All Poems
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The land I came thro' last was dumb with night
© Christopher John Brennan
The land I came thro' last was dumb with night,a limbo of defeated glory, a ghost:for wreck of constellations flicker'd perishingscarce sustain'd in the mortuary air,and on the ground and out of livid poolswreck of old swords and crowns glimmer'd at whiles;I seem'd at home in some old dream of kingship:now it is clear grey day and the road is plain,I am the wanderer of many yearswho cannot tell if ever he was kingor if ever kingdoms were: I know I amthe wanderer of the ways of all the worlds,to whom the sunshine and the rain are oneand one to stay or hasten, because he knowsno ending of the way, no home, no goal,and phantom night and the grey day alikewithhold the heart where all my dreams and daysmight faint in soft fire and delicious death:and saying this to myself as a simple thingI feel a peace fall in the heart of the windsand a clear dusk settle, somewhere, far in me
Irish to English
© Christopher John Brennan
I am not of your blood;I never loved your ways:If e'er your deed was goodI yet was slow to praise.
I said, This misery must end
© Christopher John Brennan
I said, This misery must end:Shall I, that am a man and knowthat sky and wind are yet my friend,sit huddled under any blow?so speaking left the dismal roomand stept into the mother-nightall fill'd with sacred quickening gloomwhere the few stars burn'd low and bright,and darkling on my darkling hillheard thro' the beaches' sullen boomheroic note of living willrung trumpet-clear against the fight;so stood and heard, and rais'd my eyeserect, that they might drink of space,and took the night upon my face,till time and trouble fell awayand all my soul sprang up to feelas one among the stars that reelin rhyme on their rejoicing way,breaking the elder dark, nor staybut speed beyond each tramelling gyre,till time and sorrow fall awayand night be wither'd up, and fireconsume the sickness of desire
I cry to you as I pass your windows in the dusk
© Christopher John Brennan
I cry to you as I pass your windows in the dusk;
I am shut out of mine own heart
© Christopher John Brennan
I am shut out of mine own heartbecause my love is far from me,nor in the wonders have I partthat fill its hidden empery:
Each day I see the long ships coming into port
© Christopher John Brennan
Each day I see the long ships coming into portand the people crowding to their rail, glad of the shore:because to have been alone with the sea and not to have knownof anything happening in any crowded way,and to have heard no other voice than the crooning sea'shas charmed away the old rancours, and the great windshave search'd and swept their hearts of the old irksome thoughts:so, to their freshen'd gaze, each land smiles a good home
Dies Dominica! the sunshine burns
© Christopher John Brennan
Dies Dominica! the sunshine burnsstrong incense on the breathing fields of morn:lucid, intense, all colour towards it yearnsthat souls of flowers on the air are born.
Deep mists of longing blur the land
© Christopher John Brennan
Deep mists of longing blur the landas in your late October eve:almost I think your hand might leaveits old caress upon my hand--
Black on the depths of blackest skies
© Christopher John Brennan
Black on the depths of blackest skieswhence even the levin seems withdrawn,the cities threaten: burning eyesask what dread hand hath slain the dawn.
Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death
© Christopher John Brennan
Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death,beside its dying sacrificial fire;the dim world's middle-age of vain desireis strangely troubled, waiting for the breaththat speaks the winter's welcome malisonto fix it in the unremembering sleep:the silent woods brood o'er an anxious deep,and in the faded sorrow of the sun,I see my dreams' dead colours, one by one,forth-conjur'd from their smouldering palaces,fade slowly with the sigh of the passing year
1908
© Christopher John Brennan
The droning tram swings westward: shrillthe wire sings overhead, and chillmidwinter draughts rattle the glassthat shows the dusking way I passto yon four-turreted square towerthat still exalts the golden hourwhere youth, initiate once, endearsa treasure richer with the years
thumping
© Bramer Shannon
Somewhere between Pounding and Pushingthere is Thumping. It is almost like knockingbut rounder and flatter.
rebecca begins to worry about time
© Bramer Shannon
she uses liquid paper to white out all the lineson the calendar, wants one big day for herself
The Photographer
© Bramer Shannon
What it means to carry a camerais to speak out of the emptyframe seeing God, Sky, Road, her returnand faith in the perfection of deserts
the pedestrian
© Bramer Shannon
i never cross against thesignal, can't get the knackof the green light
I Love Corned Beef
© Bowen A. P.
I LOVE corned beef -- I never knewHow good the stuff COULD taste in stew!I love it WET, I love it DRY,I love it baked and called MEAT PIE
The Execution of Karla Faye
© Boughn Michael
Of course they've been cheering death forever, askLorca or Antigone, an execution a day in the USthey say, something to work for, that guy in the Stop 'N' Gowhen they bombed Gaddafi's kid, cheering atthe thought of pain, but that's the neighbourhood'sdark end anyway, get used to it, light your candlesmarch around the lake, don't lose sight of Amelia(how they ever could have thought that smile lessthan all their clutching--Wordsworth had that downalright--then here we are, maybe that's what they hopeto drown out cheering the news she died when the statewhatever the hell that is plunged or pulled whatever technéecstasis extension holding it to crucial distance, still somewhereflesh touches some thing, and we'd better be preparedfor the whole bloody mess because even if homeof ourselves is a rumoured infrapsychisme from whichundisputed program is accessible to, say, rejig the worksthru poem's possible modulations, there's still northof that, south, east, west and when you get homeguess who's waiting
