Theo Dorgan

A crow beats on the updraft over a scragged hawthorn,
rocked but plunging on. A stick of Paras, bristling with nerves,
coughs and boots forward along the sheugh.
Long after the soldiers have gone, the crows will settle home.
...

We stand for the anthem, buoyant and tribal, heart beating with heart,
our colours brave, our faces turned towards the uncertain sun.
The man beside me takes my hand: good luck to yours, he says;
...

April, a day off school. Indulged, bored, hungry for something new.
The road bends below Driscoll's and I see her coming clear,
laden with shopping bags, eyes bright in the full flow of talk.
...

I light the sky above our bed for you
with seven stars of gold, ploughing
the deep for you - and that's not so hard
when you are the sea.
...

Between what is and what is not
we walked, the Huntress loosed a shot.

Before and after, we were there -
...

I place my finger with great care
on the sleeping magnificent body of my beloved.
The room is quiet and huge, the air still, so still
...

for Na Piarsaigh on their fiftieth anniversary
Tom Knott comes bulling out, his shoulder down
bringing weight to bear on the sliothar dropping
...

Skull of a curlew full of stars,
my mouth on fire with black, unspeakable bees.
Light on the lime boles, bleached and bare,
...

A crow beats on the updraft over a scragged hawthorn,
rocked but plunging on. A stick of Paras, bristling with nerves,
coughs and boots forward along the sheugh.
Long after the soldiers have gone, the crows will settle home.

Since Newry, choppers have been battling back and forth
across the track. These trains are overheated, sweat
stings in my underslept eyes; I'd rather the crows' lift and pluck
than to be here, rocked to the quick, driving on Derry.

I often wish, my love, that we were birds, the wide domains
of Ireland at our turn and fall, the world's wind
our natural element - rain, ice, hail or sun our gods,
the tall pines our greenwhip lightning rods.

Tonight there's a horned moon and Venus trailing
low over the Waterside. Tonight let me fold you in my wings,
pray nobody's killed in dark of country or town. We'll settle
the long night in another of our beds, watch what the morning brings.
...

April, a day off school. Indulged, bored, hungry for something new.
The road bends below Driscoll's and I see her coming clear,
laden with shopping bags, eyes bright in the full flow of talk.

I've been signalling Collins Barracks on the hill across Blackpool,
morse book open on the window-sill, weighted with a cup.
Nobody answering no matter how I flash
"Help, I am being held prisoner . . ."

It sets in early, disillusion with the State, its idle soldiers.
Flash of her eyes as she greets Peg Twomey now. I scamper upstairs,
hook the bevelled mirror back in place. From the bedroom window

I see her reach the gate.

How he'd tumble downstairs, crash through the front door, taking the garden steps
two, three at a time. Up close, the strain on her face.
Tufnell Park years later, the fireflash of news in my face. The silence after.

Grooves in her fingers, released from the heavy bags, the rings -
wedding, engagement, eternity - clicking against his nails.
Remembering suddenly when she smiles that he is meant to be sick.

Slowly, backwards, up the steps, her scraps of thought and talk as she fought
For breath. Who she'd met and who had died, who was sick and who had
a new child, news from a world she waded in, hip-deep in currents of talk.

A spoon for each of us and a spoon for the pot, not forgetting to scald the pot.
What a span of such days unreeling now, my eye on them both, reaching
down through the haze to bring them back: herself and her son,

my mother and me.

Dust everywhere when they broke the news, my friends, these sudden strangers.
Dust of the Underground on my lips, dust on their newpainted window, dust
on the leaves outside, in the heavy air banked high over London town.

I stared down at their gate, a vacuum in my chest, hands clenching & unclenching.
So fluent the words, so treacherous the comfort.
Old enough to know I had failed her,
too young to know what in, too greedy for life, really, to have cared enough.

This is the ring I conjure for them, the stage for their dance.
For a child to live, his mother must die. For a man to die, his mother must live.
Here on the brink of forty, close to midnight, I conjure them all -

my brothers and sisters, my mother and father, my neighbours and friends,
the most absolute strangers of my life, my heart's companions. Nothing
is ever lost that has shone light on simple things.

No child is without a mother, no father can lose his son,
no mother is unregarded, no sister can fail to learn,
no brother escapes unwounded, no friend can salve the burn.

The road bends out into the drunken heft of space and nothing can be lost.
Not her life's sacrifice, not our unquenched and stubborn love,
not that child's faith in light flashing from mirrors, on her faith in

the human flow of talk. The human flow of talk is all we have. Who we've met
and who is sick, who's had a child, who's lost a job. Her eyes flash,
he scampers upstairs, rushes downstairs, taking the steps two at a time,

feeding his heart's hunger for life and life only. The mask of strain on her face,
the ritual of the teapot, hesitant access of heartbreak and knowledge.
I would these words could soothe the pain from her fingers,
conjure now and forever her patient grace.
...

I light the sky above our bed for you
with seven stars of gold, ploughing
the deep for you - and that's not so hard
when you are the sea.

I rock in my ribs here in your absence,
my heart like a diesel thudding away
and you at the helm, friend and guide
steering through for me.

I'll sleep now, soon, under seven stars,
the plough in the night dipping towards you,
your ghost on deck above holding our course,
your bones asleep in me.

My blue pillow is wrapped in your shirt
and my head is bedded in the scent of your hair;
I'll make your hair a sail to carry me
from here to over there.
...

Between what is and what is not
we walked, the Huntress loosed a shot.

Before and after, we were there -
the arrow pierced but singing air.

That, my love, was quite an art,
to be together and apart

yet we, transparent, without fear -
what were we but singing air?
...

I place my finger with great care
on the sleeping magnificent body of my beloved.
The room is quiet and huge, the air still, so still
I hear dustmotes falling like leaves on the counterpane.

I stop my breathing and she fills me up
with swell of breath, the rise and fall of tides
so quiet and silver there, I am carried up and out of touch;

and she is far below me, curled into me,
her skin sufficient boundary, her dreams and trouble stilled.
Her troubles become diamond in my chest, I tip and balance

here beneath the ceiling, full of airy, thoughtful love, then fall
as slowly as leaves falling on a field,
until I settle there beside her, breathing her breath.
...

for Na Piarsaigh on their fiftieth anniversary
Tom Knott comes bulling out, his shoulder down
bringing weight to bear on the sliothar dropping
from his hand. The crack of ash on leather echoes
the length of the Park.

Like a new evening star, the ball
climbs the November air, a clean
white flash in the cold and cloud.

All of the faces around me turn
like plates to the sky, tracking the rising arc.
Over the halfway line now, and dropping into
a clash of hurleys, forward shouldering back.

Our jerseys are brighter than theirs
in this eerie light, the black and amber
fanning out into a line, a berserk charge.

My face is jammed through the flat bars
of the gate, the goalposts make me dizzy
leaning back to look up. The goalie is jittery,
the chocolate melts in my fist, I hear myself

howling from a great distance
Come on Piarsaigh, come on, face up, face up . . .
Sound stops in a smell of mud and oranges.

I can feel the weight of them bearing down on goal,
I can't see, Mr Connery is roaring and Johnny Parker,
I bet even my Dad is roaring, back there in the crowd
but I can't leave the gate to go see, I can't -

a high ball, a real high one, oh God
higher than the moon over the fence towards Blackrock,
it's dropping in, they're up for it, Pat Kelleher's fist

closes on leather, knuckles suddenly badged with blood
in the overhead clash; he steadies, digs in his heel,
he turns, shoots from the 21 -
the whole field explodes in my face.

A goal! A goal! Their keeper stretched across the line,
his mouth filled with mud, the sliothar feet from my face,
a white bullet bulging the net.

Everything stops.

A ship comes gliding on the high tide, her hull
floating through the elms over the rust-red stand.
A man on the flying-bridge looks down to us.

I race back to my father, threading the crowd,
watching for heavy boots, neck twisting back
to the net still bulging, the ship still coming on,
the green flag stabbed aloft, the final whistle.

Sixpence today for the bikeminder under his elm.
Men in dark overcoats greeting my Dad
Well done Bert, ye deserved it. And
A great game, haw? Ah dear God what a goal!

I'm introduced as the eldest fella. Great man yourself.
Men anxious to be home, plucking at bikes, pushing away.
The slope to the river, the freighter drawing upstream.

And then the long, slow pedal home,
weaving between the cars on Centre Park Road,
leaning back into the cradle of his arms.

That was some goal, wasn't it Dad?
It was indeed, it was. His breath warm on my neck;
a wave for the man on Dunlop's gate,
we'll pass the ship tied up near City Hall.

He's a knacky hurler, Pat Kelleher.
He is Dad, ah jay he is.
By God, that was the way to win.
It was, Dad, it was.
...

Skull of a curlew full of stars,
my mouth on fire with black, unspeakable bees.
Light on the lime boles, bleached and bare,
my gorge rising, crammed with blackfurred bees.

Clay of the orchard on my cheek,
cheeks puffed like wind on a map's margin.
Dust in each lungful of cold air,
lips burned on the inside by black bees.

I wait for the moon to rise me
I pray to the midnight ant
I clutch at fistfuls of wet grass
I hammer the earth with bare heels.

Skull of a curlew full of stars,
night sky dredged with the eyes of bees.
Black fire around each star,
I swallow fear in mouthfuls of fur and wing.

Skull of a curlew full of stars,
the great hive of heaven heavy around me.
I spit out bees and black anger,
mouth of a curlew, fountain of quiet stars.
...