Poems by Alan Patrick Traynor

Poems by Alan Patrick Traynor
I threw a stone from carrauntoohil today
but the Trout scorned the river born
because Yeat’s is dead.
round sickle eyes
lament the round scything cries
the art of throwing stones across the river
and, I left Ireland that way
No ground for the Dead Dé Danann rising-up steed, masked in gold mire dancing steel, wind in the vowels of her feet
It’s how it used to be, back then
In children’s distant cries
old Fisherman, launching catastrophic hooks and flies
the art of throwing life across the river
I went down to the water’s edge
and I felt it.
shark upon
the puffin’s bill, water in her blood, the haunting moving piercing murmurations
But for you Yeats,
blood, the curlew’s crying lamentations, the wind is a crying vowel
the screeching mutilated crying
murmurations, or the starling
The spear in my spine, rotating flying
The Morrígan
but we forgot that, Yeats
pain that told the soul to crow and caw
I am older than Macbeth
when wood turns to stone
Mo chroí
having loved
I am forescore year’s of love’s regret
I walk the darkened roads by savage rivers
And grow the woodland moss
And crown the starling’s cross
I am older than Methuselah
Sonnets pulling arrow’s marrow out of lovesick dying sparrows
I left a stone that day, on carrauntoohil
but the fish didn’t speak
because, Yeats was dead.
Crown the savage river
Yeats, my blood
Crown the sickle’s eyes and whirlwind scythes, alow
I dare not say, nor wandering go
To Tomb’s frost chair of rocking slow
Through the stars, my plough
by youth’s young blade
Through the river’s brown haze
past the Salmon’s darting gaze
She is handmade, my love
and we left Ireland that way
Sepia blunt man, sticking out of the earth
In the unloved hours, kneel
and let the undercurrent reel in her tides
I went down to the water’s edge
and I felt it
The Almighty trembling sand that cuts the shells out from your toes
sails whatever sun in through
what sorrows
Your name, Yeats
Bring the mighty fallen clouds down Amadeus
And when the Second Coming calls
let watercolour’s rooster break you, oh glassy curlew crying tides of dawn
Day, it cannot resist that night
Agnus Dei, by Love’s swirling swarming murmuration
There are haystacks in the field
red woman ochre, on the easel of red men’s flesh
like the burning orange circle of disbelief
above Venice
she sits that way, pearls on orchard wool
riveting, bleeding the rooftops
The harvester of men, straw men
in the forests of equilibrium
The only bed that’s ever grown the corkscrew, oh riveting bleeding heart, oh corkscrew my heart, my riviera
and grapes my refuge
Of grapes pressed hard
into the grieving heart of pearls and herringbone
there are stairs that will never leave you
Steps that step you down into
Her majesty
Her mahogany
Oh turn the yellow ball oh fiery green
Night’s Allegro
The golden ball above the trees
That I once rescued, from a hostel in Florence
and a light that incapacitated me
There were too many stars
Night’s pruned brooding, is all I’ve ever known
There are memories, in flesh, that
Bruise me
like the ruins in the stunning hilltops of Altomonte
were the chiseled Italian brides are floating
like architecture
She lies on her back
and dreams of frescos, in ceilings
My Love, my bedlam.
the tall long lines of craziness
In candles
summer’s fruit of carpaccio
In the melting fields, she sits
beating with the heart of a hymalayian summit
In the fields of melting colour
the summer flood, the great berber sea
crying rubies from her chest
Caravaggio’s shipwreck my heart
and the blind man cometh crying cubes
his prayer is drought, resisting droughts of the high climbing corinthian ribs of restlessness
Stung into holiness
Into the climbing eaves
berth my heart
blessed by the human wings in petals
stone cold eyes, that are beckoning me
her skin is the colour of wild roses
bleached by the dry rusting eaves
and I must go find the archways
of her living lips
Warbling throats
be still
A beehive I am kissing.
There is a room in clouds
in the columns of her beige pilaster skin,
ebbing angel, my beautiful temple of the wind
her face, has all the cut angles, bulge the gargantuan waves
of May
where the Ladybird, she is wrestling something hidden between the pollen
She blinds waterfalls
when she sits there, like a bulb
in the lavender field
The bursting bulbs in her cheekbones
The gargantuan waves of May
my Love, my bedllom. Provence
Face made of clay
face the tall long lines of craziness
I focus on her bent-knee and the glorious roses
that peak into the blooming Heaven-sent rivers of Gorges du Verdon
There is a Chapel there
In her eyes
In her eyes, that gave birth to the sun
I am captivated by the hooks above
her, berth my heart oh glorious rose

One thought on “Poems by Alan Patrick Traynor

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s