Thomas Lynch Poems

Because he barely heard the voice of God
above the hum of other choristers—
batwing and bird-whistle, gathering thunder,
the hiss of tides retreating, children, cattle;
...

The body of the boy who took his flight
off the cliff at Kilcloher into the sea
was hauled up by curragh-men, out at first light
fishing mackerel in the estuary.
...

He'll have been the last of his kind here then.
The flagstones, dry-stone walls, the slumping thatch,
out-offices and cow cabins, the patch
of haggard he sowed spuds and onions in—
...

On shanks' mare Argyle talked to himself.
Alone, he'd carry on whole colloquies
en route to some poor corpse's obsequies—
these dialogues, the way he kept his wits
...

The one who pulled the trigger with his toe,
spread-eagled on his girlfriend's parents' bed,
and split his face in halves above his nose,
so that one eye looked east, the other west;
...

Some nights he'd watch hockey and so she'd rock
with a novel or her Valéry and go to France
where she and several guests of the gay prince
picnic and play at croquet on the château grounds.
...