Issue 2:2 | Poetry | Michael Davitt
4 Poems |
 |
Tears
for America
a tear for the tail
dark exile
came ashore
got a bed
hot meal
took off
from the ground
floor by floor
swallowed whole the west
swallowed whole the east
swole swole swole
a tear for the King
who shook his hips
& turned longskirted
girls to jelly
as the burgers burst
out through
his belly
a tear for the Queen
of blondom
brightness
curves
Goddess of silver screens
lover of presidents
melted into eternity
in a mist
of pills
a tear for Uncle Sam
escaped from Rehab
drank the last drop
of Jack Daniels
in Mr. Bojangles
nuked Japan
stone-aged Pyong Yang
showered nepalm on Viet Nam
boom boom bombed
Iraq
Yugoslavia
Afghanistan
a tear for unsung heroes
take Bill & Bob
a vision drew them together
one night in Akron
a pair of glasses
through which they could see
the Maker’s face
in the eyes of every drunk
Bill the stockbroker
let bolts of LSD
through his brain
as he trudged down
Sober Street
Bob the physician
put all his trust
in one Almighty
& never removed the glasses
to the day he died
a tear for Coca Cola
stuck his greasy hand
in our Levi’s pocket
saying
Diet Coke Siree
& sold us cans of water
laced with aspartamine
a tear for Heinz and Nike
multicorporation creed
screamed Freedom out loud
in a whisper screamed greed
& you exile
brother
given the worst of both worlds
burn or leap
from floor 22
you leap
wingless eagle
tear d r o pp i n g
to ground zero
TJuourrnaeys
idir mé is tú míle cnámh seanchaí á gcneá ag tíogar
álainn/míle Walkman
between you and me 1000 shanachie bones knawed by a beautiful
tiger/
gan chluas/míle Swatch gan aghaidh/míle bodhrán gan chraiceann/míle
1000 Walkmans without ears/1000 Swatches without faces/1000
bodhrán
Corr ar leathphraghas/míle Roadwatch Babe á gcreimeadh ag défhoghair
without skin/1000 Corrs at half price/1000 Roadwatch Babes eaten
alive
ghéinathraithe/míle de Valera is a nGaeltacht féin acu/míle Ronan
Keat-
by genetically modified dipthongs/1000 de Valéras in their own
Gaeltacht/
ing in aibíd Sheathrún Céitinn/míle mainicín ar E ag smearadh
fuil a gcroí
1000 Ronan Keatings in Seathrún Céitinn habits/1000 models on
E smear-
ar fhísfhalla teilifíseán digiteach carntha in airde sna scamaill/míle
feithid-
ing their hearts blood onto a videowall of digital televisions
stacked up into
eolaí ar thóir feithid-ar-líne ár linne/míle Atlantach Guinness
á n-urlacan
the clouds/1000 entomologists searching for the on-line bug
of our times/
anuas ar míle Rinceoir Riverdance/míle comhartha bóthair ag scaoileadh
1000 Atlantics of Guinness vomitting down on a thousand Riverdancers/
urchar le/míle logainm/míle camán stáin/míle sliotar siúcra/míle
urlabhraí
1000 roadsigns shooting at a 1000 placenames/1000 tin hurleys/1000
oifigiúil thar ceann/míle cúis/míle cros gan asal/míle port gan
seinm/míle
sugar sliotars/1000 official spokesmen for a thousand causes/1000
cross-
píobaire gan uillinn/míle timpeallán craosach ag sú na tráchta
chucu
es without donkeys/1000 unplayed jigs/1000 pipers without elbows/1000
isteach go leac na bpian/míle lorraí bruscair ag leathadh a gcuid
stuife
ravenous roundabouts sucking the traffic towards them into the
flags of
ar fuaid na dúthaí/míle ollmhargadh olagónach lán de chónraí fármaidhce/
hell/1000 rubbish lorries spreading their stuff over the countryside/1000
míle pleidhce ina saoithe suite ar shreangán deilgneach/míle lia
ag
wailing supermarkets full of formica coffins/1000 fools posing
as sages on
sluaisteáil piollaí suain isteach in otharcharr critheaglach/míle
bó mhire
a barbed wire fence/1000 doctors shovelling tranquillizers into
a terrified
ag déanamh waltz na bualtraí/míle iriseoir d’ord na míthrócaire
ag cogaint
ambulance/1000 mad cows doing the cowdung waltz/1000 journalists
of
a gcuid fón póca/míle próca cóla/míle seangán sean-nósach i sclaig
stáit/
the no-mercy order chewing their mobile phones/1000 crocks of
cola/
míle áit gan ainm
1000 oldworld ants in a state pothole/1000 places with no name
Réiteach/Resolution
i.m. Sofie Toscan du Plantier*
Sophie,
athosclaím an comhad
fé mar
a dheinise leabhar dánta Yeats a oscailt
roim chodladh
dhuit oíche do bhascaithe.
Deir siad
gurbh é ŒA Dream of Death¹
a bhí os
do chomhair sarar thit do chodladh ort.
(Sophie,
I re-open the file/ as you might have opened the book of Yeats¹
poems/
at bedtime the night of your battering./ It¹s said you read
ŒA Dream
of Death¹/ before you fell asleep.)
Pé réiteach,
sealadach nó fadshaolach, atá sa bhfilíocht -
céim ar
a laghad i dtreo na haontachta í
sa bheatha
neamhréitithe - tá réiteach
á lorg
againne leis, clabhsúr de shaghas éigin,
fé mar
a chuirfí snaidhm ar véarsa,
fé mar
ná raibh an tslí réitithe i gceart romhat
go Cathair
na nGrást, gur fhan cúinne
de d¹anam
i ngreim sa sreangán deilgneach
céanna
a ghreamaigh do chois
agus na
buillí fill á mbualadh anuas
ar do lámha
is ar do cheann.
(Whatever
resolution poetry can offer/ -at least a step towards wholeness/
in an unresolved
world- we are looking/ for resolution too, some sort of
closure,/
like tying a knot on a verse,/ as if the path to the City of
Grace/
had¹nt been prepared for you/ that a corner of your soul stayed
trapped/
on the same barbed wire as your leg/ when the fatal blows came
down/ on
your hands and head.)
So-phie,
an bhéim thiar i ndeireadh,
mar a bhíodh
i nGaelainn Dhún Mhánais Thiar,
ní foláir,
roinnt glúnta siar,
thitis
i ngrá le canúint an chósta,
síorchlaochló
na spéire ó dhubh go dubh,
tíriúlacht
na ndaoine.
Tháinig
léas thigh solais Charraig Aonair
trí fhuinneog
do sheomra chugat istoíche,
siombal
den léire, den rithim, den tsláine.
(So-phie,
final syllable stressed,/ as probably in the Irish of Dunmanus
West,/
some generations back,/ you fell in love with the dialect of the
coast/
the swinging mood of the sky from black to black/ the
down-to-earthness
of the people. The beam from Fastnett lighthouse swung in
your window
at night,/ with its clarity,
and unfailing rythm.)
Deir siad
gur eol dóibh fear an fhill
go maireann
saor sa dúthaigh . Is ní hin
an réiteach
atá i gceist, go n-íocfadh san
go daor
as an bhfeall. Ach go maithfeá
dhúinne
ár mbreall, ár ngliúcaíl,
ár suainseán
is ár n-anailís,
gur dheineamar
ornáid phoiblí de bhean
a shantaigh
riamh an phríobháid.
(It¹s said
your killer is known/ and walks free in West Cork./ And that¹s
not the
resolution I mean,/ that he pay dearly for the deed./ But that you
would forgive
us our intrusions/ our gossip, our speculation/
that have
turned a woman who cherished her privacy/ into a public ornament.)
Sé seo
mo réiteachsa: pé anáil díot
a d¹fhan
i ngreim i gcoinne do thola
i ndris
nó i sreangán
go ndeinim
é a shéideadh as go bog
mar a dhéanfá
le bláth an cheannabháin móna
mar a dhéanfá
le líne dheireanach dáin.
(Let this
be my own resolution: whatever breath of you/ still sticking
against
your will/ to briar or barbed wire/ that I blow it gently away/ like
you would
a ball of bog cotton,/ like you would the last line of a poem.)
*In the
early hours of December 23rd, 1996, a young French film producer
Sophie
Toscan du Plantier, was battered to death near her remote holiday
retreat
near Schull, West Cork, on the south west coast of Ireland. While
the savage
crime remains unsolved the case continues to receive a lot of
speculative
coverage in the media in Ireland and France. One popular theory
is that
the killer may still be living in the area.
Sur la Place
O mon Bien! O mon Beau!
Fanfare atroce ou je ne trebuche point!
-Rimbaud
I am
Authur Rimbaud, poet.
People
say I’m half-queer,
And half-whatever.
Today
I’m half out of my head.
The half
still in
I don’t
know what’s left there.
I’d sell
my mother for a drag of opium.
Sitting
in the manicured Place, shaded by
Plane
trees, unmeltable butter on my tongue,
I observe,
like a raven: the bourgeois
Businessmen,
the puffed-up bureaucrats,
The slaves
to fashion, the bejewelled,
As the
Military Band belts our Valse des Fyfres,
Echoing
along the pousteries that wind
Down
to the river. Look, the plump grocer
Spreads
his meaty ass the width and length
Of the
bench as he sucks his onnaing pipe
Which
is overflowing with tobacco,
Contraband
up in smoke. I observe the white
Necks
of the young women, the way a curl
might
hang down, a predator in search of
Stocking,
ankle or strap. They find me
Strange
and whisper among themselves.
My savage
desires stick to their lips.
But a
voyante is never idle in the
Gare
Centrale of his mind, supernatural
Rays
shoot through it in a fanfare atroce,
Waterfalls
of lightening carrying dolphins
From
faraway planets, butterflies
The size
of a train, the bold black horses
Of unknown
seas, violent angels free-falling
In the
stratosphere, Red Indians in the
Time
before Columbus exporting tyrannous
Cargoes
of poison in misty harbours,
Importing
cargoes of pure love,
Delicate
kisses of eternity, tastes of
The purest
water from true sources,
Till
all ends in an explosion of perfume.
The literati
avoid me
And I
avoid them. I wanted a radical
Manifesto,
not the highbrow backroom
Elitism.
When I talked of repossession
They
talked about formulaic verse form
That
chokes the spirit. After too much
Pipe
and a pile of bottles last night
I slept
on my own excrement
But didn’t
lost a wink. I’m walked
All over
by fleas.
I talk
to God
But listen
to the stars.
Ill sing
my verses out loud
To the
moon tonight
If she
shows me her white neck.
