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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
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.
For Hannah. Before settling for the evening A cock pheasant
For Seamus and Marie A turf flame is more modest Than that of well seasoned elm,
Right out to the lighthouse and further Fields of sheaves meshing and swashing. All along the floorboards of fathoms Sound ceaselessly threshes silence.
In the orchard Our dog Mr. Lynch Rolls in his own happiness.
Evening again lays down shadow Like a cardplayer With a hopeless hand. At the bend in the avenue
Chisels of rain Prise light into seven arches On a gossamer anvil.
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.
It must have been this month of the year, November, because I wore boots of rubber and the cows wore boots of mud.
Like birds Flight of tongue Curlew of neck Swooping breasts
Comments about Seamus Hogan
(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)
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 ...