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DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS JAMES LIDDY WONDERFUL TENNESSEE Middle-aged people in the theatre ran up to middle-aged failures on stage and said, “Don’t give up, don’t panic. I love you so much.” The characters keep weeping to the accordion. Hundreds in the crowded place berserk under the lights raising their voices to six actors, “There’s so much love inside you and us why do you have to Wdget?” It’s on the record. The saint of the island the fairies and God are the same—are coming back— are we God-bleeped again and are the fairies trouble Wrst as Tomás says and happiness afterwards and what if the saint slides back over the water in the image of a fairy blessing the dance on the waves, if a man made by Brian Friel in the image of Christ is on a pier to tell what to do with stones? ❧ WEARER Return at last to the lost town that is melancholy and beautiful only to listen to melancholy and beautiful violins under the oxters weeping madonnas in the plinth Welds from Kilfenora from the weeping chapels of the Newman poor that hid like mushrooms DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS 43 Mother dies father dies trees and bushes hearses plumed hearses run by motors reading cards in the Officers’ Mess rose of Castleconnell or is it Annacoty they carry the same wept flower petals does it matter the Shannon or the Maigue no dinner only some soup and bread so one could have a bit of style Agnes it’s worth it isn’t it daughter of two riverbanks and of the Church of wine streams praised by the blackberry and damson tree wasn’t it good after Communion at Johnstown to have walked over to Mrs. Kenny and asked where did you get those tights I love the colors—in Penney’s— Good there’s a Penney’s in Limerick ❧ VIR One for the Chevalier: Sam has left the Gare Montparnasse for the stop after the King’s hunting lodge for the fog in the attic alms naturally in light pockets. DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS 44 WARM MOUNTAIN POEM for Matt Liban Out to the yard a faintest bluish tinge I come inside and look at a yellow wagtail out the window. Lights on the mountain, are there farmer-lovers at work? Is there a dairy of hands? On the gold-bearing mountainside, ringed by farms like a fort, do they close their eyes? Standing stones on top of Hart’s Hill is a trysting place in white frost. A Land League stone, hidden by trees from the White Heaps, tells farmers: keep a grip on your lands. A swan white breast in the pines’ resin-dark? The time shall come when the mountain turns again to gold (desire that radiates from Wrst models and mothers). Carve these metaphors to guard your time chatting in the bar, among the irregular singing. Fasten a grip on this hearth so both may place our hand in the gold rivulet, so each of us Wshes out a raying nimbus. ❧ VIR (St. Valentine’s Day) Sam, I have nothing on oVer except like the calced in Whitefriar Street ashes; you might like them. DÁNTA ÚRA: NEW POEMS 45 TRAY-CARRIER OF LAURELS, LIAM MILLER The star-eyes of books he elaborated on a background he wanted remembered steal down to us. Father of print, he has gone away, and the tills will go on wrangling; and the place with its green walls, and white urinal, will stand. Each night the barman will call time in his bell tower. To attend his agenda he could leave his family and duties and I could resist a need to work. Even those printed by him will be shredded. He will sit alone on a bench without the humour of a sentence out of Synge. He will try to whisper through shut lips to the beautiful pages he made on an endless Baggot St. summer. He will imagine a stage with kegs of porter like a picture book of wings. Go, barter twilight for the first scene. DÁNTA...


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