Rupture (Poetry Monthly)

It was lashing when they found them,

the Mournemen and crannog men,

Pearse, McDonagh.

The trees saw it all of course,

out where the rain was so sharp and fresh

it gave you life and took your breath.

 

Pale, white faces rose from the mud,

breathed back into being by the lips

of a thousand shaking men.

O’Leary. Collins.

Oh rose, 

my rose.

You are sick all.

 

The old lies are made new again.

Retold, risen from muddied robes.

Stiff collars. Loose morals

 

Dulce et decorum est.

The English said

before they died.

Open the window so his soul can fly.

Democracy. 

Don't step on the cracks.

Equality.

Fraternity.

 

In shadowy truths of self sits

the only script for lying actors. 

The blood of our past bellowing faith,

eyes wet and begging,

playing chess with death.

 

From bog and blood,

from King and Curragh,

all shoulder vein and sinew offered up,

too drunk to cure the company up above

from this,

from this,

from this a narrowing,

from this a shedding,

from this distilled

boiled the marrow to

the century essential. Immigrant stars trapped

and put to work.

 

 

We’re all searching for someone.

As soon as I found them

I knew I was in a dream.

My vague brave,

ancestral brothers.

They’d given up,

spoke their last.

Something in the voices…

 

‘I will arise and go now.

To not one place but everywhere.’

 

The telephone’s lost down below.

Connection’s gone.

They’ve opened up

to a static world

transmitting

without reception.