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Seamus Hogan Poems
Perhaps it's a little consolation that the village Lays a carpet of whispers as you are led into
The Raising Of Lazarus.
As he slowly rose, The weight of death wound Around him, moans wrenched in two like a smile for a stranger
For Hannah. Before settling for the evening A cock pheasant
A Christmas Carol.
Crows freeze in mid-flight And hang there Like fire damaged decorations.
Moving apart As quietly as a puddle freezes, Crying as silently as slush. Ah, how long it seems
Neck deep in night With mainland morning just a line On the horizon under a splash of ink sky Spilt by the arm of waking dreams.
Evening again lays down shadow Like a cardplayer With a hopeless hand. At the bend in the avenue
Out fly the fowl Like feathers from a bolster And who comes last but the rooster. Pausing to raise a leg,
Until I was nine or ten I don't remember any other cares Than getting the lessons done in time To play a little more before the prayers.
Heron, West Cork
Among reeds Surrounded by waves of rock, Stands a Heron. In its beak
Chisels of rain Prise light into seven arches On a gossamer anvil.
It must have been this month of the year, November, because I wore boots of rubber and the cows wore boots of mud.
In the orchard Our dog Mr. Lynch Rolls in his own happiness.
A Falling Leaf
Two riders in the elderberry road, grass between. With blackthorn and hazel, unseen. Only the breathing, the hoofs
Comments about Seamus Hogan
Perhaps it's a little consolation that the village
Lays a carpet of whispers as you are led into
Church on Sundays. That they look towards your pew
at an angle and grab a glimpse of their lives
In the blankness as though it were a mirror.
When you hear those prayers for the sick through
The nave of the priest's hands, who do you see?
Or hear? Last winter's ice underfoot
On the way to the cowhouse, or some October's
Apple falling. Which will not splinter or fall
Through your eyes again.
Once, thinking you were alone, you shuddered.
Then, like ...