Poems by Alan Patrick Traynor

 
 
Poems by Alan Patrick Traynor
 
 
THE BUTCHER OF NIGHT
 
O Wild Lupines in the mountain field
Teach me to speak
to the desert rose, its swollen flesh
it cannot tolerate
water
and who could force the loud halls of love
to listen
to the of Pride of Madeira
The lilly of the field
The speed of acacia
penetrating
the water in the wild Otter’s eyes
in the graffiti of a handmade wilderness
Rewild
in the shadows and light
fencing in the old trees of
skins definition
The vicious teeth of morning
In a pale pink mouth
where I damned the ground I walked on
In the basins of pillows flesh
where the mysterious colours just barely
fit in
The dark maroon purple eyes
of leaving
In a phalaenopsis evening
from the light above you
Death
Sting me to the bones of life
and I spoke to you with flowers
that I might live
In the twisted ground of the desert rose
whose breathing
In the butcher’s bulbs
and Mother, you never spoke
because God is the Gardener of Light
that prunes the luna in the Arctic night
That saves you
 
O black orchid
cut the light
above
you
until the mysterious colours fail
to speak
 
O black dahlia how the sky sinks
down
to crown you
 
Death
The Butcher of Night.
 
 
THE POET & THE PIANO
 
𝄡 ____She wears the ecstatic look
resting in the crumbled paper
The Skeleton keys of
an old typewriter
Crow black
Middle C
Deaf
beneath her fingers
And there is something living. in her closed eyes.
I
Listen
to the silent air
west of the gates of Eden. Salvation
in a crowded room. that feels just one .nail
caress me in your blood
how it feels to be possessed
in someones
Love
And the steel
In the gates of her guarded fingers
that must lull you. In the gardens of despair
I
Listen to the silent bracken air
east of the ether
She is a flammable wave of hair’s elation
 
And what whispers through her pores
Is life’s incredible. Blue note.
 
I crave the tritone. in the unbearable.
Womb. gushing symphonies
 
I was born of paint
And only Paint
 
can kill me
 
 
IN THE CAVES OF ALTAMIRA
 
I have forgotten you
The thorn that sings from
your beak
The seraphim’s tune angelic where an Aria
was born
into the tide
That will awaken soon
That will kill the white stag
and awaken you
In the barefoot thoughts
that grow
Inside
Everything is flesh and bone
that’s what it’s like to give birth
On the road to Nérac
In the blistering heights of a terracotta sea
Oh God, send the rain into the deleted holes
Of an Oboe
That I might beg
just like the angels do
In the robes that not even the invisible cherubim
could hold
And she holds onto my hand
because she knows
The road to Cupertino
that autumn fulcrum
that must kneel before the summer
heals
her
In the waffer thin joy of grace
In the snow-covered cottages
blowing in the trees
Inhabit me
Inhabit me with your shoulder
with the chains
of your weathered soul
that laze upon the breeze
and pull me in
to the forgotten you
Into the cyanide thorns of your breast
That movement
in the galloping chariot’s phalerate
gaze
I adore thee
like a swollen whitewashed cottage
billowing
In the smoking fields
And she floods the stinging nettles
Until I look
Until the rivers in the mountains I must seize
the white Thistle’s crown
a subtle breeze that holds
up
the light
until all but love is naked
In the winter of her dress
 
In the darting
 
charcoal
stem
 
In the caves of Altamira
where
 
Paint was born.
 
 
.
 
 

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