#IrishWriters
Old plant of Asia - Mutilated vine Holding earth’s leaping sap In every stem and shoot That lopped off, sprouts again -
Wind, just arisen - (Off what cool mattress of marsh-m… In tented boughs leaf-drawn before… Or niche of cliff under the eagles… You of living things,
Aren’t there bigger things to talk… Than a window in Greenwich Villag… And hyacinths sprouting Like little puce poems out of a si… Some cosmic hearsay—
Spires of Grace Church, For you the workers of the world Travailed with the mountains’¦ Aborting their own dreams Till the dream of you arose -
The earth is motionless And poised in space’¦ A great bird resting in its flight Between the alleys of the stars. It is the wind’s hour off’¦.
Indigo bulb of darkness Punctured by needle lights Through a fissure of brick canyon… And a sliver of moon Spigoting two high windows over th…
Not yet hast Thou sounded Thy clangorous music, Whose strings are under the mounta… Not yet hast Thou spoken The blooded, implacable Word...
Out of the lamp—bestarred and clou… Snaring, illuding, concealing, Magically conjuring - Turning to fairy-coaches Beetle-backed limousines
I love you, malcontent Male wind - Shaking the pollen from a flower Or hurling the sea backward from t… Blow on and over my dreams…
The ore in the crucible is pungent… It is dusky red, like the ebb of p… And purple, like the blood of elde… Surely it is a strong wine - juice… I am drunk of its fumes.
The woman with jewels sits in the… Spraying light like a fountain. Diamonds glitter on her bulbous fi… And on her arms, great as thighs, Diamonds gush from her ear-lobes o…
Do you remember Honey-melon moon Dripping thick sweet light Where Canal Street saunters off b… And the faint decayed patchouli—
Blow through me wind As you blow through apple blossoms… Scatter me in shining petals over… Joyously I reunite’¦ sway and ga… Sedately I walk by the dancing fe…
Bountiful Givers, I look along the years And see the flowers you threw’¦ Anemones And sprigs of gray
The old men of the world have made… To warm their trembling hands. They poke the young men in. The young men burn like withes. If one run a little way,