#Irish #NobelPrize #XXCentury #XXICentury
Late August, given heavy rain and… For a full week, the blackberries… At first, just one, a glossy purpl… Among others, red, green, hard as… You ate that first one and its fle…
A shadow his father makes with joi… And thumbs and fingers nibbles on… Like a rabbit’s head. He understa… He will understand more when he go… There he draws smoke with chalk th…
As if he had been poured in tar, he lies on a pillow of turf and seems to weep the black river of himself.
And some time make the time to dri… Into County Clare, along the Fla… In September or October, when the… And the light are working off each… So that the ocean on one side is w…
As you plaited the harvest bow You implicated the mellowed silenc… In wheat that does not rust But brightens as it tightens twist… Into a knowable corona,
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
When you plunged The light of Tuscany wavered And swung through the pool From top to bottom. I loved your wet head and smashing…
Fishermen at Ballyshannon Netted an infant last night Along with the salmon. An illegitimate spawning, A small one thrown back
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
To-night, a first movement, a puls… As if the rain in bogland gathered… To slip and flood: a bog-burst, A gash breaking open the ferny bed… Your back is a firm line of easter…
“We were killing pigs when the Yanks arrived. A Tuesday morning, sunlight and gutter-blood Outside the slaughter house.
All I know is a door into the dar… Outside, old axles and iron hoops… Inside, the hammered anvil’s short… The unpredictable fantail of spark… Or hiss when a new shoe toughens i…
The piper coming from far away is… With a whitewash brush for a sporr… Wobbling round you, a kitchen chai… Upside down on your shoulder, your… Pretending to tuck the bag beneath…
She taught me what her uncle once… How easily the biggest coal block… If you got the grain and the hamme… The sound of that relaxed alluring… Its co-opted and obliterated echo,
It is December in Wicklow: Alders dripping, birches Inheriting the last light, The ash tree cold to look at. A comet that was lost