Derek Coyle has published poems in The Irish Times, Irish Pages, The Stinging Fly, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Texas Literary Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Orbis, Skylight 47, Assaracus, and The Stony Thursday Book.
Carlow Poem
#157
I
went out to Clogrennane
in
search of a good thorn
autumn
was the right time for it
the
leaves bare their thorns exposed
I
picked several
sorry
poor brambles for nipping
these
off
forgive
me
I
carried them home in my pocket
and
then set about
replacing
the worn out stylus
on
my record player
wondering
who’d be best
to
test out the new stylus
I
settled for Tom Waits
something
of the crunch of gravel
in
his voice
I
switched it on
and
lifted the arm across
somewhat
crackly at first
there
was Tom
‘I’m
big in Japan’
it
was then they came to the window
the
open door
down
from rooftops
down
from lampposts
rooks
and robins a pigeon
and
then some cats
hopped
the fence
ignoring
birds
ignoring
the dogs who
wagged
their tails to the rhythm
the
beat of Tom’s tune
they
could hear the sound
of
a summer of crows
the June cries of a fox
the
furtive sounds of rabbits in winter
the
tinkle of rain drops
on
the leaves of a larch in September
in
pitch perfect harmony with Tom’s vocal
orchestrated
through the record player
and
the thing is
I
thought I saw a goose
the
one you mention Merwin
in
your poem to Po Chui-I
the
one who escaped famines
wars
human and natural pestilence
he
who knew Tang Dynasty China
and
the palm trees of Hawaii
here
he was smiling
for
a moment
taking
a rest you might say
re-charging
his batteries
in
suspension from worry
not
wondering
or
trying to figure out
what
to do
since
we’ve set sail
on
this sea
the
ice-caps melting
the
earth heating up
Carlow Poem
#181
I only realized how far
the milk turning a delightful chocolatey brown.
I was thinking of how I live
in a house of concrete and brick
containing coccolithophores,
the very lads crushed in the limestone
of the Great Pyramids of Giza –
maybe I wouldn’t have to go see them
after all – and how the sulphur
in the protein molecules of my hair
had blown into the atmosphere
after the eruption of Vesuvius –
another one off the list.
Sitting still at my kitchen table, I realized
the water in my eyes had travelled
on asteroids, icy comets to get here,
hurtling through space
long before the dreams of Time.
How my little toe was hoarding
brine from an ancient trader
sailing down the Strait of Hormuz.
Sinbad the Sailor
smacking Royal Fillets of Mackerel from his lips
and he voyaging out of Baghdad
with frankincense destined for India.
How the snot in my nose could be
made from particles of Chaucer.
Something from his fingernails, let’s say,
and he biting them
bored in a tavern in Southwark,
gawking at the face of a pilgrim Merchant
trudging out to Canterbury
another rainy Sunday in April.
Sure who’d need to head to church
to pray of a Sunday
and he a living shrine
to the creative energies of the cosmos,
the presence of that God’s dream
in his every cuticle, every particle?
Carlow Poem #167
What struck everyone was the terrible stench.
This was the conversation starter for years after,
over glasses of wine, snifters of whiskey,
the foul stink, where wood polish
and varnish, the whiff of stale air,
a certain mustiness, was the accepted odour.
It was strange, it all happened
on the same day. Caretakers rose
from their beds, kissed their children goodbye,
and headed into work, Vienna, Hamburg, Rome.
In the Galleria Doria Pamphilz
someone was hovering the floor,
others polishing dusty frames,
the lights on, the hum of portable
ear pods blasting in the latest pop,
before someone walked in and was hit. Looking up,
the glorious portrait by Vel├бzquez.
Pope Innocent – virtually smothered –
standing on top of his throne,
a strain on his face,
attempting to keep his fingers
on his nose. He was squeezing hard,
trying to stifle the malodorous stench,
buried beneath stacks
of rubbish, empty drink cans,
the plastic packages of sweets,
ice-lollies, beer bottles, milk cartons.
Lost to sight the vermillion of his robes,
his red cap askew on his head,
the gold and white of throne and soutane
swamped in garish yellow, lurid greens,
the work of midnight oil, design teams
in high-rise offices, Milan, Chicago, London.
The news started to arrive in,
phone calls to Vienna confirmed,
Bruegel’s children were throwing
empty Coke cans around the town square,
racing down small hillocks of trash,
empty tetra packs of orange juice,
plastic egg cartons, old tyres,
petrol cans, broken doors, twisted
lines of reinforced steel from buildings
no longer required. The word
from Hamburg was the Wanderer
in the Sea of Fog was disorientated, lost.
Not in misty clouds
descended from mountains.
He had disappeared in the dull haze
that rises above an industrial scale
rubbish tip. He was down, gasping
for want of fresh air,
on top of some mountain peak
in a romantic valley. Now
he would be unable to find the path down;
piles of used clothes, jeans, fleeces, shoes;
the detritus of fast fashion, discarded
summer dresses, hats worn once at a wedding,
blouses for a season; sponges,
toothbrushes, floss. Nothing
had prepared him for this.
It was making the news in Washington.
The Madonna was last seen in the National Gallery,
holding her child above the litter,
her arms aching. At any moment
she’d see her child slip, to drown
in an ocean of discarded coffee cups,
broken televisions, leaking batteries.
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