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Three Poems - P.J. Newland

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Smoking from the lip, drowned
soaked in stale beer guzzled dry;
absolution sinking into the recital of events.
Whilst I was lying on the sofa
comfortably bemused and suitably pissed.
In the streets haunted ghost imperialist
Agincourt squaddies weave through wayward students
looking at lives they will never meet
passing separate and distinct
in realms neither have understood.



Bombs burst
long held tears
in the flung debris
upon the soft face
and thrown
as ash
upon the warbling concrete.


During the long years
tales were told
of hell breathing
in the silence
of the stone raven mountain

the damp earth
waiting for funerals
to eat the bones
of gruff farmers
in a box

in between
a haven of prayers,
rosary beads coaxed
through threading hands,
weather worn skin

anchors to heaven
to hold the bones
to bless and curse
the rain,
amongst other things

to dangle on the narrow line
coarse in lame wishing
with the Fairyhouse horses
running to the post
then by ahead gone

into the smoked orchestra
of humming voices pushing
against the unforgiven trespass
of time slow in the smoke swirling
above our drunken heads

liquid liturgies are sung
to the floating demons
in the troubled corners
grasping the silence stung
by bare drops dropping.


I am a poet based in Belfast having been published in a range of small magazines.

Notice © 1997 IP and the author

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