three i never finished
Occasionally Ireland's greatest living poet produces a poem which doesn't quite reach the sublime levels of subtlety and harmony which the master insists upon for all his work, and so is left abandoned in that limbo known to scholars of great art as Poems Heelers Never Finished.
Some of these poems exist still as fragments.
For whatever reason I can never quite abandon them nor yet bring myself to try to complete them.
How about this...
a fire is dying in the night
upon the bare and windswept heath
shadows flare with sparks awry
tangle dervish in a wreath
above the ashes of my life
a fire is dying in the night
as soon the blood within me dies
Cheery little ditty, isn't it?
That's all there is. I never wrote any more of it.
I became demotivated when I discovered that it wasn't entirely original. In fact I'd been ripping off Alfred Lord Tennyson's cracking thing about the new year. Ring out wild bells, and all that.
Homage indeed.
I draw the line at ripping off Alfred Lord Tennyson.
He has enough on his plate since his Mammy made him take Lord for his confirmation name.
All the other poets must have laughed and laughed and laughed.
Here's a verse from another incomplete poem which sought in the grand old Irish bardic tradition to put a curse on a town I had become disaffected with.
a curse on galway
all the myth of galway is a lie
if you have no money you will not eat
and eating not surely you will die
unmourned though you drop upon the street
they'll crush you in the walkways with their feet
Ah yes.
But what happens in verse two?
And guess who lost money at the Galway races!
How much?
Let me this way put it.
More than I lost on John McCain in the US presidential elections.
Presumably by walkways I meant footpaths.
No one knows for sure.
And finally Esther.
This.
Thing.
in rome in lyons and in paris
passion shakes the lovers' hearts
even so in graigue na manaigh
the passion's there if you want it
Unfinished and deservedly so.
I'm telling you folks, anyone who thinks Graigue Na Manaigh can legitimately be compared to Rome, Lyon or Paris wants his head examined.
But then you knew that already.
Some of these poems exist still as fragments.
For whatever reason I can never quite abandon them nor yet bring myself to try to complete them.
How about this...
a fire is dying in the night
upon the bare and windswept heath
shadows flare with sparks awry
tangle dervish in a wreath
above the ashes of my life
a fire is dying in the night
as soon the blood within me dies
Cheery little ditty, isn't it?
That's all there is. I never wrote any more of it.
I became demotivated when I discovered that it wasn't entirely original. In fact I'd been ripping off Alfred Lord Tennyson's cracking thing about the new year. Ring out wild bells, and all that.
Homage indeed.
I draw the line at ripping off Alfred Lord Tennyson.
He has enough on his plate since his Mammy made him take Lord for his confirmation name.
All the other poets must have laughed and laughed and laughed.
Here's a verse from another incomplete poem which sought in the grand old Irish bardic tradition to put a curse on a town I had become disaffected with.
a curse on galway
all the myth of galway is a lie
if you have no money you will not eat
and eating not surely you will die
unmourned though you drop upon the street
they'll crush you in the walkways with their feet
Ah yes.
But what happens in verse two?
And guess who lost money at the Galway races!
How much?
Let me this way put it.
More than I lost on John McCain in the US presidential elections.
Presumably by walkways I meant footpaths.
No one knows for sure.
And finally Esther.
This.
Thing.
in rome in lyons and in paris
passion shakes the lovers' hearts
even so in graigue na manaigh
the passion's there if you want it
Unfinished and deservedly so.
I'm telling you folks, anyone who thinks Graigue Na Manaigh can legitimately be compared to Rome, Lyon or Paris wants his head examined.
But then you knew that already.
posted by heelers | 1:25 AM
3 Comments:
James, believe it or not, I'm attending a writer's workshop at the moment and we're working on "found poems". We're SUPPOSED to take phrases from our own failed stories and poetry, then make something new.
But I'm terrible at following directions when it comes to writing (even God's), so of course I'm using YOUR failed poetry. :)
Love in a Post-Christian World
(An homage to James Healy, from three unfinished poems.)
A fire is dying
upon the bare
shadows
above the ashes.
All the myth
in rome in lyons and in paris
even so in gaigue na manaigh
is dying.
A curse
is
there if you want it.
-Jean M. Balconi (the greatest living poetess in her own house - but only because she owns no parrots)
MJ, This is a great poem. Of course it all depends on what your definition of is is.
J
James, you wound me deeply by invoking Mr. Clinton. I may go into my closet to cry.
-MJ
(P.S. I don't own any blue dresses.)
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