#IrishWriters
TIME-STONE Hallo, Metropolitan’ Ubiquitous windows staring all way… Red eye notching the darkness. No use to ogle that slip of a moon…
Because you are four years old the candle is all dressed up in a… And stars nod to you through the h… (except the big stiff planets too fat to move about much,)
Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors’¦ beheld in your luminous spirit their own r...
Was there a wind? Tap... tap... Night pads upon the snow with moccasined feet... and it is still... so still... an eagle's feather might fall like a stone. Could there have been a storm...
I love those spirits That men stand off and point at, Or shudder and hood up their souls… Those ruined ones, Where Liberty has lodged an hour
Your love was like moonlight turning harsh things to beauty, so that little wry souls reflecting each other obliquely as in cracked mirrors . . .
He walked under the shadow of the… Where men are fed into the fires And walled apart… Unarmed and alone, He summoned his mates from the pit…
The soldiers lie upon the snow, That no longer gyrates under the s… Night juggles in her fat black han… They will not babble any more secr… nights
Where to-day would a dainty buyer Imbibe your scented juice, Pale ruin with a heart of fire; Drain your succulence with her lip… Grown sapless from much use…
That was a great night we spied up… See-sawing home, Singing a hot sweet song to the su… Shuffling off behind the smoke-haz… Fog-horns sentimentalizing on the…
I would be a torch unto your hand, A lamp upon your forehead, Labor, In the wild darkness before the D… That I shall never see… We shall advance together, my Bel…
Nasal intonations of light and clicking tongues... publicity of windows stoning me with pent-up cries... smells of abattoirs...
How should they appraise you, who… Only time standing well off shall…
Not your martyrs anointed of heave… The ages are red where they trod - But the Hunted - the world’s bitt… Who smote at your imbecile God - A being to pander and fawn to,
Snow wraiths circle us Like washers of the dead, Flapping their white wet cloths Impatiently About the grizzled head,