WORLD POETS MAGAZINE

  Birthday Egrets   Nine egrets, whiter than snow   in the wetland after the deluge, wings unfolding – graceful, slow, then like sudden overblown sprays of wild cherry blossom, perched for a moment on the tallest oak.   Nine egrets, whiter than snow   on this my mother’s birthday and she twice nine years ago gone. Are they a present from her, when presents should be hers? She promised to come back –   nine egrets, whiter than snow.   So perhaps this is it: in tiny mirrors of water from beyond, a special show plumbed by the horse’s hooves. Maybe she wants to remind us of the nine-times-tables we chanted…   nine egrets whiter than snow…   and how multiples of nine add up to the nine which scatters and glows with a transforming light of change, previous mistakes churned into mud by the birds’ feet yolk-yellow.   Nine egrets, whiter than snow   O wing me, then, whiter than snow – long black beaks nibs...

    Invocation   Okay, this is it, shut everything out, the sounds, the heat, infernal visions. Relax the spot behind the eyes, calm the heartbeat, head, and fingers. If something’s flying, let it pass,   unless it makes the wind chime tingle. Cut the light—especially the light. It’s vital that one’s cup be drained of any stale solutions it holds. Dab it dry with cotton rag, guard the lip from ash and dust.   All this done it won’t be long. Quiet now, here comes the ghost, that thin, slow spiral playing bones. The pen perks up, the pages shudder, not letting on, but it shows.   Can’t contain myself to keep from asking why it appears so empty-handed. Haven’t you forgotten something? You were supposed to fill this hole!   Effing muse takes a leak in my ear, says it just stopped to use the head.   Now, wait a minute. This won’t do. I’ve been waiting. Seems like years! You’d better give me what I prayed for or that lobe won’t be...

  Those Days in Letterkenny   Buncrana stank of smelly fish, Letterkenny was very heaven – tonnes of Oatfield   butter and sugar and cream. They made chocolate toffees – Emeralds and Eclairs .   We’d savour their scent on summer holidays when you told us about Peggy’s Leg –   a name that made us laugh – sticks of sugar wrapped in cellophane,   all the more mysterious for our never having tasted them.   I want to ask you, did you love cough sweets, lemon drops, clove rock?   There’s so much I need to learn about you – like why you left farming   and decided to join the army. Why weren’t you a fan of The Beatles,   not even The Rolling Stones – what was it about you preferred   the tenor voice of John McCormack – Tom Waits was a fan,   but that would mean nothing to you? I loved the faint taste of coconut   in an Oatfield Emerald caramel – did you, Dad? There’s so much   I don’t know about you – and you nearl...

  Homage to Kinsale   As nights obsidian curtain lifted, the skylark heralds the dawn chorus in my demesne of duck egg blue. From my balcony, a mirage of matchstick masts navigate the thirsty mouth of the harbour and my skin drinks it all in. Sometimes, when I bury myself in myself, never quite reaching the point when thinking stops, I unlatch the door, drink tea and savour wild berry tart at Poets Corner, or stroll to the Spaniard where the swans dance to Francesca’s mandolin and in my solitude I feel quietly content. I look at life in black and white at The Gallery, buy a chiffon scarf from Stone Mad – peacock feathers with handstitched beads and fly it like a kite on the beach. After sundown you’ll find me in The Black Pig sipping a glass of red, satisfied with the feeling that finally, I have arrived.     The Art of Seeing   There is a place I sit and sketch the still shade before the light fades in and out of restless dusk. There is a place where broken s...