michael hogan Poems
In memoriam Francis X. Hogan (1913-1974)
On Sunday mornings in March my father
would take a homemade kite broad as his back
up the hill near Reeve's Farm.
This was how men learned of flight
he told me then.
Racing down that hill to catch the wind
where there was none to speak of,
the kite (gradually lifting) caught at last
on a thermal from the sea his running almost reached.
He told me breathless watching it rise:
The Chinese were the first.
They made them shaped like dragons
which in those days roamed the whole earth
free and ...
Ice has been cracking all day
and small boys on the shore
pretending it is the booming of artillery
lie prone clutching imaginary carbines.
Inside the compound returning birds
peck at bread scraps from the mess hall.
Old cons shiver in cloth jackets