Poetry: Arthur Broomfield

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


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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