump in the yard heated its iron, water honeyed in the slung bucket
Some day I will go to Aarhus To see his peat-brown head, The mild pods of his eye-lids, His pointed skin cap. In the flat country near by
The pockets of our greatcoats full… No kitchens on the run, no strikin… We moved quick and sudden in our o… The priest lay behind ditches with… A people hardly marching... on the…
Air from another life and time and… Pale blue heavenly air is supporti… A white wing beating high against… And yes, it is a kite! As when on… All of us there trooped out
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun… Under my window, a clean rasping s… When the spade sinks into gravelly… My father, digging. I look down
We have no prairies To slice a big sun at evening— Everywhere the eye concedes to Encrouching horizon, Is wooed into the cyclops’ eye