SINEAD'S VOICE Poem by Peter Semolič

Sinead's voice falls into me, impregnating me
as the Holy Spirit impregnated the Virgin Mary.

"Sometimes I am told in commendation . . .
that my movement perished
under the firing squads
of 1916," wrote Yeats.

Over half a century later,
in a documentary, I see Ben Bulben,
and at its foot, the poet's grave
surrounded by the evening halo.

Still fearing my own end
I foretell the end of the world.
Life still scares me.
Restless, my horse still neighs in his stable.

On the other side of the scales
is the voice of Sinead O'Connor,
perfumed like musk,
like amber in which
forever the whale's death shriek
is captured.

In Sinead's voice, Yeats' calm
departure always resounds.

Now it falls into me and impregnates me
like the light of a forgotten
pagan god.