A retreat.
the autumn each year
smelled like old crates
of apples. and winter
the softness, a skin-
wrinkled must. and the house
was his passed-away
uncle’s house next to an orchard;
he had plans for it,
he told us, through the smell
of old fruit – it would make
a perfect guest house; had views
of the sea and the mountains
to make painters bite
down on their brush.
and solitude for writers,
and silence for musicians
and solitude for painters
and a quality of light.
each evening the yard
would be lit up
with cigarettes – it would make
a great commune – a retreat
and a stage-ground
for tourists and athletic
german backpackers. the sheds
fell to ruin. the orchard
a haven for wasps.
he curled in his wine-
sodden comfortable
bedroom. said next year
he’d do it, when the weather
was better. and next year he’d do it
when the apples were ripe.
~
Hops.
I open the windows
and let in the smell
of the brewery. it’s over
the river and pumping
the scorched smell
in the air like a gift.
it comes like a cat
through the window.
rubs its fur over
my legs. I lie on the sofa,
an arm on my eyes.
close my mouth, breathe
through my nose. the hop-
smell gets in and puts hands
on my memories – god
the world’s such
broken biscuits.
~
Firecrackers.
birds coming down
like drops from a turned
over wine-bottle;
I am going
for groceries, my route
through this plaza
alongside the canal
and a bridge going
into rathmines.
it’s a place
people come
to feed pigeons
sometimes.
5-year-old kids
spilling old bags
of breadcrumb
and watching the flocks
form a fist. flight
struck suddenly
in shock out of motion,
like firecrackers
bursting in reverse.
they land,
settle feathers,
and collapse in a circle
scrambling in scraps.
and sometimes swans,
lumbering from the water,
sticky with thick-necked idiocy
and blundering through the crowd.
the children are excited
as these things happen. everything
is new to them
like water in balls
on a leaf. animals
inhabit the world.
I step around the flocks
as delicate as I’m able,
trying not to disturb things
or get in the way of any videos –
I remember childhood
and won’t send birds away
just because seeing flight
now is less remarkable
than I remember
when it used to be.
~
The artists and the arts.
discussing the art
and the artists
who made it
with some 20
year old kid in
this artists collective
which began collecting
recently in the back
room of this local
bar – someone works
here, has let them set
tables out, selling
all these magazines,
these mimeograph prints
and prints done in other
styles also – lino,
paper-rubbings –
tattoos in one corner
with sailor-ink sheets.
it’s good, it’s like walking
into somebody’s garage
and seeing all their interests
in piles and around – bicycles
old issues of magazines
with poems. sculptures,
some photography
and cameras they’ve restored.
it’s incredible – they all seem
like they have so many
interests. and the bar
is doing business – the turn-
out impressive. and the women
are all gorgeous
in that way you get
with artists. and the men
good looking also,
in that scrawny
artist way, at 20
and with skin
as tight as condoms
on their bones. I appreciate
the interest – the artists
and the arts. this drawing
of an art-scene out
of wanting to get drunk.
this poison out of snake-
bites being sucked
and spat on tarmac.
this kicking over rocks
and seeing worms.
~
The reason why I have not married you.
because anything mortal
might also betray. that: the fear
and the reason why I
have not married you.
I walk through the docklands
and see boats pull to harbour
with steel plates
scraping the dockside.
like buildings which bang
against buildings. I work
and call plumbers
and electricians – patch pipes
and fix wires. then
I come home –
and usually you are well,
but sometimes
you get sick also.
like buildings.
like every
building.
my fingers try muscles
and bones –
bang them and crack
them to place.