Andrew Buchanan Jackson

the voyage of st. brendan


A cry of "Land!" A cliff face, iron ore red,
a monastery perched on top, gold-gilded.
The crew cast anchor, doggy-swam ashore
and surfed the scree slopes in buoyant uproar.

The summit gained, they gasped: seven monks
advanced in welcome, cooing like rock doves.
The ground was fire-grate ash, entirely barren;
reading looks, the eldest spoke to Brendan:

"We drink the dew. Our food arrives by raven,
one loaf one fish, our drop, our daily ration,
the bird so clockwork and plain bountiful.
Rest here, brothers. Come, observe our ritual."

The monks performed a wordless parable:
seven stones in a fruit picker's pail,
bird-skin robes. Cried Brendan: "Holy fathers,
bless you — these are quality palavers."

The crew half-slept, that night, in golden cells,
their dreams hatchlings, their nerves eggshells.
Before the raven-dawn they fled in haste,
fearing their hosts' hunger, and their faith.
...

the voyage of st. brendan


Books were Brendan's love. At number one,
Amazing Tales, a vast compendium.
Within, he found the Mathematic Salmon,
the Manticore, the breath-defying Dragon.

The dog-head folks, called Cynocephali,
a godless bunch who play the banjolele.
The Arctic tribes who worship tiger seals,
their ice-hickle cities on wagon wheels.

The whale  Jasconius, its mountain-back
all porcupined with oak, and elm, and ash.
And Inexpressible Isle, its ruined fort
with butterfly judges, Heart's Grief Court.

In time, this diet of ripe and rum detail
weighed on Brendan: he sickened, grew pale.
He craved, instead, a simple common sense
in keeping with his Rule of abstinence.

"These things," he cried, "are figments, folderols.
The truth is here, at hand: a linnet's carols,
Kerry mountains, Christ upon his hook."
And Brendan made a fire, and burnt his book.
...

The hired van speeds down dual carriageways
containing us who function or don't function
as chemicals trigger off and trigger on
the infinitely occurring, infinitely dissolving images
of blown trash, tarmac, post-war brick,
the image of a wedding in the brain, seeing
our long-lost whose eyes water or remain
painfully dry, committed to their forgetting
as we are to pinning one face to one name,
the single firework of a human life, standing
still in a shower of detonated rain,
flake falling away from flake as
the one mind defoliates, flowering
down through the night air to pollinate
among leftovers of wedding cake, pink rags
of cooked ham, wrinkled balloons, beer cans,
among the assembled silences in which
there is no speech fit to be made,
while outside, on the Dublin city canal,
two snow-white midnight swans paddle by,
steer headlong through confetti, snapping bread.
...

Abraham wielded a watering can.
With star-mangled fervour
he sprinkled the Arctic, the Sahara.

Five years later, a riot of wild
orchids and tropical liana
convulsed the Arndale shopping centre.

Moths fled their equator.
With twelve-inch tongues uncoiled
they drilled for glacial nectar.

Some species perished: inverted
atmospheres, increased cloud cover
snuffed the jewelled frog, the grail spider.

When moonlight wobbled
Abraham knocked a nail through it.
...

Ruth at sunrise, grooming horses.
The bit, bridle, curry-comb of love
was her business.

Simeon skulked around indoors,
consulted Qabalah, threw sticks,
anything to improve sex.

Clouds were locomotive smoke,
camels or torn pillows,
the imperfect

science of moodswing or a god
in evidence everywhere, the veil
obscuring male from female.

Ruth gathered apples. The Elohim
stamped in their stalls.
...

With regard to these acts: removal of clothing,
nudity in front of females and before prayer,
the belly a heap of wheat set about with lilies,

a brood of men with bushy locks, black as raven,
the shaving of beards O daughters of Jerusalem,
exposure to extreme temperatures, hot or cold, short

shackling to an eye-bolt on the floor,
spikenard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon,
three hundred and fifty incidents of self-harm,

a garden inclosed, a spring shut up, a fountain sealed,
hoods, goggles, lap dances during interrogation,
fear of dogs, the use of dogs; the acts in question

were perpetrated by known government officials,
their teeth a flock of sheep, evenly shorn.
...

Heals all, the armchair prophets say,
as one rainbow resolves The Flood.
So blood congeals, so memory
spins like a back wheel in mud.
...

The groom is anybody's guess. He goes
casual-incognito, this year's look.
His backpack's full of perfumes, and a book.
A party popper's pulled and he explodes.

Relatives are thrilled to bits. It shows:
confetti, carbon-based; a rush of blood.
Bodies lie divided under God.
The groom enjoys a honeymoon of groans.
...

Adam lay miraculous,
unconscious with drink.
In a dream, he named whiskies

by nose, palate, finish:
brine and limes, a delicate
peat-reek, Weetabix.

Plasticine, emulsion paint,
amyl nitrate. A warm horse.
Kippers, treacle toffee, grassy

with green grape . . .
the work was endless.
Jalapeno peppers, tobacco notes . . .

Adam rose with a rough tongue
and heartbroken.
...

High noon, Graceland:
the risen Elvis
rolls away his rhinestone,

his burger, his Vegas.
To the few, he croons,
the gold lamé

spirit upon him, heavily
sideburned in black leather
or whistling Dixie.

Gretsch guitars twang:
the End of Days
follows on that note,

our saviour a surf song,
the flooded sand.
...

The Apocalypse of Judas,
chapter thirteen, verse
something-or-other:

as cows feed on clover,
crows on earthworms,
so men desire digestive charms.

It is beauty sustains us . . .
lean cuts from the Cross,
Italian shoes.

Therefore avoid St Andrews,
its burnt crust of a castle,
golf ball truffles,

the West Sands
a mouth-watering prospect for the damned.
...