The Slaking
There is one story I can hear again
and again, the story where the shoe fits,
where the tempered steel snagged in the
cleft rock
eases itself into the proper hand, where
the stranger flings back his hood and Robin
kneels in that verdant heart, where the
mourner
complains to the gardener, where the man
with the child on his back stands open-mouthed
half-way across the river as his old name
flows away, where the one who beds the hag
wakes in the morning to the young queen.
Put your hand in my side, he said: yes,
yes,
now I see. Not discovery--you knew it
already; not disguise stripped bare; but
re-
cognition, the train leaping
the synaptic track,
the ship slipping its galactic tether,
the perfect stone skipping its way across
the cloudy nebulae. He promised me
a thing that is not easy: boots of the skin
of a fish. I have worn those boots, I have
worn them down, the leather carp-rosy, the
old scales
petalling the sides, a vellum so sheer
my pulse blushed salmon-ruddy through that
suppleness, that tenderness so shocking
to the heel.
In those boots I have walked for seven leagues,
I have walked for seven years, the moon
bounding before me, wringing out its white
loins
every twenty-eight dreams. In those boots
I stood
in the cave where the wheat-sheaf
lights the dead
to life, I stood in the ball court and watched
the blood fly, I stood in the cathedral
where even the glass is stained, and I am
no believer. Yes, I have seen the victor
run
triumphant into darkness, the vanquished
giddy,
drunk with free-flowing rain. Who was that
masked man?
And mama, why did he leave us, hi-yo
Silver away? On the fourth day without sleep,
edges began to shimmer, one action
bled into another, the molecules
the atoms veering off into space: what goes
when you choose noon over midnight. As a
planet
turns first one cheek and then the other
to best advantage, as a planet
slowly turns its ravaged face to the light,
we come round at last. The moon swells,
the moon
empties. Some nights, I swim sleeved in
darkness,
a fish flowing into itself, flowering out
of its own elements; some days, I walk the
earth
flayed of my skin, and every breeze salts
the wound,
my eyes seared, my tongue scalded--coals
of fire.
If the skin fits, wear it, fling back the
hood, ease your
worn heart from your side, wake in the morning
as
the new queen. Re-cognition. This is
what you are, and this is where: so much
light spilling
over the lip of the world, it slakes, it
dazzles,
it splashes profligate into the trees.
Elemental Tourist
for Joy Charlton
1. The Aching
You came there solid, your feet steady
with it, your gaze level, the heft so
habitual, even that step from dock
to deck never rocked the boat. You came
there
solid, your sweater buttoned and your
jacket zipped, the layers of knit and woven
wrapping tight the chill, the massif groaning
with its own weight. Solid, lodged, but
lode to lode
when your foot bit down you
felt it, the pang
so pure it sang in your bones, it shattered
their quartz stability. Landslide, granite
shifting, fissures rifting to abyss, and
you still gasping it out: stones hurtling
and grating, chocking your chest full, clogging
your throat; pieces of you levitating
in surprise, thunking into the sea. Not
simple as joy or sorrow:
when an ear
or a tooth aches, a back or a belly,
the nerves plait endless reels, you can't
tell
one strand of the tune from another.
You came as solid and you left austere
as air. You're not the first. A nine by
three
mile island, three thousand miles of dry-stone
wall--
they'll build their houses with the scree
you've dropped there.
2. The Vortex
Out of the blue the gale cyclonic, breakers
high as the light, the light squalling
into darkness, and all of them lost: the
gay boats
keeling, spinnakers bloating and spewing,
dragging the sweet boys down. And you the
eye of it:
decades later, and still too stark to see.
Rock
edged with rock; molars and canines chewing
the thick water; low caves gulping and spitting--
every kind of hunger: the
chasm sucking;
the gust snuffling; the swell gasping and
lapping;
every side of you plucked and buffeted;
and
none of it intended: waves stumbling
at the same reef, drawing back to smack
it,
kicking and cringing; the spume flung high,
thick-bodied, glistening into dazzle, into
bright air; light settling, unsettling.
Not
simple as threat or haven,
flight or plunge:
ninety nine steps down, all the winds keening
on them, decades gone, and out of the blue
the gale cyclonic, surge spiralling, spray
cascading, and you the eye, the stinging
eye--
your hair streams out, your jacket opens,
skin peels
flake by flake away: lost, you're lost,
all of you
lost to that whorl of blue, that sob, that
reeling sea.
3. The Grounding
Who needs antiquity, when all that's old
gets prettified? That's what you thought,
before
you entered. Oh, it's been prettied: grass
cropped,
paths graveled, every stone surveyed and
measured,
thyme scenting your steps, Grass of Parnassus
starring the hillside, all refined since
elk
belled in a forest choked with oak. Still,
still,
snarled or unsnarled, you're caught, you're
circled. A hand
held up, fingers angled inwards,
cupping
a palm of earth, you straddling the life-line,
finding through thumb and index a sight-line
to the sea. Or a mouth held open
to the rain, teeth gapped but healthy, strong,
and you
riding the tongue that after all these years
might speak. Round table, scrum of comrades:
who's
trapped? who's shut out? whose ring is this?
Not
simple as hub or margin,
how the cupped hand
crushes to fist, the jaw clamps down. Not
simple
as grace or loss, the cisted boy palmed
and cherished, meat on the tongue. What's
inside
must out, what's out streams in: light breaks
the hill's heart
each year where you're standing, sparks,
grounds itself, leaps out,
the muscular grasses bounding uphill
ahead of the wind, Bloody Crane's Beak tapping.
4. The Firing
Never a day without cloud, never
a sunset, though the sky stays pearly
nearly til midnight, brightens again by
three.
Light pooling and seeping, silver streaks
on the sea, haloes over the off-shore
islands; light stroking the flanked hills,
each
leaf saturated, each straw in the thatch
clarified; veils floating and parting,
wind whistling through dry-stone
walls. Longest
day of the year, footballers flaring
in the pub below, a window bowed out
over the harbor, boys with their dogs leaping
to board the ferry, and you with the tourist's
geis: never to sleep in the same
bed,
never to eat from the same plate, never
to gaze in the same eyes twice. Nothing
so simple as twilight, the
blush starting
without your knowing, the skin warming,
tinting you rose, Mary Rose, Moira
Ruah, Bloody Mary, Roisin Dubh. A flipped
coin
red-gold in the air, heads you win, heads
it is,
each rift in the water rich with it, as
if
a man slips your hand into his jacket pocket
and you as red as if you held the sun.
Notes:
Each of these poems is associated
with a particular place in the west of Ireland,
as follows:
The Aching: Inishmore, the
largest of the Aran Islands.
The Vortex: Mizen Head, where
a fog station marks the most south-westerly
point in Ireland, and one can glimpse the
Fastnet island lighthouse, site of the racing
disaster alluded to in the poem's first
stanza.
The Grounding: Drombeg Stone
Circle, County Cork, where at mid-winter
the sun sets on an alignment from portal
stones to recumbent axial stone. The cist-
(that is, urn-) burial of the cremated remains
of an adolescent boy inside this circle
has been dated to 480-720 AD, significantly
later than the likely date for the erection
of the stones. The significance of these
stone circles and of the burials sometimes
found within them, particularly in the west
of Ireland, is of course a matter of speculation.
The Firing: Baltimore Harbor,
County Cork. A geis is a concept
which will be familiar to readers of the
Irish epic, the Tain Bo Cuailnge:
it's a magical obligation with the force
of taboo, or even of fate. The geis
I've half-invented here alludes to the advice
Aengus gives to the fleeing lovers Diarmuid
and Grainne: in Marie Heaney's version from
Over Nine Waves, "Never enter a cave
that has only one exit or climb a tree that
has only one trunk, and never sail to an
island with only one inlet. Don't eat where
you cook and don't sleep where you eat.
And in the morning, don't rise from the
same bed you settled in the night before."
A Mary Rose sauce--basically tomato and
mayonnaise--is often served with seafood
in Ireland; Moira Ruah (or Máire
Ruadh)--Red Mary--was Máire Ni Mahon,
wife of Conor O'Brien, who attempted to
preserve their estate after her husband
was killed by Cromwell's soldiers in 1651,
by marrying (and then murdering) one of
the English soldiers; Roisin Dubh--Little
Black Rose--provides a coded reference to
Ireland in political "love" poems culminating
in the 19th century with versions by James
Clarence Mangan and Samuel Ferguson.
Shirt
of Nettles, House of Thorns
in awed esteem for Alice
Maher,
who made these things
1.
You plant the strange seed
to see how it grows--
a beanstalk to the clouds, a better tomato,
poison apple, deadly nightshade, kudzu--
always a surprise. So the little ruddy rose
hip
yawns into a peony; the grain
of salt
takes fire, puffs out its cheeks of glass;
the seed pearl
complicates in porcelain crinolines;
splinters thicken to hard block; the dust
bunny
kicked and wincing, forgotten
under the bed,
rowls itself into the junk-yard dog--that's
it
in a nutshell: each snail distilling
the cowl on its back, the husk it was born
to.
2.
A nest for Thumbelina nestled
into moss,
pied-à-terre among the pommes-de-terre,
basking and burnished as a cinnamon cat
licked into spits and glossy with tending.
Look again: it's the bristling
boll of sweet-gum or
sycamore or buck-eye--some spurred species--squared
to a folk profile: peaked roof, high gable
spiky with thorn--a closed house, impervious,
leathering into prickly isolation.
Where's the girl ripe for piercing, who
shuttered
her windows and latched fast her doors?
Where's the chink
to press an eye to? Where's the coy lip
to kiss?
Oh prince, rip your hands,
rip your heart out. Someone
walked through the briars with her eyes
wide open,
laying her hand deliberately against each
thorn--
thick at the base, fanged at the tip, each
cat-claw
picked for its perfection,
slicing the thumb
to the bone. Someone dried them, aligned
them,
mortared them straight. Someone knew you'd
come looking.
She built that house, made that bed, walked
away.
3.
Thick in the thicket gooseberries
hung their lanterns
from two-inch spines; raspberries ripened
into jam
on razor-edged canes. The gloves held out
so disparagingly, you saw you couldn't win.
Ringed round by thrusting
briars muscled thick as snakes,
there's not much scope for turning. Bees
laced themselves
through the fretwork. The smug smile: "It's
only nettles." Your hands
puffed white with the sting. Blackbirds
in the hawthorn,
beaks open for the bite.
Between morning
and evening a quick snap of the tongue:
fling out
the changeling cursed with a pretty quickness
too sharp for her own good. Imagine going
wittingly
to pluck the nettle, leaves
caught in an apron
and every slightest brush a skin-popping
shock. Greening,
flattening, pinning, stitching--bite your
pillow,
claw at the air, skin welting along the
spine and rib
of each fine seam, each particular
leaf. How long
before you strip it off, bled light as a
feather--
a pain you made to grow out of,
something for Good Will, last year's fashion.
4.
Once upon a time--as long
ago as that
and all forgiven. The curb falls from the
tongue;
eyes cry themselves to clarity; the girl
wakes up, runs to the window, brushes
her glowing hair. But close
your eyes and
it's the flay tongue, it's the whip hand,
it's
the acid bath, the scald eye, the happy
ever after: fanged house, shirt of flame.
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