Derramore

There the thatch is all fire and aglow
on the walls of midsummer kilned stone,
in the village that shelters the bare and the poor.
The mill stream cascading
where the children are playing,
by the oak trees that sleep in the dear Derramore.

The lavender walls are alive
with the fruit of the flower and beehive,
and peace is at home behind every front door.
There weavers are talking
and fair Rose is a walking,
by the oak trees that sleep in the dear Derramore.

No fighting or feuding can bring
discord within Gullion’s Ring;
the district of songs stills the clamour of war.
Poets dream in the glen
beneath gloaming Creggan,
of the oak trees that sleep in the dear Derramore.

While the Camlough flows calmly nearby
with its lilting and low lullaby,
and not here do wild revellers roar.
Take your ease by the river,
there is rest here forever,
by the oak trees that sleep, down the long ages deep,
in the keeping of dear Derramore

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Unending Spire

Just next to a swathe of open land; a place that most Londoners do not know the true significance of; opposite the Embankment; a semi- circle of plague pits called "The Phoenix Crescent" or something like that- perhaps in the hope that the hundreds of nameless ones piled therein will have a better resurrection- which, as I said, very few know- or care to remember; there I stood, looking up, unable to comprehend the size of the spire that stands there. I am not sure of its name, but, for the sake of those who have not seen it, think of any of Van Gogh’s swirling masterpieces. Looking upwards brings a true feeling of vertigo; the tower so tall it seems impossible, as though it were about to fall on you as you tilt and tilt your head back and totter on your heels. It dwarfs Big Ben and Canary Wharf, the towers of New York, and even that one in Montreal. Up it disappears into wisps of cloud; heights where no man could breathe. A few pale lights chime with the stars. The rest you just have to imagine. Honestly, it is an incredible sight.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Secret Names

Dossy September Friday. The phones are bored.
The talk turns to names- those we’re born with
and the more intimate, the sobriquets we gain.

Don Juan sat down and counted up to sixty.
Everyone confesses they have at least one, but
all lips are sealed. It appears that chocolate bars

will not prise out some secrets. I note that even
Fatty doesn’t crack. Why am I surprised?
I keep mum too. C’mon, let’s get back to work.

And so they remain where we remember them;
on a pillow, waiting tenderly at the station,
tippexed from various books I was given.

Valentines in The Times: line upon line of lovers’
unbreakable binary code. Whispered in throes
of pleasure, yelped in play. Sweet nothings we treasure.

They echo emotion, as a shell is haunted by the ocean.
And only she knows why, remembering seashells, I’d flee
work to shelter under the weeping, wind-wounded trees.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The overlooked

And if you look over here,
this is one of the most famous
of scenes, lovingly presented in all its detail
by the artist. If you consider it more closely you will be
shocked by its graphic reality. Not difficult to imagine
that you are there as well. The blood is black
and thickens. The sun on that spear, reflecting in the glaze
of the eye. The sweat track in the dust. That fly.
Yes, well spotted.; that clot of hair on the round stone.
Fascinating. These days, however, critics often overlook
the significant figures in the scene.
No, not the mother. Well, to be honest, that particular soldier
is often remarked upon- you see that he is transfixed
upon the dice and the coins; absolute concentration-
utterly removed from his situation!
No. Open your eyes. You see the figure of the stooped old man?
Look harder. Bend lower. There. Interesting, isn’t it?
His face like leather, creased in tears of anguish. Yes,
but for whom? No, what he is holding to his chest are not
children’s shoes, although they bear some similarity.
Why is he alone not looking at the cross?
Ask yourself this question: what is he giving?
What has he lost?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

National Anthem

Mobile phone from Finland,
watch: product of Japan.
Shades made in Estonia,
designed by an Italian.

Ma coupine est Algerienne,
come to learn my lingua.
Balti out of restaurant,
on futon (from IKEA).

Cup of tea, (from India)
or Coffee (grown in Ecuador)?
Pants by Prima Chichi’s
of Milano and New York.

CD from Los Angeles,
sweet sherry: ex- Madrid.
Nothing from Great Britain
but true grit, grit, grit.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nativity

That Saturday, I left early in order to see
the new bookshop opened recently in town.
The day after Boxing Day, the sale on and panic
of pigeon scuttle and rain flecked , concentrated frowns.
I nearly passed, unnoticed, the nativity scene,

first seeing what I took to be a head case
fiddling with his coat zip, in front of a shop door.
Staring through the plate glass, while his oddly manic
fingers twitched at his throat. Eyes to the floor,
a smile that spoke of tranquillizers on his face.

Crossing himself- at a manger, painted star and statues.
Shepherds and wise men, marooned in a sea of straw,
all in the shop front, fixed in antic
postures where clothes or toys were ranged before;
next to the bakery’s snuffling, steaming queue.

No doubt a third rate retail spot,
formerly novelty gift-ware or the Salvation Army.
Not an ideal location or specially hand picked;
rather, loaned by the landlord in a type of charity.
A place that Christmas commerce almost forgot;

it seems to lack relevance. Very few slow
their bargain hunting to ponder what it means.
Impenetrable to some, and to the pedantic
quite clearly wrong: the figures white and clean.
A waste of space, then, this static dumb show?

No. There yet remains something approaching good
about this absence of anything to buy or sell-
and each distracted shopper, however frantic,
notes the difference, though they hide so well
their knowledge of the unseen, yet somehow understood.

(c) Laurence Cooper 2004