Issue 10: June 2005

Luke Heeley | Alan Jenkins | Barbara Marsh | Niall O'Sullivan | Eamonn Shanahan | Jean Sprackland | Todd Swift

EAMONN SHANAHAN

A Dream of Smell

I was reading a book about philosophy
when the words went soft and left me
in the back garden, a boy of seven or so
spooning a hole in the black London earth
and burying my head — we did just this.

What woke me was the smell, as real
as you are now breathing, of that earth,
a mix of grass, burnt chicken, piss.

Relaciones Terminadas

The lies we lied
the wardrobe left open
again and again
inhaling for nothing in the kitchen

the eyes the eyes
she won't look at
rising high from the table
waving down the flight of stairs

past the Galinac
the coats
the white door
we never got round to selling

the brown door
we never got round to painting
white
wine in Brighton arm in arm

stepping the sands in one time
the dim sea
rolling along in dreams
in dreams

The Pony and Trap

Your people are gathered, all pissed
in the kitchen after mass
schools patients the plumber, all English.

The billowing aromas, the beef and batter,
your country emerges,
Daddy grows into a narrative.

The sacred hush would hold us
in the ocean of this links, that bay,
Sullivan, Tralee, the personality.