Michael's books have won many national and international awards. His collection THE PHYSICS OF PARTING (Wyndham Hall Press/Cloverdale Library 1993.) won the American Cloverdale Prize for poetry, chosen from a panel of judges from ten countries.
MORNINGS OF THE ORESTEIA, SELECTED POEMS (1975-2008) was greeted with wide international acclaim.
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Michael O'Sullivan Poems
When ashes ventured to Heraclitus That more things may exist than fire He disappeared into a sunny gap Created by foreshortening of his stride.
The Naked Dance
Perhaps nature is itself the paradox: All I know is that while you danced Naked in the snow, and threw your clothes On branches aching with the touch,
Suddenly, from my shyness, from the taunts, I fastpissed on the other boys, latrine screaming, Pigs flapping outside, huge mammoths In a sink of mud, piss and revenge lasting forever,
Look into your heart You'll find a need for courage So immense That multitudes are waiting
After The Final Disappointment
All expectations Crushed I opened My coffin lid
Having no chronmetric choice The clock ticks on, yet in its shadow Lurks a deeper time with hands Of teeming flesh. Keats measured
Mornings of the Oresteia
Aeschylus Look up At your mother In the cup
A tilted mirror, on an open grave, Reveals rats feeding, on the loins of angels.
A Glimpse Of Heaven
You felt the stars were angels when you walked The four miles into Midleton for the matinee. Your mother had to explain how they were human, That Deanna Durbin was a breathing being,
The briny waters lose dissolving salt Then flit in expectation for the taste That will, in taking, mask their own default. The tongue in savour pluralizes choice
Omar's Last Stanza
Be but with Chance, that windowed sepulchre, From whose sweet vantage, you will espy her care; Her beauty from an accidental tower Reveals and unreveals, as you despair!
Truth Without Anger
If my body wasn't set on its decay You would not love me with a measured love. If my voice did not linger in the air And follow the dead eagles to their rest
You led me To a forest But the forest Burned.
He summons echoes of his former self Each guest a slave to what he cannot be Life friends is rubbish, let the wine flow free
Comments about Michael O'Sullivan
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
When ashes ventured to Heraclitus
That more things may exist than fire
He disappeared into a sunny gap
Created by foreshortening of his stride.
As Ur-Syphilis whispered to dying Thales
That water had no monopoly on pain
The unitarian cried drops of semen
Whose unique salts made Ur-Syphilis extinct.
When flies debased all number to Pythagoroas
A gown surged forth from the ineffable,
Enmeshed all flies with their descendants,
Imparting Death its concentrated tone.
When a mushroom visited the atom bomb
Accusing it of flagrant imitation,