Filiocht Nua: New Poetry

Lough Gill: View of the Lake Isle of Innisfree

I walked the shore path lined with tufted reeds,
swatting clouds of gnats, leap-frogging a pool
rippling with slime, repulsed, yet glad to be free
of red-brick Sligo town. I was a fool
to ever call myself Irish! I was not—
my yellow hair and flat, Midwestern mumble
made me an alien here. Twice someone shot
"Guten Tag!" at me.
             I hated gloom. I stumbled
over tangled roots, depressed by mist and dew
until it seemed I'd put on Yeats's knowledge
from boyhood, as he struggled to subdue
memories of famished children in the village
by roaming this place, dreaming hollow cheekbones
into faery beauty, conjuring swans from groans.

The Tidal Wave

Today the window pane is starred with ice.
The map of Ireland glitters in the frost
And from my bed I watch the sun dissolve
The little flakes I call the western coast.
I walked there as a boy, my life a dream,
Ungraspable as clouds, a mystery
I thought I'd pass into as I grew up
Like a boat on course gliding into fog.
One day I sailed out to America
In darned socks, and my father's mended suit.
My arm ached in the socket as I waved
Goodbye to every disappearing face.
Now my past is a cloud, faint and shapeless—
The packed-in feathers of my old pillow
Are all I feel beneath my heavy head.
My birthdate's cared into polished granite
Next to the name and death date of my wife.

A caretaker will give my son a map
To find our graves if he forgets the place.
A mower, taking off his sweaty shirt,
May cool his back against the grey headstone,
May read my name aloud, and speculate
About the man from Ireland buried here
So far from home, in view of skyscrapers.
And what will be the difference to me?
When I was ten I loved a neighbor girl.
We used to climb a hillside where sheep grazed,
Sit on a stone wall, and stare at the sea
Talking shyly. She used to bite her nails,
Or comb the tangles out of her black hair.
Sometimes we shut our eyes against the wind.
Our lives were equal then. We'd both grow up.

That spring her family drove to Castlebar.
The blackest storm old men had ever known
Rose from the sea when they were almost home.
The horse could hardly step. The baby cried.
I used to dream of what I never saw,
The mother with her shawl, the little girl
Grabbing her father's arm as the horse reared.
It was too dark to see the wave curl up
And cross the beach, the low dunes, and the road,
To smash them like an iron battering-ram.
Deep-sea fish writhed in the farmer's fields
Next day, but no one found the cart or horse.
The whole family had been dragged to sea.

For years I walked the beach, wondering
If she might wash ashore. I was afraid
Of dark seaweed floating under the surf.
Then I forgot, and sailed above her grave,
Thinking about New York, jobs, and money.
She was a tale I told, an old story.
She has no monument, no name in stone.
She's undistinguished, nothing more than foam.
But who am I? My life has vanished, too.
My son will choose one of my baggy suits
To bury my corpse, give the rest away.
A granddaughter may someday speak of me,
Then comes oblivion. I'll melt like ice.
Already on the sunny windowpane
My map of Ireland has begun to run
In speeding droplets down the empty glass.

Gifts

For Sr. Coletta M. Stanton, BVM, 1922 — 1994

Lilac, lavender, lily of the valley—
I lift the soap up to my face.
I'm Christmas shopping for my aunt,
who's forced to discontinue chemo,
hardly...