I finished writing the following three long poems in 2018. It was one of the pieces I wrote during my final year as a Creative Writing student. I sort of abandoned it as soon as I graduated, and since then I haven’t written any poems, really. But I wanted to put it somewhere, in case anyone wanted to read it, but also so I could (shouldn’t use ‘sort of’ again, but ‘sort of’) get it off my chest.
I wasn’t able to replicate the layout here, but all the words are the same. And seeing it as three huge blocks is in an odd way appealing to me. I can’t imagine writing something like this now – and I wouldn’t. But here it is. Warts and all. Thank you to Mike Fox for reading this recently and giving me the confidence to look at it properly again.
1: Devotion
the rag rosina stuck to smelled like milk
I held her by my wrists
keeping her in that crook
before mum was ready to release a bagful from her breast
I washed the rag in rainwater
air spiked with dew
blanketing her sculpted stomach
skin curdled as she slept
the clench of my teeth broke trees at the trunk
I put my hands to my face
to see the lines of my body
shallow funnels for sagging clouds
I walked from my family
thick headed
blood shot my eyes
untwined the cord that kept me at the foot of the hill
copper wings over church
teethed breeze with movement
the breadth of flight
against the starling sun
rosina screamed
over the heads of men
that came to seal me
in the taste of clay
I recite my hours
rather too soon than too late
matins by night in winter
prime in winter early
spent hours in his company
I was taught to curl my tongue
paster noster
time not wasted
I have control
he gifts it to me
seals words in my throat
with bent wick and candlewax
pater noster ave maria
arms around each hour
my faith taut strong
tightening my sockets
before matins after prime
after compline
my hiding place and my shield
I am yours save me
I have sought your precepts
after lights out silence
let no one of a high life think she will not be tempted
spent winters learning hours
now I pack them
against the pinnacle wind
my pelican beak
simply built
to tip rocks into a pool
is a more difficult skill
the bird is passionate
these leaps of imagination
threatened by creaks
my bones more brittle each season
ingrain time through squint
from the flooded fields
this year I have seen it from my cell
rood lifted in limitless space
spare me that I may recover strength
that rigidly determined self
stay buried below
be no more a while
a bird would keep me company
scratching hairs on my arms
every now and then perched on the rood
space above my head could be hers
I would snap my fingers above it
clap my hands together
fresh stone set to shaking
she would fly through some secret hole
precious release
silence take me
swallow me
holy curled gullet to my scalp
suckle me
slip into precious memory
the rag rosina stuck to
the press of adney’s hand
send me to the night
of her birth
heavy headed breath
expelled at sunset
both pallets glistening
my fingertips scrubbed
stuck stains on the ground
I bow to rosina
for shrinking the world
to a bloodshot
seven times my size
cut my memory
to the hours I recite
crick of my bones
and the smell of milk
2: Division
blood constellations moonlit
sunlit
hills
divide my month by the curt smell of blood
full moon
the iron tang dozing by his nose at calvary
sifts through my cell
that stench instead of a sweet smell
the body
the bitterness
and after sweetness
slate of my belly splits the world in two
my stare against the ground
sweat pulled from my forehead
mutes the pain in my mouth
I push my body from the floor
with elbows
against melting strength
teeth cleaned in vegetable soup
back to stone
knees kissing rock
that seemed smooth
before I entered
inside it is the sharpest
He made
to replace the moon
as it turns to slate
the rain quickens its pace
as a stranger asks advice
he mops his weathered brow
and takes a breath
anchoress
he says
it is my daughter
she will not marry
the boy I brought her
there is a new stillness in my cell
an unmoving
stagnant pause
that carries his sentence
the merchant leaves
takes his breath with him
to town
his problem still
send me to the night
two thieves were crucified
Jesus wept
divide his tears
adney trudges through mud
carrying half the river in his boots
as always
we split in two
anchoress
I have something for you
a relic
from abroad
I unclench my jaw
but adney
like all men I have known
has more to say
take it
cate
until the day breaks
and the shadows flee
be like the deer in the wood
and run
send me to the night
two robbers
divide
his tears through rivers
love is not a neat division
how sweet it would be
to run like a daughter of salem
pour wine from my breast
decanted from golgotha
red wine staining power
love must not speak its name
quiet space in my spine
place of skulls filled its brim
with Him
as I crowd my cell tonight
with banners of love
held high by limitless limbs
blood shot my eyes
and blood shoots through my cells
inside the curt
iron tang
I am too thin to feel it
bodied over soul
taken from the cross
that smoke almost cleared
there is no
inner outer
destroy binary divisions
that limit
there are deer by the bank
company in the trees
control of smoke
and the smell of milk
honeyed constellations
pushing straight on
midwinter day
twelfth night
candlemas
then
our lady’s day to
easter to saint joanna
uncovering the assumption
after that
holy thursday
whit sunday
midsummer
magdalene’s day
every hour
fishes for his brother
3: Vision
takes practise
test flight
beady eyed pelican sews
branches in a burning tree
broken cartilage
crash landing
wings cleanly knit
invisible indivisible flight
takes practise
to crack
my nails to shards
and sinew stars
blood shoots
sockets
countermelody to colour
shrunk hazelnut to start
brecon beacons
crystalline light
casting slow moving shadows
over breastful mountaintops
brecon beacon fell
falls to the tramline
my son is a ferryman
he splits mersey lines
with spectacled vision
by barabbas
could He have seen
light
light of his life
on the cross
across time
ointment poured
one night in bethany
freshly papered rosina
her sonnet split in two
we are joined
by a secret cord
made straight
the way of the lord
hours pile up for affect
she is by the graves
not in or far out
fresh mallows in her grip
breath of our mum in her chest
fair hair straight nosed
rosina dances by my space
and into her own
Kieran.Stories 
Leave a comment