Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta IRLANDA. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta IRLANDA. Mostrar todas las entradas

viernes, 13 de enero de 2017

SEÁN Ó TUAMA [19.859]


Seán Ó Tuama 

Seán Ó Tuama, nacido en 1926 en Cork, Irlanda, condado de Cork, fallecido en septiembre de 2006, fue un poeta, dramaturgo y académico irlandés.

Obra

Poesía

Faoileán Na Beatha (Baile Átha Cliath, An Chlochomar Tta., 1962)
Rogha dánta: Death in the Land of Youth: New and Selected Poems of Sean O Tuama. Tradutor Peter Denman. Cork University Press. 1997. ISBN 978-1-85918-157-7.

Teatro

Gunna Cam agus Slabhra Oir. Drama Vearsaíochta Thrí Ghníomh (Baile Átha Cliath, Sairseal Agus Dill). Folens and Co. Ltd. 1973. ISBN 978-0-902592-52-0.
An Grá in Amhráin na nDaoine (An Clochomhar Tta., 1960)
An Grá i bhFilíocht na nUaisle (1988)

Antologías

Seán Ó Tuama, ed. (1981). An Duanaire: Poems of the Dispossessed. Tradutor Thomas Kinsella. Dublin: Dolmen Press. ISBN 978-0-85105-363-9.
Coiscéim na hAoise Seo, e unha antoloxía da poesía irlandesa do século XX.

Ensayo

Cúirt, Tuath agus Bruachbhaile, An Clóchomhar Tta, 1990
Nuabhearsaiocht 1939-1949 (como editor, Baile Atha Cliath, Sairseal agus Dill, 1950)
The Facts About Irish. Coraigh: An Comhar Poiblí. 1964.
The Gaelic League Idea. Cork: Mercier Press. 1972.
Repossessions, selected essays on the Irish literary heritage. Cork University Press. 1995. ISBN 978-1-85918-044-0.





CEOL FÓMHAIR

Is ceol téad i m' chluais
na duilleoga buí fáin
ag titim gan fuaim
ar an díon dearg stáin.




MÚSICA OTOÑAL

Hay una música de cuerda en mi oído
de hojas amarillas que vagan
y caen sin hacer apenas ruido
sobre el tejado rojo de hojalata.

Traducido por Antonio Rivero Taravillo




In the fields of love

Por MICHAEL DAVITT

Sean O Tuama, seminal university teacher, literary scholar/critic, poet, dramatist, authority on amour courtois, when asked at an international seminar at Harvard in the late Sixties what his "field" was, is reported to have replied: "My field? I suppose my field is love." As father figure to my own generation of young poets who chose to write in Irish, he always demonstrated what is perhaps the purest form of artistic love: gentle, honest, tough:



Lig di, aduirt an file,
is na smachtaigh i,
lig di fas gan bac ar bith
go dtina hairde cheapaithe:
ta an taerfas bog os a cionn.
Let her be, said the poet,
do not chastise her,
let her grow unimpeded
to whatever height she is meant for:
the air is still soft above her head.

("A Gaeltacht Rousseau")



O Tuama's poetry displays a characteristic sometimes attributed to gifted traditional musicians: discernment. There is no place in an O Tuama poem for lazy rhythm, too obvious rhyme, lumpy syntax, rhetorical flourishes, intrusion of dogma or philosophy, or emotion pampered into sentimentality. O Tuama wants "to observe things as if we were the first generation on the planet".



In one moment of raw frenzy
as his playing days ran out,
he summoned Cu Chulainn
to aid him on the pitch:
his trunk swelled up
in sight of thousands,
one eye bulged
and danced, demented,
through clash and crash
hue and cry
men were toppled
hot blood spurted
and as he rammed in
three lethal goals
all the gods of ancient Ireland
lent his hurley a guiding hand.

("Christy Ring")



The following are the last two verses of a poem written on a Greek island, one of a beautiful and elegant series, "A Tourist in Greece", which forms the fourth section of the book.


Maidin ghorm ins an Ghreig
(an leathchead scoite agam),

ag cuimhneamh ar an luisne a bhi,
sin e mo namhaid anois.
A blue mid-morning here in Greece
(my fiftieth year passed by)
thinking of the glow that was -
that's matter for the dying.
Anois an t-am don rince aonair
ar ghainimh bheo na tra -
na cosa a chaitheamh go haifeiseach
is lea d'aonghno sa teas.
Better rise up now, a solo-dancer,
on the hot sands of the beach,
throw out both legs absurdly,
and melt down in the sun.

("Besides, who knows before the end what light may shine.")


"The glow that was" is that of Sean's four brilliant Cork contemporaries: his mentor, Daniel Corkery (a sage who trembled at the brightness/in the forge of ancient poets); composer, Sean O Riada (a druid who released our damned-up music/and perished in the flood); Sean O Riordain (a tortured poet who fashioned for us/ new Irish-language lungs); and sculptor, Seamus Murphy (who set headstones dancing/with his care- free lore):


Musician, poet and sculptor,
and before them master-sage,
I happened to occur amongst them,
it will not occur again.

Now retired as Professor of Modern Irish at UCC, Sean O Tuama has never courted the limelight. The main focus of his life has been to give rather than receive critical attention. While championing, as critic, the poetic genius of O Riordain (whose work sadly remains inaccessible to the non-Irish-language reading world), O Tuama, as poet, never got the full critical and popular attention he richly deserves. This attractive selection will show both English-language and Irish-language readers that his poems are among the best-crafted in either language since the Forties.

Peter Denman's translations on the whole achieve an accomplished balance between faithfulness and independence. Robert Welch says in an illuminating introduction that "O Tuama, as a writer, carries the authority of a man who has taken the trouble to know about death and celebrate life".

______________________________________
Michael Davitt is a poet and producer with the RTE books programme, Undercover; his new collection of poems will be published next year





-

ANNE LE MARQUAND HARTIGAN [19.856]


Anne Le Marquand Hartigan

Anne Le Marquand Hartigan es una poeta premiada, dramaturga y pintora irlandesa. Hartigan se formó como pintora en la Universidad de Reading, Inglaterra. Volvió a Co. Louth, Irlanda, en 1962 con su marido Tim Hartigan donde criaron a sus seis niños. Ahora vive en Dublín.  [[email protected]]

Poesía 

Hartigan ha publicado siete colecciones de poesía : 

Unsweet Dreams (Salmon Poetry, 2011), To Keep The Light Burning: Reflections in Times of Loss (Salmon Poetry, 2008); Nourishment (Salmon Poetry, 2005); Immortal Sins (Salmon Poetry, 1993); the award winning long poem with Anne's drawings, Now is a Moveable Feast (Salmon Poetry, 1991); Return Single (Beaver Row Press, 1986); Long Tongue (Beaver Row Press, 1982).




LARGA LENGUA

Si, según dicen los viejos, 
nadie hay tan venenoso como yo,
y mi larga lengua puede
infligir más muerte,

fermentar palabras más potentes
hacer que las ratas recuerden u olviden,
agitar el cubo, usar de cebo
al marinero, sacudirlo hasta su muerte;

y sin embargo, si lo deseo, puedo hacer el bien;
¿qué originó este don
doblemente engañoso? ¿comí
carne blanca de serpiente, o

hundí mis dientecillos en el 
dulce cuello del salmón,
mamé la ubre, leche brava
de vaca hechizada por el sol?

¿Puedo con una nota metida bajo
la puerta hacer que los pies de los que bailan
golpeteen, golpeteen, más, más?
El ritmo de la muerte hace trizas la vida

con un Alarido Degollador. Se cuaja
el espíritu en el habla endiablada;
aprieto la vena; la Palabra,
cesan los gritos.

¿Arrastro la culpa sombría
y el pesar doblemente hondo,
porque canto una canción de mujer,
debo, por tanto, llorar?

(de Long Tongue, Beaver Row Press, Dublin, 1982, en Palabras extremas: escritoras gallegas e irlandesas de hoy. Eds. Manuela Palacios González, Helena González Fernández)




MUSA

Peligroso,
Yacer con una mujer de palabras?
Dulce esperma?
También ella puede manchar
lienzos blancos,
Con sangre caliente.
Con tinta negra.

(de Immortal Sins, Dublín, Salmon, 1993
Traducción de Luz Mar González Arias)

http://elmundoincompleto.blogspot.com.es/



Nourishment

Because I have lain on your deep Africa
Gorse light and dusty cinnamon, burnt umbers
You drank deep of my waters north and south,
Arising dripping, a dark god. Knowledge of interiors.
How simple to exchange continents, to play so easily
A classic music.

Child's play, intricate and private, allowing love space
To move in. A sacred grove, rowan, ash, laurel
To cast and shed spells. This enchantment is as natural
As the moon. This is the first touch. Shock: your unknown
Face, skin. I roam in ochres, duns, siennas, gifts
Spread before me on the white cloth. This is the necessary
Air and water, the bread my mouth waters for, it can go on.




Fancier

Come little pigeon
Take a message to my love,
Say what I dare not

On your pink leg
Carry my heart.




Forgive Us Our Trespasses

What place do your children give you?

They will allow you to trespass on their
green gardens but wait for you to go
because they tell their friends their secrets
Not you.

You are the beginning for them and they want
you behind but left there.  Doing nothing
in particular but not rocking the boat.
Don’t do

Anything outrageous until they are middle-aged
then they won’t mind because it will reflect well
to have an interesting foremother.  Basically it’s a
No go area

Parents are increasingly obsolete, dumb dinosaurs
Made to be stuffed











lunes, 9 de enero de 2017

MARY O' MALLEY [19.834]


Mary O'MALLEY 

Nació en Connemara, Irlanda en 1954, e impartió clases en el University College Galway donde enseñó poesía y bellas artes a nivel de postgrado durante diez años. Vivió en Lisboa ocho años y ejerció como docente en la Universidade Nova en esa ciudad. Sirvió en el consejo de Poesía Irlandés y formó parte del comité de Festival de Poesía Internacional de Cuirt en ocho ocasiones, siendo la autora de su programa educacional. Ha residido en Paris, EEUU y en el buque de investigación de la marina irlandesa. Ha sido una activista de la educación en Medio Ambiente a lo largo de dos décadas centrando su interés en los ámbitos marinos. Ostentó la "Silla de Estudios Irlandeses" en Villanova el último año. 

Ha publicado los libros de poesía:

A Consideration of Silk, Salmon Poetry Galway, 1990
Where the Rocks Float, Salmon, Galway, 1993
The Knife in the Wave, Salmon Co.Clare, 1997
Asylum Road, Salmon Publishing, 2001
The Boning Hall (New & Selected), Carcanet Press, Manchester, 2002
A Perfect V, Carcanet Press, Manchester, 2006.

Antologías:

Three Irish Poets, Carcanet Press Ltd. 2003 ISBN 978-1-85754-683-5
SALMON: A Journey in Poetry 1981-2007, edited by Jessie Lendennie 
The Making of a Poem: a Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms, edited by Eavan Boland and Mark Strand, WW Norton & Company; Reprint edition (April 2001).


Artículo 45, sección 4

No voy a conspirar.
Tengo una constitución.

Cuatro mujeres y un hombre
con un destornillador
podrían arreglar esto, con una fregona,
un cubo, jirones de sueños
y un juego o dos de cartas
las sotas, las reinas, los ases
por fin sobre la mesa.

Elegimos la avaricia y ya se puede decir
que los dados iban bien cargados. Descárguenlos.

El pozo está sucio,
el templo vacío.

Quemaron las naves
y un andrajoso regimiento
de fantasmas exiliados
recorre el mundo
murmurando “Mentiras. Todo mentiras”
y las derrochadas líneas
de “La Constitución irlandesa
en Época de Alzheimers”  1.

Hay un tiempo de metáforas
y un tiempo para descartarlas.
Se acabó. Regresaron los fantasmas
a la tienda del ropavejero.

Banqueros, buenas noches.
A arremangarse, manos
a la obra y arréglenlo.

¿Indignación? Mi rabia está helada.
Tengo un nieto.
¿De qué le sirve la rabia? Él tiene
sus pequeñas tragedias, además,
tragedias futuras, sus alegrías,
un voto por venir, palabras arrojadas
por diversión al viento.

No voy a conspirar.
Tiene una constitución.
Y derecho a ella.
Esta es mi nación plural, harapienta,
y la amo.

Tengo una República.
Una vez lucharon por ella
para luego desgraciarla.
Levanten sus rodillas lloricas
y sálvenla.

1 Del original en irlandés: “Bunracht na hEireann in Am Alzheimers”.
(Traducción de Julia Piera)


Article 45, Section 4 

I won’t collude.  
I have a constitution.  

Four women and a man 
with a screwdriver 
could fix this with a mop, 
bucket, rags of dream  
and a game or two of cards
every jack, ace, queen  
on the table this time.  

We elected greed and you could say 
the dice were loaded. Unload them. 

The well is dirty, 
the tabernacle empty. 
You burned the boats
and exiled ghosts 
a tatterdemalion regiment 
wandering the world 
muttering ’Lies. All lies’ 
and flittered lines 
from ‘Bunracht na hEireann
in Am Alzheimers.’

There’s a time for metaphor 
A time to ditch it. 
It’s over. The ghosts are back 
in the rag and bone shop. 
Goodnight bankers.
Sleeves up, shoulder
to the wheel, and shift it. 

Anger? My rage is chilled.
I have a grandchild.
What use is rage to him? Besides 
He has his own small tragedies 
and those to come, his joys,
a vote to come, words flung
into the wind for fun. 

I won’t collude.
He has a constitution. 
and a right to it. 
This is my tattered ragtag nation 
and I love it. 

I have a Republic. 
You fought
for it once 
Then you disgraced it. 
Get off your whining knees 
And save it.


Lo que Irlanda necesita

Ni más hombres de finanzas ni empresas petrolíferas
no necesita más laboratorios,
administradores ni doctores.

No necesita más abogados,
oficinas ni apartados de correos
ni cátedras de Artimañas en las Universidades.
No necesita más inspectores
de prisiones, fosas sépticas, desagües
ni más molinos gigantes para someter Connaught
y anexionarse España.

Lo que Irlanda necesita
en cada ministerio
es un bailarín deslumbrante
que toque los huesos a los funcionarios
secretarias, enfermeras, contables
con sus hombros, sus muñecas, su vaivén de caderas
sobre sus clavículas y hombros
por todo el gastado trapecio
a través de sus ordinarios ordenadores
arriba en sus esternones y mandíbulas
que prosperen los esqueletos.

Que un giróvago salvaje cambie el ritmo
que les enseñe qué es qué
y, como tributo a Yeats y Aristóteles,
les dé con la vara en el culo.

(Traducción de Julia Piera)



What Ireland needs 

Is not more moneymen or oil companies 
She does not need more laboratories
Administrators, or doctors. 

She does not need more lawyers 
Or offices or post office boxes 
Or chairs of Funny Business in Universities.  
She does not need more inspectors  
Of prisons, septic tanks, drains  
Nor more giant windmills to subdue Connaught  
And annexe Spain.

What Ireland needs 
In every government department 
Is an incredible dancing man 
To play the bones for civil servants 
Secretaries, Nurses, number crunchers 
On his elbows, his wrists, his jiggling hips 
On their clavicles and elbows 
All along the old trapezium  
Down across their rude computers  
Up their mandibles and sternum  
With a flourish of the skeletons.  

A wild whirly man to put pep in their step  
And teach them what’s what  
And in homage to Yeats and Aristotle
Beat the taws upon their bottoms.


Estatuas

Europa es el caparazón abierto de una tortuga
roto a ladrillazos, a disparos,
con canciones de amor desplazándose en tiempo profundo,
traicionando fronteras a cámara lenta.

Mi país es una prenda usada,
mal cortada y con sobreprecio.
Sólo la costa me pertenece, desde siempre,
esta hermosa y accidentada línea.

Ahora toca quitársela de encima, soltar
amarras, no como ciertas estatuas, Fedra
digamos, o Maeve, antes de que la nación
que amaba y llevaba puesta se convirtiera en una mortaja,
salió de ella, con el pecho al aire, desnuda,
y vistió jirones de luz.-
fue un despertar que superó a los dioses
su “nada más que perder” una amenaza

sino en silencio, como la gente de mi tierra
que se va en barcos o aviones
pero vuelve siempre
para bodas, funerales y el destino

(Traducción de Julia Piera)



Statues 

Europe is a turtle’s back broken  
open with bricks, with gunfire, 
with love songs shifting in deep time,  
borders snaking in slow motion. 

My country is a worn out thing,  
badly cut and overpriced.  
I only ever owned the coast,  
this beautiful indented line. 

It’s time to shake it off, loosen 
the ties, not the way some statue, Phedre  
say, or Maeve , before the nation 
she wore and loved became a shroud 

stepped out of it, went bare-breasted 
and clothed herself in rags of light - 
such get-up made the gods feel bested 
its ‘nothing more to lose’ a threat - 

but quietly, the way the people of my place 
have taken boats and planes and gone 
and almost always come home 
for weddings, funerals and fate.



ST. JOHN'S EVE

In the blue light that let us see 
my husband’s shirt buttons on bonfire night 
and see our mink-coated dog 
in the distance at half eleven at night, 
a butterfly wings in from Borneo. It is the colour 
of luminous blue fish in an aquarium. 

It drinks our attention until the lavender hills, 
the silver hound leaping for a tennis ball, 
the girl throwing it, sixteen and beautiful, 
become a film, a vacuumed surface. 
We watch this creature visiting from space, 
from heaven, from somewhere else, transfixed. 

Go back, I want to say, You are in the wrong place. 
It hovers for a while, pulsing blue light, 
then flies off towards the coast. 
We stare, robbed of a dimension. I am afraid. 
I asked God what sacrifice would be enough 
to keep us all together. I am talking with a stranger. 

Naturalists write neater poems than lovers. 
I would have promised anything. 
All I observed beside the fire blossoming 
below the house was a brown O on each wing. 
I could taste the shining bone that would remain 
a charred promise in the morning ashes.



COMMUNION AT THE GATE THEATRE

This is the time of life when a woman 
goes to Dublin to the theatre to get away 
the night every Leaving Cert student in Ireland 
is up from the country to see the same RSC production. 

Hamlet is small and elegant and very English. What did 
she expect – that after all those years 
he would have grown really Danish, the lies 
would be less eloquent, gestures less fluid? 

Tonight she finds the prince tedious and self-obsessed. 
You are thirty years old for Christ’s sake, 
she shouts, startling the audience. 
The students are disapproving, then delighted. 

Now that they have stopped texting one another, 
the girls are shaping some of the words. 
There is Royal Shakespearean body language 
between Claudius and Gertrude. 

The boys whistle, applaud uneasily. 
The woman thinks Gertrude is entitled to her lover’s kiss. 
What kind of twisted little shit are you? 
she asks Hamlet, but silently. Hamlet is relentless. 

The actor fifty if he’s a day, torturing his mother 
who is the same age. No one cares. 
It is as bad as MacLiammoir playing Romeo. 
The kids are loving it. We are rearing 

a generation of throwbacks, she thinks, 
without Latin to sustain them, much less history. 
She checks the exits, measures her chances. She rises 
in a crouch just as a hush is spreading through the house. 

Here and there along the rows the students begin 
To mouth Hamlet’s soliloquy. The half-formed faces 
half-lit are devout. At What is a man is his chief good be… 
but to sleep…the ungodly voices join in as at Mass.


ARRIVAL IN PARIS

Fluent gesture. Already on the Beauvais bus a man 
strokes his son’s head with a palm cupped. 
The child’s black hair responds like a young cat. 

A boy is sulking beautifully, 
legs crossed at the ankles. The girl 
ignoring him is reading Kafka – La Procès. 
He utters soft plosives, little plumes of indignation 
astonished at her cruelty for at least ten kilometres. 
When they make up, she rubs the side of his face 
With slow fingers for another five before he defrosts. 

There are banks of hawthorn along the motorway. 
By Paris, the lovers are reconciled. Outside 
open-pored sandstone drinks in the south. 
I think of Blaithin, her skin made of flowers, 
the touch of sun opening them.






-

martes, 29 de noviembre de 2016

COLETTE BRYCE [19.667]


Colette Bryce

Colette Bryce nació en 1970 en Derry, Irlanda del Norte.  Bryce vivió en Londres hasta 2002 cuando se trasladó a Escocia. Se trasladó al noreste de Inglaterra en 2005. Es poeta, escritora independiente y editora. Estudió escritura creativa en la Universidad de Dundee en el período 2003-2005, y Noreste literaria Fellow en la Universidad de Newcastle upon Tyne 2005-2007. Fue editora de Poesía Poesía Londres 2009-2013.

Bibliografía 

The Heel of Bernadette (Picador 2000)
The Full Indian Rope Trick (Picador 2004)
The Observations of Aleksandr Svetlov (pamphlet Donut 2007)
Ink on Paper: Poetry and Art (ed. Mudfog 2007)
Self-Portrait in the Dark (Picador 2008)
"Ballasting the Ark" (pamphlet NCLA 2012)
"The Whole & Rain-domed Universe" (Picador 2014)



Presentamos tres poemas de la poeta irlandesa Colette Bryce (Derry, 1970). Recibió el Cholmondeley Award por su poesía en 2010. La traducción corre a cargo de Rodrigo Círigo.
http://circulodepoesia.com/2016/11/poesia-irlandesa-joven-colette-bryce/



Autorretrato en la oscuridad (con cigarrillo)

Dormir, ¿quizá
soñar? Imposible:
son las 4 a.m. y estoy despierta
como un animal,
cautiva entre tu presencia y el vacío.
Éste es el reino del insomnio.
Sentada junto al cristal, enciendo un cigarrillo
con una flama escuálida y vigilo la calle:
una película inmóvil, bañada en ámbar,
tranquila ahora, después
de un aguacero.

Más allá de los narcisos
de Magdalen Green,[1] sólo se ve un vehículo lento
que arroja su haz sobre Riverside Drive;[2]
una señal de vida,
y a dos meses
de haberme “superado”,
tu auto, que aún no recoges,
te aguarda, salpicado de gotas de lluvia como plástico burbuja.
Ahora podría iniciar
un riff

sobre cómo los autos, igual que las mascotas, se parecen un poco a sus dueños,
pero no, no me “aventaré”,
como dicen en América,
pues se trata de un desvencijado Nissan Micra,
y no necesitas saber
que he estado conduciéndolo sin permiso por las noches,
en el silencio alumbrado de esta ciudad
–sólo lograría preocuparte–;
tampoco, peor aún, que Morrissey
se atoró en la casetera de aquí a la eternidad;

Todo está bien: los discos relucientes sobre las llantas,
asientos como la silueta de una pareja erguida;
desde el tablero de mandos, el parpadeo
de esa pequeña luz roja
que me parece
es una alarma integrada.
Tratándose de un poema,
podría representar un latido o un pulso.
O la soledad, su vigía.
O tan sólo la chispa, intermitente como un faro,
de alguien, en algún sitio, que fuma en la oscuridad.


Autolavado

Esto de conducir
nos recuerda a nuestros padres.
El suave ronroneo de la quinta velocidad,
los gases afilados, el interior
como de galleta, logran que ellos,
los siempre ausentes,
se acerquen a nosotros.
Y nos han conducido
–somos dos mujeres de treinta–
a este momento extraño;
un autolavado de Belfast
donde, después de mucho pensarlo,
nos decidimos por el “servicio
ejecutivo” (significa que usarán
detergente) y seguimos con cuidado
las instrucciones para subir
nuestras ventanas y quedarnos
quietas cuando el semáforo se ponga en rojo;
nos deleitamos con una absoluta
e inesperada intimidad
de espuma de jabón derramándose; no,
diluviando, como una cascada, en olas de terciopelo.

Y cuando azules cepillos giratorios
de dimensiones implausibles
se acercan al vehículo
desde todas partes,
qué otra cosa podemos hacer
sino besarnos,
en un mundo donde hacerlo
aún detiene el tráfico.

Y entonces de vuelta a los rines,
de vuelta a la mirada
de motociclistas indiferentes
que holgazanean en el patio;
nos han pulido, hemos terminado
y (siguiendo instrucciones)
prendemos el coche (esto
nos recuerda a nuestros padres),
metemos la velocidad
y nos alejamos
en cuanto el semáforo cambia a verde.


Helicópteros

Con el tiempo te los imaginas
en la oscuridad, explorando

las calles y las casas,
planeando cerca de las iglesias

o balanceándose
sobre tenues varas de luz.

Entonces descubres
que mucho depende

de cómo elijas mirarlos:
arriba, en la noche,

su débil resplandor se confunde
entre las estrellas

y es casi hermoso.
Pero de lejos,

sobre el mapa,
bien podrían ser

una maraña de moscas que acecha
la cabeza herida de un animal.

[1] Célebre parque de la ciudad escocesa de Dundee. (N. del t.)
[2] Avenida de Dundee que corre a la orilla del río Tay, el más largo de Escocia. (N. del t.)



Helicopters 

Over time, you picture them
after dark, in searches

focusing on streets and houses
close above the churches

or balancing
on narrow wands of light.

And find so much depends upon
the way you choose

to look at them:
high in the night

their minor flares confused
among the stars, there

almost beautiful.
Or from way back

over the map
from where they might resemble

a business of flies
around the head wound of an animal.



WOMAN AND TURKEY

I needed a drink before handling it,
the clammy skin, thin and raw.
I remembered touching a dead bishop once;
Sign of the Cross, shivers.

Its feet, ditched in the sink, reached
like withered hands appealing.
The crack of its bones chilled my own.
I sank another, severed the neck.

The membranous eyes were unsettling,
the shrunken head bereft on the block,
the clutch and the squelch as innards slopped out –
gizzard, heart, lungs.

I finished the bottle to see it through
and caught the scene in the night behind glass,
a corpse like a glove to my wrist.
I am sick to the stomach of Christmas. 

It’s hazy then until Boxing Day,
a shock of light across the room.
I wake to blood trapped under my nails,
to the delicate snap of a wishbone.




THE FULL INDIAN ROPE TRICK

There was no secret
murmured down through a long line 
of elect; no dark fakir, no flutter
of notes from a pipe,
no proof, no footage of it –
but I did it,

Guildhall Square, noon,
in front of everyone.
There were walls, bells, passers-by;
a rope, thrown, caught by the sky
and me, young, up and away,
goodbye.

Goodbye, goodbye.
Thin air. First try.
A crowd hushed, squinting eyes
at a full sun. There
on the stones
the slack weight of a rope

coiled in a crate, a braid
eighteen summers long,
and me –
I’m long gone,
my one-off trick
unique, unequalled since.

And what would I tell them
given the chance?
It was painful; it took years.
I’m my own witness,
guardian of the fact
that I’m still here.




A SPIDER

I trapped a spider in a glass,
a fine-blown wineglass.
It shut around him, silently.
He stood still, a small wheel
of intricate suspension, cap
at the hub of his eight spokes,
inked eyes on stalks; alert,
sensing a difference.
I meant to let him go
but still he taps against the glass
all Marcel Marceau
in the wall that is there but not there,
a circumstance I know.




WHEN I LAND IN NORTHERN IRELAND

When I land in Northern Ireland I long for cigarettes,
for the blue plume of smoke hitting the lung with a thud and, God, 
the quickening blood as the stream administers the nicotine.
Stratus shadows darkening the crops
when coming in to land, 
coming in to land.

What’s your poison? 
A question in a bar 
draws me down through a tunnel of years 
to a time preserved in a cube of fumes, the seventies-yellowing 
walls of remembrance; everyone smokes and talks about the land, 
the talk about the land, our spoiled inheritance.



THE HARM

On the walk to school you have stopped 
at the one significant lamppost, just to be sure 
(if you’re late where’s the harm?),
and are tracing the cut of the maker’s name in raised print 
and yes, you are certain it is still ticking, 
softly ticking where it stands on the corner

opposite McCaul’s corner- 
shop. Not that you had expected it to stop. 
At worst, all you’ll get from the teacher is a good ticking 
off. When it goes off, and you are sure 
it will be soon, this metal panel with its neat square print 
will buckle like the lid of Pandora’s tin and harm

will blow from the mechanical heart, harm 
in a wild cacophony of colour. A car takes the corner
as you start to cross and the driver’s face imprints
itself on your mind forever, a whitened mask, as he stops 
a hair’s breadth from the sure 
and quickened ticking 

of your child’s heart – a little clock or timer ticking.
“For God’s sake stay on the pavement out of harm’s
way!” the woman who grabs you says. “Sure 
haven’t you been told how to cross a road? This corner 
has already seen the death of my daughter. Stop 
and look, and look both ways!” She prints

her grip on your thin bare arm, the sour imprint 
of alcohol on her too-close breath. Then the ticking 
of a wheel, as a man on a bicycle slows to a stop, 
dismounts, and tells her “It’s okay Mary, there’s no harm
done.” He leads her from the corner, 
talking in her ear, “It’s alright Mary. Yes, yes, I am sure.”

He motions with his eyes for you to leave but, unsure,
you wait, frozen by the lamppost, the lettering print- 
ing ridges in your palm, until you run at last to the opposite corner 
and walk to the school, the woman’s words still ticking 
in your head, her notion of harm
and the thought of her daughter, unable to stop

missing school. You are sure, as sure as the ticking
lamppost is a bomb, its timer on, of harm, printed 
forever on the corner where the woman’s world has stopped.






.