Poetry: Arthur Broomfield

Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, lessayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.

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The Poet Talks to Himself

Now you, who once spoke with the tongues of angels

and of men, will accompany the lyrics of my invention.

You, the poethead I ripped from its body in the cemetery

of Saint Peter’s church roundabout midnight

when the rats and dogs got their inspiration from

a wicker coffin, the disturbed worms 

of the Lucifer landscape; an ode to the cliché

the perfect setting. Steeped in saltpetre,

sandpapered to the crow’s feet, eyes in a 

Chef mixed pickles glass jar, tongue fed to the cat,

hungry for the caviar and dog biscuits of

King Midas nights out in the Hogwash hotel,

your gaze glistens from the reflected glory of my marble fireplace,

you, the louse powder to thoughtful Plato, scratching his chin,

he’s heard the news from elsewhere, In black and grey

 James Dean struggling with the to be of Hamlet. They might

have things to say about sophistry and Shakespeare.

I gaze at you, Raphael of the phoney psalm

and dance in time to the cliffs of Moher.

*** 

Day Vision

A cask painted fog

clear to the Cyclop eye.

Rectangle, vertical to 

the Cirrostratus’ tibia. 

 

The dirge from the alto sax

draws a psychedelic dance

from the quartz star,

 

endures the pained sun

the moon shroud,

the coming home of the corpse.

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Setu, September 2020