Love does keep a record of some things—
your solitary walks in Coln Saint Aldwyn’s,
a precise curl of Virginia Creeper tendrils,
vermillion in autumn, the way you carefully
smelled horses’ necks beneath the mane back home,
velveteen crushes of cornhusks lashed to lampposts
Love notes you’ve yet to find a Petoskey stone,
have not managed to secure passage
in a hot air balloon at dawn. Love traces
those scars left by its own sweeping hand, marks
your fevered night-sky relish, your strange enfolding
of language in language and the red-winged blackbirds
enfolding themselves in blue-green marsh
Love keeps a record of you singing to yourself,
tallies your tears. Love folded a page corner
the day your shoulders sank like the horizon,
from a grey-salt schooner, love knows how
you should be touched.
No seeker of wrongs will read
love’s record, nor ask for it
let love’s book be freely shown
I never knew myself to have a Persian beard, now,
This is odd, this will need some explanation
So too the crown and concubines and all these
Half-drunk vessels from the house of God
Isn’t it 2023 or 2022—was I not, just now,
Pulling up in a Subaru or whatever it is I
Get myself around in? In fact I’m quite certain
My father was born in 1959 and hardly Nebuchadnezzar,
Though it is his second term as village president
(He ran unopposed this time) for the Most High God
Set him over it. TEKEL
Says the writing on the wall of my lordly mind, haunting,
TEKEL—you have been weighed in the balance
And found wanting
God I am always wanting
Wanting wanting wanting I am
Always wanting in or out of the balance,
And there is no wisdom in these Chaldeans
I have summoned to advise me, these useless
Fuckwitted Chaldeans with parlor tricks who break
My words with sticks and hurt me thus. How many more,
(I wonder!!) how many more misdeeds before my kingdom
Is divided, and given to the Medes?
We have endured long in the dark.
It is a burden (A magic? A madness?) particular
To us. Long endurance of darkness is not light,
But speaks of a belief that light’s radiance
Merits enduring long in the dim we know—
In the dusk we are.
The world is a bone
Full of Christ-marrow; its sun a merely
Mortal star, spending itself to lighten
What it can, just as the Godman upon
Entering our long dark did, except
In his mortality—no mereness.
He will put flesh again on this
Old bone, the world, his own
Milk-fed flesh in the great
Stable dark, a holy darkness:
All the void
Is not.
This is, and has been,
And shall be.
What Mary treasured up
In her heart was Death
Leaving the carcass of the world
At his arrival. She treasured up
The world alive, all alive
With a brightness
That turns the noble sun
To pitch.
Feature Image Advent and Triumph of Christ by Hans Memling, 1480.
When Cleopatra rolled
Out of the rug, she thought:
Don’t worry! Even if
I do not enjoy your performance,
You will enjoy mine—a lot.
I’d like to credit myself
As an actress, but the truth
About men is: I’ve yet
To meet one unwilling
To believe he is a singularly
Exceptional lover—yeah, baby.
I am your captain aboard the Beguile,
Cruising down that long denial
With no wish to make things
Worse by undeceiving
You—mm, hail Caesar—
I offer half-lidded eyes and
All the right sounds at all
The right times and rely
On the fact that truly
What you pay close attention to
(Unduly) is yourself. You’re watching
Me, but it’s astounding—genuinely—
What you won’t see, though you should— There, right there, that’s good.
Charming, cunning queen, lay the tracks,
Set the stage and land the scene. He’ll believe
Because he wants to—oh, I want you—
And yet you’ll wish that you’d stayed home—
It wasn’t worth the trip to Rome.
As summer gave way to a season of mist and mellow fruitfulness in September Covid-19 returned with a vengeance, but by now there was considerable disagreement over elusive facts.
The main go-to-man among Irish scientists for the Irish media has been Trinity Professor of Immunology Luke O’Neill. On June 22nd he claimed that Ireland would have had 28,000 deaths if there hadn’t been a lockdown.
The piece earned praise on Twitter from Irish Times journalist Ronan McGreevy.
This is a brilliant blog post which should be ready by every journalist covering Covid-19. It takes aim at several ubiquitous experts who have made wildly inaccurate predictions and who have not been held to account for those predictions. https://t.co/1QgEahaxfH
Andrea Reynell, meanwhile, looked for new ways of socialising during The New Abnormal; although having to order a meal made the idea of going out for a drink less appealing.
It is easy for some premises that already served food. But it is a bit of a pain knowing that you’re spending more than you want, all for the sake of a socially-distanced drink.
Divers on Dublin Bay.
That month we receive the first in a series of articles from underwater photographer Daniel Mc Auley. The first acquainted us with the hidden world below Dublin Bay.
The silt and sandy bottom around Dublin Bay is in a state of constant motion, drawn by the strong tidal flows moving down the east coast of the country. These massive sand banks are also easily disturbed by strong southerly or easterly winds, leading to dramatic drops in visibility when a strong wind blows. Unlike the deep water off the west coast, Dublin Bay is a relatively shallow body of water with a primarily sandy bottom.
Coral Garden Dalkey Island, Dublin Bay. Image (c) Dan Mc Auley
Another new contributor Neil Burns wrote movingly following his work in addiction services:
Heroin addicts tend to mate for life. Like dilapidated swans – twisted in a deadly alliance they dance and embrace towards a finality of breath. Like a sculpture in a Giorgio de Chirico painting. It is an ersatz marriage of sorts, sharing needles – inveigling that sharp, finite pain. Into the vein. The arm. The thigh. Leaving rack-marks like horse gallops that tear up the grass on a racecourse. Puckered, indeed, punctured skin. Delving into the life’s blood. The blood’s life which is cherished. Next to Godliness. Spike island. Feel like Jesus’ son was The Velvet Underground’s lyric. Warm blanket to insulate against the world’s harshness. Being judged. Much of it in the head and coveted paranoia.
f you have already worked out that whoever lives inside your phone when you say ‘Hey Siri’ or ‘Hey Google’ can read emails out to you, find the nearest movie theatre, or reserve a restaurant table, then Artificial Intelligence (AI) is already in your life.
Image: Luke Fitzherbert
Next, Luke Fitzherbert despaired at Lebanon’s rotten leadership after a massive explosion that rocked Beirut:
The impact of the explosion is hard to understate. Its sound and force stretched for miles, releasing a huge mushroom cloud that killed close to two hundred people, and scarred thousands both physically and mentally; destroyed countless homes, and leaving once vibrant streets desolate. The immediate aftermath was dystopian: “It was like a movie. People moving slowly, covered in blood, glass shattered everywhere. Leaving a whole city riddled with PTSD,” recalled one witness.
And in the wake of Amy Coney Barrett’s appointment to the Supreme Court David Langwallner reckoned it was game over for American democracy.
My name is Gemma Dunleavy and I’m a yapper. I’d talk the handle off a cup. I also write and play music. I see myself as a storyteller first, then a musician. It’s where I feel my true gift is, my natural comfort is in meandering through my memories, picking out the best details to paint the clearest picture in the heads of those listening.
Also in music coverage Brian Mooney was keeping the conversation going after the tragic loss of his wife to cancer:
six months now. A year of firsts. A lot of lessons learnt. A new wisdom.
And I feel quite stupid and not quite intelligent enough. Exposed, as my better half who I was always so proud to be beside has gone away.
I have to build now. My friends are close and music has kept the conversation going…
Gasping for a hit, Carl made himself a fresh cup of coffee. But big-nosed and bat-eared, when he tried to slam it, the steaming brown liquid dribbled down his chin to piddle over his pink tie and white shirt. His accountant’s uniform.
Also in fiction, Yona Shiryan Caffrey brought a portrayal of cocooning widows in rural Israel in Tina.
…. Myriad music still marks her mind, her memory,
Music of mending and meaning, naming and being—
Music of mackerel meandering, matter and mass,
Metaphysical music marching from moment to minute
As well as a number of works from Mischa Willett, along with the irrepressible Kevin Higgins, who wondered at the longevity of Henry Kissinger:
For its birthday, a baby gets Spina bifida
A Bengali family have all their arms sawn off.
Fifty bodies topple into the sea off Indonesia
but none of them are Henry Kissinger
Each time Henry Kissinger again fails to die
