Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

Abstract

Filíocht Nua:New Poetry Noel Monahan child and lamb I found an early lamb in Tully's fieldCaught in a briary ditch and I rescued him,Carried him home bouncing and bleating.A robin in the bushes took note, the other sheep stared.Back in the kitchen I tied his feet with twine,Placed him in a cardboard box before the cooker.My mother loved him. She was going on aboutHis loaf white fleece, his angel eyes . . . but he doesn't belong here. You stole a lamb from our neighbours, my father said.Because my father was the greatest man then,I agreed to return the lamb the next morning.Sadly, I watched him drift away with his motherThrough a gap into the next field. Then I turned awayTo think of something else to do that day. [End Page 57] where the wind sleeps Something will come to you in your dreams thatWill help you find your way in abandoned places.Here the wind sleeps with nettles and briarsIn half-empty walls and the owl hatchesHer chicks in the belfry. Here an apparitionOf monks in off-white habits sleepwalkHolding empty skulls in their hands and listeningTo the slow noise of old ways dying.Each in his solitude finds dereliction,Prayer that does not rest on words but livesIn darkness and out of the depths of nightHeaven falls like snow on a linen altar,Two candles burn, carnations as white asChildren's teeth are little nails of glory and grief. [End Page 58] aphrodite in the snow I awaken to the surprise of seeing youStretched naked outside my window,Your ivy hair full of snowflakes,Earrings of frozen ice, blizzard of pearl powderFor your face. Fresh snow begins to blowAcross your navel, curves about your pubic bones,Lodges between your thighs. I know you drifted here.The wind shaped your limbs, your snow white girdleAnd now the wind of forty voices sings:Spem In Alium in the snow,Choral whispers of hope in the singing bowl of winter.A car passes with head-lights on, someone is scraping a drivewayAnd I'm not sure whether I'm looking at the evening or morning star. [End Page 59] famine times A stooped croneLeans on a stick,Her face a famine, withered breasts,Foul breath, sunken eyes. She kisses the clayThe hunger-worm wrigglesFrom drill to furrow,Blight clouds gather. She knows what little remains,Begs God for favours,Prayer makes her tired, [End Page 60] prairie mother She continues to survive out here in the Midwest,Sheltering in the cornstalks of the prairies.Unknowingly, her heart throbs within usTo remind us of who she once was and whereShe is going. She hides in tangled rootsWhen fire strikes. She's the rain afterThe long dry spell, the coneflowers,The purple prairie clover . . . She's a tree-houseTo draw us back to childhood, a prairie windTo brush the old man's whiskers,By night she sleeps with the bees and starsIn the honey hive moon. She's a memoryThat lives in our forgetfulness.Clay holds her soul. [End Page 61] god man We buried our deadPerformed rituals.The gods worried usAs much as they cheered us. When the gods needed food We fed them our children. When the gods needed shelter We built stone circles, temples . . .Later on, we abandoned the caves,Dropped our flint knives and spears on the floorDaubed and wattled our homesSettled for a plough,Bred black headed cattle,White cows with bracelets, necklaces . . . We complained about all the work, Argued and fought, Small-talked about a girl, Found face down in a bog.Many blamed the old gods.Time on our handsWe turned our backs on themAnd found a New One. [End Page 62] pull down the house Break down the doors and windowsLet the jackdaws fly out from the chimneys,The mice leave their nestsUnder the floorboards. Tear the wallpaperIn the bedrooms, pluck the weeds from the gutters,Knock all...