Seamus Hogan Poems
|5.||New Jacket. (For Damaris)||2/16/2005|
|6.||A Falling Leaf||5/15/2005|
|12.||I Was About To Call On You||3/31/2008|
|16.||Sketch For A Self Portrait||10/7/2011|
|19.||Heron, West Cork||12/31/2013|
|24.||A Christmas Carol.||1/8/2006|
|26.||The Raising Of Lazarus.||3/19/2008|
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 ...
Out fly the fowl
Like feathers from a bolster
And who comes last but the rooster.
Pausing to raise a leg,
Stretch a claw,
As though easing on a glove
Before his morning stroll.
Attached to my hands
By strings of grain
I move the flock across the yard
And back again.