Six Poems from The Galway Review

Here are six poems just published in Ireland´s literary journal, The Galway Review with original formatting pretty much intact:


            Her most holy book
primly rested beside us,
on the table next to
            her little bed,
where unspeakable beauty
            that one night.

            I turned instead, her pages,
brainy top to briny toes;
            I bent low
in loving caresses,
            tasting Fez and Marrakesh
and their brilliant sun
between her fingers,
along her brown,
serpentine belly &
            deep within her ancient eyes.

            We blazed in flight.

            In the morning
another scriptural verse
was revealed:
            she reached out
to read my warm, legible face,
the far away swirling red sands of
the night before,
while the city had danced beyond
and soft grainy oceans
swept over us in
            passages I´ve long since committed
to memory
            for 30 profane years.
Silver-blue brightness coats the streets
with quiet glitter,
ice covered in powder, run over
by thinning rubber & diffident rain.
Car lights dart like
furtive animals on a night chase,
while reds & greens change with
predictable precision.
The destination is local.
Near the pier he rests, across the bay
dancing luminescence is taken in silence,
broken only by the salt smell &
bubble burps of water, splashes
on the sea wall;
he kneels
where he takes a stone
& washes it with longing,

tossing it back to the
where it might
dream of the future.

Faithful, he rises to leave,
out between the
trees behind him,
smelling the night,
catching wolves in
his palm.

(For TR)
It was certain he knew the rules
& the measured plod recorded
all life & in its redundant, peculiar details.
The singing was not a raucous harmony;
no gospel Black God callings here.
It hung tighter to a different form, giving grief
to the hurried reader eager to grab and get.
But Ted, I saw in there, among the tight
thrushes & fancied sways
a certain way in I couldn´t find otherwise.
The knees are bent in prayer;
the head bowed in elementary tonal gratitude,
blank, severe, yet faithfully expressed,
twisting the rules just so.
If there is to be but one act and one alone,
let it be to fly above the fields and
impassive stone to mark the shadows along the hedge
and watching, note the angles, the branches,
that reedy ledge below the next, tucked
darkly, deftly between the brown leaves and,
when the scene is past, sit down awhile
and cry at ease. The Earth will hold
and the sky shall follow
but of that one moment all may change
though no record be seen tomorrow.

life craft:
below dark crimson seas innumerable flowers bloom,
capsuled fragments of the mind,
flowing dreams, returning and shaking unsteadily
a mind which bounces on the wind.
I have seen enough – the End
will come at a cost:
the last flutter of dreaming,
this mind, disengaged from all but
the screws of finance, the screwing of war.

One should never be surprised
to find a poet being lionized
by men and women MFAs
who know the labyrinthine ways
a poet gets to print and publish
while all the rest
languish and perish.


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