An fharraige, i ngach áit

 

Cill Maoilchéadair, Murreagh, Ireland (2019)

to heal

fissure in the heart

light water weed seagulls in

ocean-bathèd wound

Filinz

he sez he wans us intimet

that he luvz me

so i duz wot he sez

i wan kissiz an hugz

but he duzn

he sez he wans my hart

but my but to

wen he comome

late an drunk

his handz en ma throat

an mout

i cant screem

he smelz ov uver wimin

but i cant leav him

i luv him

an he luvz me

an hiz intimet wiv me

wen nowun els duz

he luvz me

an a litel pain iz ok

iz ok he sez

but less i sez

sumtymz less

sumtymz mor he sez

he sez hel be beter

if im hiz an if i duz

wot he sez

he sez we doneed filinz

filinz hurt but i don inersten

luv heelz it duzn hurt

buthen hiz sad

so i let hiz finguz in me

surchin an

he forsiz me

to open ma mout

an swalo bud i

donwan an he lafs

an pushiz an pushiz

an lafs an kumz

an i cryz bud he duzn care

hez gun hez alwez gun

he duzn sleep hear

hez alwez gun

an i alwez cryz

im despret

he sez he needz me

bud he duzn i no

hez gun an leevz me

alwez leevz me

i wana die

mebe hel care

Aporia

deep rumbles through

the soft tissues

absolute skinquake

folded in the flesh

the sentiment

nested like an origami

waiting to unfold into

another shape with the

pulse of a wild horse

lain slain in pain

gushing blood all over

severed arteries

on the brink of breath

eyes wide as quasars

the heart extracted

in our own capable hands

impossible anomaly yet

alive alive alive

Here Are My Black Clothes

 

I think now it is better to love no one
than to love you. Here are my black clothes,
the tired nightgowns and robes fraying
in many places. Why should they hang useless
as though I were going naked? You liked me well enough
in black; I make you a gift of these objects.
You will want to touch them with your mouth, run
your fingers through the thin
tender underthings and I
will not need them in my new life.

in The House on Marshland (1975), by Louise Glück, American poet and Nobel prize in literature (April 22, 1943 - October 13, 2023)

 

Before the frost

 

Montlivault (France), 2018

Unmovable

 

I have built entire cities

blown rivers off their course

levelled mountains to nought

wrote whole libraries

shaped universes

the only thing I couldn't move

which proved too much

for my hands and my heart

was you

 

Azure eye

 

Pornichet (France), 2021

Suspended in light

 

if/and

 
If I were a piece of paper,
I’d probably burn myself.

If I were a car, I’d crash
or run myself over a cliff.

If I were a particle, I’d box
myself in with a cat, and wait.

But I am none of these things,
I am not sure of what I am, exactly.

I am not sure of what I am not either,
but that hasn’t got me very far.

Perhaps, perhaps I should be
and not be any and all of these things.

If I were a piece of paper,
I am turning myself into a poem.

If I will be a car, I ought to
visit every corner of the world.

If I also am a particle, I am a cat
and a box and I awake and sleep.

In case of doubt, I should be and do
all and nought, unbe and undo all.