You can tire of island lifeSalt Sea Sky Open space. A crowded streetSprayed name on red brick wallIs a visual treatAnd people People People.
There are so many, and each oneIts own. But why this, and this still?Was there a sign? Perhaps justThe ancient, utter silence, a hawkHanging upon emptiness aloneBetween the cyclopean cliffs.Leaving the quay, the rusty steamer,The narrow, huddled, whitewashed street,We scrambled upward to the sky.Upon the crest a monasteryHewn from salt, and in the hills beyondA […]
A few treeless meadows awaited your text
amid the overtones of Rackwick where next
to scriptory herds, you sermonised to shoals
how poetry’s an archipelago of souls:
A nighean a’ chùil ruaidh òir, fada bhuat, a luaidh, mo thòir; a nighean a’ chùil ruaidh òir, gur fada bhuatsa mo bhròn. Mi nochd air linne Ratharsair, ‘s mo làmh air an stiùir, a’ ghaoth gu neo-airstealach a’ crathadh an t-siùil, mo chridhe gu balbh, cràiteach an dèidh do chiùil, an là an-diugh ‘s […]
It seems some Calvinist has been there / naming the island…
Sphagnum moss remembers. It recalls
/ the touchdown of each lark that tumbles
/ down upon its surface, the slightness of that weight
Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
/ Give answer from thy voice – the sea-fowl’s screams!
/ When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?
Edge out of the night
/ and contemplate one of nature’s
/ most sublime spectacles…
Exile I am, for to the last, I carry in my
/ heart the oak groves of Derry with their
/ white angels…
This page is a cloud between whose fraying edges
/ a headland with mountains appears brokenly
/ then is hidden again until what emerges
Where sea and land meet, begin there.
/ The ampersand, the join, is a fault
/ which caused jagged peaks to rise –