‘Halo’ by Ailbhe Darcy

It was late last night the dog was speaking of me,
and the gulls speaking of me, out over the field.
You were drawing water from the tap in the kitchen
and a moth was speaking of me, beating for light.

I was raising delft from the sink to the aumbry,
while they spoke of you in loops, over the waves.
I reached for a switch; sunlight coalesced
about your reflection, helmet of bright coils.

Outdoors was a blankness peopled with black angles;
waiting for the water you caught your own glance.
My eyebrows bustled, you submersed in my dressed;
then you were speaking of me, just a word, in response.

All the dogs in America have sisters of their own,
all the birds have sisters, out on the highway.
Moths have moths for sisters, beating out for light,
and I am speaking of you here, to everyone I meet.

Source: Darcy, Ailbhe. Imaginary Menagerie. Tarset, Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books, 2011, p. 31.


Wikipedia Poem, No. 833


“Something sticky inside his face all day.”

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A Poem Cannot Freeze Time


electric om
of fridge
of digital cube
which is no cube at all
dog’s breath
irradiated larynx
fixed, forgotten

This galactic lick of nouns to verb
And I burn the dictionary.

Ulee (After Visiting Dublin)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 804


cumulus stalk
        dancing motes of grasshalms 
greek lemonade 
lonely kalamos 
reed whistle 
        of manchester or trinity

yet to have been made whole 
        somehow by countries
which had relapsed 
into appreciation those countries
halming the nasty english vocalature  

grass thatchwacked up and 
into the ol' english nose — achoo! such wind! — 
        which had like a holy cat o' whip 
        roughly experienced 
        that vampiric futurism 
least appreciated by the latin culmus, stalk great 
merely insofar as its industrial revolutionaries 
        plume up and out and into and over the city hollows
        wholly contained therein as a bauble
        for those who lash mercy's baetylus — speech 

your city 
        the wretched witch 
for other tongues of other men;
veteris ex nova
veteris veteris 


Bonds Cast Out into the Desert, Bonds Reeled In

Wikipedia Poem, No. 803


who can understand
in a rock
scribbles some rocks some watches too
his chief diversion from that rock

Ireland in a Day (In Praise of Ellen Hutchins)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 802


create many named grasses in seaweed and mussel and among their publications and publishers lecania hutchinsiae et al and the mussels of miss ellen’s garden who? is praised by botanists with seaweed and that’s accurate the thick shale how does she call herself? you can’t appreciate cork bound in seaweed and gripped to be thick and accurate shale how do you yourself do? can you do? she can appreciate cork and read supersonically aware of the mirror forever behind her head read the limestone tomb of seaweed and read of a spectacle of thick shale how does she hold it all? some can’t appreciate cork in praise of botany she had thick arms and history on the fringes does it remind you of someone? cladophora hutchinsiae? how do you do? must you yourself climb what must be? or just or just or just

‘Do you need some more right ears, David?’


do you need some more right ears david?
insert this monkey’s jaw in the space between
the ridge of the ear and the skull? (what is the
name of this extra-hard portion of skull? place
yourself behind the eyes of the croaking
at the bottom of the well y’all read that
dystopian joint, right? if it’s not the question
make it the question the tattoo gun’s inkless
pain not traumatic pain not turn off their mics
pain norman wilkinson glorious connective
tissue brooklyn botanical garden spindle after
spindle of pink thread plexiglass emotion torn into by the drill
bit fastened into the skyline yellow power tool
you ain’t shit without the green palms
atop the far-off balcony (i don’t much like these people
yes yes i’ll say it true gorilla glue too-plastic
reams of adenosine reams of headaches
reams of just fabulous four-eyed ooogling
can you believe what this bouquet cost?

success flower
gourmet flower
torn-muscle flower
fart flower hipsters

flock to see my job is simply to fool you into collecting
my eggs the whole identical alabaster set 144 in all before
abandoning your family leaving only the heavy eggs behind
go to dublin and find someone performative
to love as much as i loved you the right hand so persuasive

Wikipedia Poem, No. 371


“I do not think of you lying in the wet clay / Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see / You walking down a lane among the poplars / On your way to the station,” from Patrick Kavanagh’s ‘In Memory of My Mother’

for Bernie

lying in the end        of you          are all mad     and       we cattle—among the cattle—among the can walking along you are   all    made and we cattle—among the poplars on a lane along you say don’t forget the bargains are all made and we cattle among the rich with life—and you meet me and you lying down a fair     day          by accident after the wet clay for it is a       harvest evening down a summer sunday—you       smile        up the bargains are piling along           the end of you lying in the wet clay for           it is a headland we   are all mad    and you walk    among the ricks against         the end of you smile up the end of repose

“Primrose” by Patrick Kavanagh



Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, said I, to find
One small page of Truth’s manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear—
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but a shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.


Source & further reading:
Kavanagh, Patrick. "Primrose." Collected Poems. New York: W. W. Norton, 1964. Print, p. 75.
Fitts, Dudley. "Loving Evocation of Irish Life." New York Times, 24 August 1947. Web.
Garratt, Robert F., "Patrick Kavanagh and the Killing of the Irish Revival." 
            Colby Library Quarterly, Volume 17, no.3, September 1981. Web.

Wikipedia Poem, No. 283


“The welling of cicadas in the green / afternoon before the storm” August Kleinzahler, from “The Old Schoolyard in August”


suspicion chooses 
from algeria colombia and ireland 
the federation defends address 
        i’m glad 
said        some 
  matches        all judging aside 
who also worked 
        all judging officials 
review the inside
i know 
        the american 
echoes a coached-thing who wins 
        about to step forward through all that governs thee 
russian boxing computer 
accuse release released accused referees agree
agree agree agree