Biography of Paul Muldoon
Muldoon was born on a farm outside Moy, County Tyrone, the eldest of three children. The family was Catholic in a largely Protestant area of Northern Ireland. His father worked as a farmer (among other jobs) and his mother was a school-mistress. In 2001, Muldoon said of the Moy; "It's a beautiful part of the world. It's still the place that's 'burned into the retina', and although I haven't been back there since I left for university 30 years ago, it's the place I consider to be my home. We were a fairly non-political household; my parents were nationalists, of course, but it was not something, as I recall, that was a major area of discussion. But there were patrols; an army presence; movements of troops; a sectarian divide. And that particular area was a nationalist enclave, while next door was the parish where the Orange Order was founded; we'd hear the drums on summer evenings. But I think my mother, in particular, may have tried to shelter us from it all. Besides, we didn't really socialise a great deal. We were 'blow-ins' - arrivistes - new to the area, and didn't have a lot of connections."
Talking of his home life, he continues "I'm astonished to think that, apart from some Catholic Truth Society pamphlets, some books on saints, there were, essentially, no books in the house, except one set, the Junior World Encyclopaedia, which I certainly read again and again. People would say, I suppose, that it might account for my interest in a wide range of arcane bits of information. At some level, I was self-educated." He was a '"Troubles poet" from the beginning.
In 1969, Muldoon read English at Queen's University Belfast, where he met Seamus Heaney and became close to the Belfast Group of poets which involved writers such as Michael Longley, Ciarán Carson, Medbh McGuckian and Frank Ormsby. Muldoon said of the experience, "I think it was fairly significant, certainly to me. It was exciting. But then I was 19, 20 years old, and at university, so everything was exciting, really." Muldoon was not a strong student at Queens. He recalls "I had stopped. Really, I should have dropped out. I'd basically lost interest halfway through. Not because there weren't great people teaching me, but I'd stopped going to lectures, and rather than doing the decent thing, I just hung around". During his time at Queens, his first collection New Weather was published by Faber and Faber. He met his first wife, fellow student Anne-Marie Conway, and they were married after their graduation in 1973. Their marriage broke up in 1977.
For thirteen years (1973–86), Muldoon worked as an arts producer for BBC arts in Belfast, (including the most bitter period of the Troubles). During this time he published the collections Why Brownlee Left (1980) and Quoof (1983). After leaving the BBC he taught English and creative writing at Caius College, Cambridge, and the University of East Anglia where he taught such writers as Lee Hall (Billy Elliot) and Giles Foden (Last King of Scotland). In 1987, he emigrated to the United States, and teaches in the creative writing program at Princeton. He held the chair of Professor of Poetry at Oxford University for the five-year term 1999–2004, and is an Honorary Fellow of Hertford College, Oxford University.
Muldoon is married to novelist Jean Hanff Korelitz, whom he met at an Arvon writing course. He has two children, Dorothy and Asher, and lives in Griggstown, New Jersey.
Poetry and other works
His poetry is known for his difficult, sly, allusive style, casual use of obscure or archaic words, understated wit, punning, and deft technique in meter and slant rhyme. As Peter Davidson says in the New York Times review of books "Muldoon takes some honest-to-God reading. He's a riddler, enigmatic, distrustful of appearances, generous in allusion, doubtless a dab hand at crossword puzzles". The Guardian cites him as "among the few significant poets of our half-century"; "the most significant English-language poet born since the second world war" - a talent off the map. (Notably, Seamus Heaney was born in 1939). Muldoon's work is often compared with Heaney, a fellow Northern Irish poet, friend and mentor to Muldoon. Heaney, who won the 1995 Nobel Prize in Literature, is better known, sells widely and has enjoyed more popular success. Muldoon is more of 'the poet's poet', whose work is frequently too involved and opaque for a more casual readership. However, Muldoon's reputation as a serious poet was confirmed in 2003 with his winning of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. He has been awarded fellowships in the Royal Society of Literature and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences; the 1994 T. S. Eliot Prize; the 1997 Irish Times Poetry Prize, and the 2003 Griffin International Prize for Excellence in Poetry. He was also shortlisted for the 2007 Poetry Now Award. Muldoon’s poems have been collected into three books, Selected Poems 1968-1986 (1986), New Selected Poems: 1968-1994 (1996), and Poems 1968-1998 (2001). In September 2007 he was hired as poetry editor of The New Yorker and is president of the British Poetry Society (UK).
Most of Muldoon's collections contain shorter poems with an inclusion of a long concluding poem. As Muldoon produced more collections the long poems gradually took up more space in the volume, until in 1990 the poem Madoc: A Mystery took over the volume of that name, leaving only seven short poems to appear before it. Muldoon has not since published a poem of comparable length, but a new trend is emerging whereby more than one long poem appears in a volume.
Madoc: A Mystery, exploring themes of colonisation, is among Muldoon's most difficult works. It includes, as 'poetry', such non-literary constructions as maps and geometric diagrams. In the book Irish Poetry since 1950, John Goodby states it is "by common consent, the most complex poem in modern Irish literature [...] - a massively ambitious, a historiographical metafiction". The post-modern poem narrates, in 233 sections (the same number as the number of American Indian tribes), an alternative history in which Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey come to America in order to found a utopian community. The two poets had, in reality, discussed but never undertaken this journey. Muldoon's poem is inspired Southey's work Madoc, about a legendary Welsh prince of that name. Critics are divided over the poem's success. Some are stunned by its scope and many others, such as John Banville, have professed themselves utterly baffled by it - feeling it to be wilfully obscure. Muldoon says of it: "I quite enjoy having fun. It's part of how it is, and who we are."
Muldoon has contributed the librettos for four operas by Daron Hagen: Shining Brow (1992), Vera of Las Vegas (1996), Bandanna (1998), and The Antient Concert (2005). His interests have not only included libretto, but the rock lyric as well, penning lines for the band The Handsome Family as well as the late Warren Zevon whose titular track "My Ride's Here" belongs to a Muldoon collaboration. Muldoon also writes lyrics for (and plays "rudimentary rhythm" guitar in) his own Princeton-based rock band, Rackett.
Muldoon has also edited a number of anthologies, written two children's books, translated the work of other authors, and published critical prose.
He will also be partaking in the Bush Theatre's 2011 project Sixty Six where he has written a piece based upon a chapter of the King James Bible.
Muldoon has won the following major poetry awards:
1990: Guggenheim Fellowship
1992: Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize for Madoc: A Mystery
1994: T. S. Eliot Prize for The Annals of Chile
1997: Irish Times Irish Literature Prize for Poetry for New Selected Poems 1968–1994
2002: T. S. Eliot Prize (shortlist) for Moy Sand and Gravel
2003: Griffin Poetry Prize (Canada) for Moy Sand and Gravel
2003: Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for Moy Sand and Gravel
2004: American Ireland Fund Literary Award
2004: Aspen Prize for Poetry
2004: Shakespeare Prize
2009: John William Corrington Award for Literary Excellence
Honorary Professor in the School of English at the University of St Andrews (Scotland)
Professor of Poetry at Oxford University 1999–2004 (England)
Honorary Fellow of Hertford College, Oxford University (England)
Fellowship with the Royal Society of Literature (England)
Fellowship with the American Academy of Arts and Sciences (U.S.)
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Paul Muldoon Poems
Milkweed And Monarch
As he knelt by the grave of his mother and father the taste of dill, or tarragon- he could barely tell one from the other-
The rain comes flapping through the yard like a tablecloth that she hand-embroidered. My mother has left it on the line. It is sodden with rain.
Comes to mind as another small upheaval amongst the rubble. His eye matches exactly the bubble
The snail moves like a Hovercraft, held up by a Rubber cushion of itself, Sharing its secret
I gave you back my claim on the mining town and the rich vein we once worked, the tumble down from a sluice box that irked
The height of one stall at odds with the next in your grandfather's byre where cattle allowed themselves to speak only at Yule gave but little sense of why you taught us to admire the capacity of a three-legged stool
The Old Country
I Where every town was a tidy town and every garden a hanging garden. A half could be had for half a crown. Every major artery would harden since every meal was a square meal. Every clothesline showed a line of undies yet no house was in dishabille. Every Sunday took a month of Sundays till everyone got it off by heart every start was a bad start since all conclusions were foregone. Every wood had its twist of woodbine. Every cliff its herd of fatalistic swine. Every runnel was a Rubicon. II Every runnel was a Rubicon and every annual a hardy annual applying itself like linen to a lawn. Every glove compartment held a manual and a map of the roads, major and minor. Every major road had major roadworks. Every wishy-washy water diviner had stood like a bulwark against something worth standing against. The smell of incense left us incensed at the firing of the fort. Every heron was a presager of some disaster after which, we'd wager, every resort was a last resort. III Every resort was a last resort with a harbor that harbored an old grudge. Every sale was a selling short. There were those who simply wouldn't budge from the Dandy to the Rover. That shouting was the shouting but for which it was all over— the weekend, I mean, we set off on an outing with the weekday train timetable. Every tower was a tower of Babel that graced each corner of a bawn where every lookout was a poor lookout. Every rill had its unflashy trout. Every runnel was a Rubicon. IV Every runnel was a Rubicon where every ditch was a last ditch. Every man was "a grand wee mon" whose every pitch was another sales pitch now every boat was a burned boat. Every cap was a cap in hand. Every coat a trailed coat. Every band was a gallant band across the broken bridge and broken ridge after broken ridge where you couldn't beat a stick with a big stick. Every straight road was a straight up speed trap. Every decision was a snap. Every cut was a cut to the quick. V Every cut was a cut to the quick when the weasel's twist met the weasel's tooth and Christ was somewhat impolitic in branding as "weasels fighting in a hole," forsooth, the petrol smugglers back on the old sod when a vendor of red diesel for whom every rod was a green rod reminded one and all that the weasel was nowhere to be found in that same quarter. No mere mortar could withstand a ten-inch mortar. Every hope was a forlorn hope. So it was that the defenders were taken in by their own blood splendour. Every slope was a slippery slope. VI Every slope was a slippery slope where every shave was a very close shave and money was money for old rope where every grave was a watery grave now every boat was, again, a burned boat. Every dime-a-dozen rat a dime-a-dozen drowned rat except for the whitrack, or stoat, which the very Norsemen had down pat as a weasel-word though we know their speech was rather slurred. Every time was time in the nick just as every nick was a nick in time. Every unsheathed sword was somehow sheathed in rime. Every cut was a cut to the quick. VII Every cut was a cut to the quick what with every feather a feather to ruffle. Every whitrack was a whitterick. Everyone was in a right kerfuffle when from his hob some hobbledehoy would venture the whitterick was a curlew. Every wall was a wall of Troy and every hunt a hunt in the purlieu of a demesne so out of bounds every hound might have been a hellhound. At every lane end stood a milk churn whose every dent was a sign of indenture to some pig wormer or cattle drencher. Every point was a point of no return. VIII Every point was a point of no return for those who had signed the Covenant in blood. Every fern was a maidenhair fern that gave every eye an eyeful of mud ere it was plucked out and cast into the flame. Every rowan was a mountain ash. Every swath-swathed mower made of his graft a game and the hay sash went to the kemper best fit to kemp. Every secretary was a temp who could shift shape like the river goddesses Banna and Boann. Every two-a-penny maze was, at its heart, Minoan. Every escape was a narrow escape. IX Every escape was a narrow escape where every stroke was a broad stroke of an ax on a pig nape. Every pig was a pig in a poke though it scooted once through the Diamond so unfalt—so unfalteringly. The threshold of pain was outlimened by the bar raised at high tea now every scone was a drop scone. Every ass had an ass's jawbone that might itself drop from grin to girn. Every malt was a single malt. Every pillar was a pillar of salt. Every point was a point of no return. X Every point was a point of no return where to make a mark was to overstep the mark. Every brae had its own braw burn. Every meadow had its meadowlark that stood in for the laverock. Those Norse had tried fjord after fjord to find a tight wee place to dock. When he made a scourge of small whin cords, Christ drove out the moneylenders and all the other bitter-enders when the thing to have done was take up the slack. Whin was to furze as furze was to gorse. Every hobbledehoy had his hobbledyhobbyhorse. Every track was an inside track. XI Every track was an inside track where every horse had the horse sense to know it was only a glorified hack. Every graineen of gratitude was immense and every platitude a familiar platitude. Every kemple of hay was a kemple tossed in the air by a haymaker in a hay feud. Every chair at the barn dance a musical chair given how every paltry poltroon and his paltry dog could carry a tune yet no one would carry the can any more than Samson would carry the temple. Every spinal column was a collapsing stemple. Every flash was a flash in the pan. XII Every flash was a flash in the pan and every border a herbaceous border unless it happened to be an herbaceous border as observed by the Recorder or recorded by the Observer. Every widdie stemmed from a willow bole. Every fervor was a religious fervor by which we'd fly the godforsaken hole into which we'd been flung by it. Every pit was a bottomless pit out of which every pig needed a piggyback. Every cow had subsided in its subsidy. Biddy winked at Paddy and Paddy winked at Biddy. Every track was an inside track. XIII Every track was an inside track and every job an inside job. Every whitterick had been a whitrack until, from his hobbledehob, that hobbledehobbledehoy had insisted the whitterick was a curlew. But every boy was still "one of the boys" and every girl "ye girl ye" for whom every dance was a last dance and every chance a last chance and every letdown a terrible letdown from the days when every list was a laundry list in that old country where, we reminisced, every town was a tidy town.
When I put my finger to the hole they've cut for a dimmer switch in a wall of plaster stiffened with horsehair it seems I've scratched a two-hundred-year-old itch with a pink and a pink and a pinkie-pick. When I put my ear to the hole I'm suddenly aware of spades and shovels turning up the gain all the way from Raritan to the Delaware with a clink and a clink and a clinky-click. When I put my nose to the hole I smell the floodplain of the canal after a hurricane and the spots of green grass where thousands of Irish have lain with a stink and a stink and a stinky-stick. When I put my eye to the hole I see one holding horse dung to the rain in the hope, indeed, indeed, of washing out a few whole ears of grain with a wink and a wink and a winkie-wick. And when I do at last succeed in putting my mouth to the horsehair-fringed niche I can taste the small loaf of bread he baked from that whole seed with a link and a link and a linky-lick.
They're kindly here, to let us linger so late, Long after the shutters are up. A waiter glides from the kitchen with a plate Of stew, or some thick soup,
News Headlines From The Homer Noble Farm
I That case-hardened cop. A bull moose in a boghole brought him to a stop. II From his grassy knoll he has you in his crosshairs, the accomplice mole. III The sword once a share. This forest a fresh-faced farm. This stone once a stair. IV The birch crooks her arm, as if somewhat more inclined to welcome the swarm. V He has, you will find, two modes only, the chipmunk: fast-forward; rewind. VI The smell, like a skunk, of coffee about to perk. Thelonius Monk. VII They're the poker work of some sort of woodpecker, these holes in the bark. VIII My new fact checker claims that pilus means 'pestle.' My old fact checker. IX Those Rose and Thistle. Where the hummingbird drops in to wet his whistle. X Behind the wood bin a garter snake snaps itself, showing us some skin. XI Like most bits of delf, the turtle's seen its best on one's neighbor's shelf. XII Riding two abreast on their stripped-down, souped-up bikes, bears in leather vests. XIII The eye-shaded shrike. BIRD BODIES BURIED IN BOG'S a headline he'll spike. XIV Steady, like a log riding a sawmill's spillway, the steady coydog. XV The cornet he plays was Bolden's, then Beiderbecke's, this lonesome blue jay. XVI Some fresh auto wreck. Slumped over a horn. Sump pool. The frog's neck-braced neck. XVII Brillo pads? Steel wool? The regurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgitations, what, of a long-eared owl? XVIII The jet with the jot. The drive-in screen with the sky. The blood with the blot. XIX How all seems to vie, not just my sleeping laptop with the first firefly.
A game about which we've got next to nothing straight, it seems to have been a mash-up of buzkashi and road bowls. As I try to anticipate a spear-thrower trying to anticipate
Seven o'clock. The seventh day of the seventh month of the year. No sooner have I got myself up in lime-green scrubs, a sterile cap and mask,
Beijing I could still hear the musicians cajoling those thousands of clay horses and horsemen through the squeeze when I woke beside Carlotta. Life-size, also. Also terra-cotta. The sky was still a terra-cotta frieze over which her grandfather still held sway with the set square, fretsaw, stencil, plumb line, and carpenter's pencil his grandfather brought from Roma. Proud-fleshed Carlotta. Hypersarcoma. For now our highest ambition was simply to bear the light of the day we had once been planning to seize. Baginbun The Nashville skyline's hem and haw as the freebooters who freeboot through their contractual mire and murk, like Normans stampeding dozens of cows into their Norse-Irish cousins, were balking now at this massive breastwork they themselves had thrown up. The pile of toot on a mirror. The hip-hirple of a white horse against purple. Age-old traductions I could trace from freebasers pretending they freebase to this inescapable flaw hidden by Carlotta's close-knit wet suit like a heart-wound by a hauberk. Bannockburn Though he was mounted on a cob rather than a warhorse, the Bruce still managed to sidestep a spear from Henry de Bohun and tax de Bohun's poll with his broad-based poleax and leave de Bohun's charger somewhat leer. Her grandfather had yet to find a use for the two-timing partisan his grandfather brought man-to-man against all those Ferdinandies until he saw it might come in handy for whacking the thingammybobs off pine and fir, off pine and fir and spruce and all such trees as volunteer. Berwick-Upon-Tweed Off the elm, the ancient pollard that a Flemish painter might love, that comes to shun the attention of its headstrong days, so is proof against the storm that takes its neighbor's roof. Her nonno collects his pension knowing that when push really came to shove he had it within him to wrap his legs in puttees and backslap those pack mules down that moonlit deck, Carlotta now wearing a halter-neck under the long-sleeved, high-collared wet suit whereof . . . whereof . . . whereof . . . whereof I needs must again make mention. Blaye Her wet suit like a coat of mail worn by a French knight from the time a knight could still cause a ruction by direct-charging his rouncy, when an Englishman's home was his bouncy castle, when abduction and seduction went hand in glove. Now Carlotta would climb from the hotel pool in Nashville, take off her mask, and set a spill to a Gauloise as one might set a spill to the fuse of a falconet and the walls of her chest assail. The French, meanwhile, were still struggling to prime their weapons of mass destruction. Bosworth Field It was clear now, through the pell-mell of bombard- and basilisk-mist, that the Stanleys had done the dirt on him and taken Henry's side. Now Richard's very blood seemed to have shied away from him, seemed to sputter and spurt like a falcon sheering off from his wrist as he tried to distance himself from the same falchioneer who'd pelf the crown from his blood-matted brow and hang it in a tree. Less clear was how he'd managed not to crack the shell of the pigeon egg the size of a cyst he'd held so close inside his shirt Blackwater Fort As I had held Carlotta close that night we watched some Xenophon embedded with the 5th Marines in the old Sunni Triangle make a half-assed attempt to untangle the ghastly from the price of gasoline. There was a distant fanfaron in the Nashville sky, where the wind had now drawn itself up and pinned on her breast a Texaco star. 'Why,' Carlotta wondered, 'the House of Tar? Might it have to do with the gross imports of crude oil Bush will come clean on only when the Tigris comes clean?' Benburb Those impromptu chevaux-de-frise into which they galloped full tilt and impaled themselves have all but thrown off their balance the banner- bearing Scots determined to put manners on the beech mast- and cress- and hazelnut- eating Irish. However jerry-built, those chevaux-de-frise have embogged the horses whose manes they had hogged so lovingly and decked with knots of heather, horses rooted to the spots on which they go down on their knees as they unwind their shoulder plaids and kilts, the checkered careers of their guts. Boyne The blood slick from the horse slaughter I could no longer disregard as Carlotta surfaced like barm. My putting her through her paces as she kicked and kicked against the traces like a pack mule kicking from a yardarm before it fell, heehaw, in the dockyard. A banner's frittering tassel or deflating bouncy castle was something to which she paid heed whereas that vision of a milk-white steed drinking from a tub of water and breathing hard, breathing a little hard, had barely set off an alarm. Blenheim Small birds were sounding the alert as I followed her unladen steed through a dell so dark and dank she might have sported the waders her grandfather had worn at the nadir of his career, scouring the Outer Banks for mummichog and menhaden. Those weeks and months in the doldrums coming back as he ran his thumb along an old venetian blind in the hope that something might come to mind, that he might yet animadvert the maiden name of that Iron Maiden on which he was drawing a blank. Bunker Hill Carlotta took me in her arms as a campfire gathers a branch to itself, her mouth a cauter set to my bleeding bough, heehaw. Her grandfather sterilizing his saw in a tub of 100-proof firewater, a helper standing by to stanch the bleeding in some afterlife. No looking daggers at the knife. She'd meet the breast-high parapet with the nonchalance, the no fucking sweat of a slightly skanky schoolmarm though the surgeon was preparing to ganch her like What's-his-face's Daughter. Brandywine I crouched in my own Little Ease by the pool at the Vanderbilt where Carlotta crouched, sputter-sput, just as she had in the scanner when the nurse, keen-sighted as a lanner, picked out a tumor like a rabbit scut on dark ground. It was as if a fine silt, white sand or silicate, had clogged her snorkel, her goggles had fogged, and Carlotta surfaced like flot to be skimmed off some great cast-iron pot as garble is skimmed off, or lees painstakingly drained by turnings and tilts from a man-size barrel or butt. Badli-Ke-Serai Pork barrels. Pork butts. The wide-screen surround sound of a massed attack upon the thin red cellulose by those dust- or fust- or must-cells that cause the tears to well and well and well. At which I see him turning up his nose as if he'd bitten on a powder-pack like yet another sad Sepoy who won't fall for the British ploy of greasing with ham the hammer or smoothing over Carlotta's grammar: 'On which . . . On which Bush will come clean.' Her grandfather a man who sees no lack of manhood in the lachrymose. Bull Run While some think there's nothing more rank than the pool that's long stood aloof from the freshet, I loved the smell of sweat and blood and, sí, horse dung Carlotta shouldered like an Aqua-Lung as she led me now through that dewy dell and spread her House of Tartan waterproof. As we lay there I could have sworn, as I stared through unruffled thorns that were an almost perfect fit to each side of the gravel pit where she and I'd tried to outflank each other, I traced the mark of a hoof (or horseshoe) in her fontanelle. Bronkhorstspruit I traced the age-old traduction of a stream through a thorn thicket as a gush from a farthingale. Skeffington's Daughter. Skeffington. Attention. Shun. Attention. Shun. Shun. Shun. We lay in a siding between two rails and watched an old white horse cross the picket of himself and trek through the scrub to drink from an iron-hooped tub with the snore-snort of a tuba. His winkers and bellyband said scuba, while his sudden loss of suction Carlotta knew meant a pump whose clicket's failed in the way a clicket fails. Basra 'The way to relieve the tension on the line to a windjammer is to lubricate the bollard so it's always a little slack . . .' Her nonno giving us the inside track on how the mule drivers whooped and hollered on the dock. No respite from his yammer on boundlessness being a bind and the most insidious kind of censorship self-censorship while he took Carlotta for a quick whip through conjugation, declension, and those other 'crannies of the crammer' in which she'd been 'quite unscholared.' Bazentin As I was bringing up her rear a young dragoon would cock a snook at the gunners raking the knob of High Wood. Tongue like a scaldy in a nest. Hadn't a Garibaldi what might lie behind that low-level throb like a niggle in her appointment book. Dust? Fust? Must? The dragoon nonplussed by his charger taking the rust and, despite her recalcitrance, Carlotta making a modest advance when the thought of a falchioneer falling to with his two-faced reaping hook now brought back her grandfather's job. Beersheba Now summoned also the young Turk who had suddenly arisen from that great pile of toot, heehaw, as from one of Beersheba's wells. Like the sail that all of a sudden swells on the yawl that all of a sudden yaws, a wind finding meaning in a mizzen and toppling a bouncy castle. Her grandfather fain to wrastle each pack mule to a rubber mat whereat . . . whereat . . . whereat . . . whereat . . . whereat . . . he would eftsoons get down to work, reaching into its wide-open wizen while a helper clamped back its jaws. Burma Her grandfather's job was to cut the vocal cords of each pack mule with a single, swift excision, a helper standing by to wrench the mule's head fiercely to one side and drench it with hooch he'd kept since Prohibition. 'Why,' Carlotta wondered, 'that fearsome tool? Was it for fear the mules might bray and give their position away?' At which I see him thumb the shade as if he were once more testing a blade and hear the two-fold snapping shut of his four-fold, brass-edged carpenter's rule: 'And give away their position.'
The Grand Conversation
She. My people came from Korelitz where they grew yellow cucumbers and studied the Talmud. He. Mine pored over the mud of mangold- and potato-pits or flicked through kale plants from Comber as bibliomancers of old went a-flicking through deckle-mold. She. Mine would lie low in the shtetl when they heard the distant thunder stolen by the Cossacks. He. It was potato sacks lumped together on a settle mine found themselves lying under, the Peep O'Day Boys from Loughgall making Defenders of us all. She. Mine once controlled the sugar trade from the islets of Langerhans and were granted the deed to Charlottesville. He. Indeed? My people called a spade a spade and were admitted to the hanse of pike- and pickax-men, shovels leaning to their lean-to hovels. She. Mine were trained to make a suture after the bomb and the bombast have done their very worst. He. Between fearsad and verst we may yet construct our future as we've reconstructed our past and cry out, my love, each to each from his or her own quicken-queach. She. Each from his stand of mountain ash will cry out over valley farms spotlit with pear blossom. He. There some young Absalom picks his way through cache after cache of ammunition and small arms hidden in grain wells, while his nag tugs at a rein caught on a snag
In memory of Michael Allen
The height of one stall at odds with the next in your grandfather's byre
where cattle allowed themselves to speak only at Yule
gave but little sense of why you taught us to admire
the capacity of a three-legged stool
to take pretty much everything in its stride,
even the card-carrying Crow who let out a war-whoop