Nobody’s dead, it’s okay. The people who made you are in you. And those you knew, whose folks were in them too, came into you as well. And the crowd of you mingled into the crowd of them, Late arrivals ringing, appeared and oh the reunions, the smiles, the sorrys, and the laughter.
Photo: The Bohemian Society, Dublin. My grandfather Peter Moran is seen in profile, seated on the right. I don’t know who the others are or the date, possibly late 1930s.
I’ll be popping in to read for a few minutes as a guest poet before the main act. I’ll bring copies of my book and sign them for you, unless you would like one of the rare unsigned ones. (The old jokes are the best.)
June 12th – Judi Sutherland reading from her new pamphlet ‘Following Teisa’ introduced by Pauline Sewards. Here’s the Facebook event link:
Dear foot, you are as much a part of me as this thought. I see our veins the doctor said were not of concern “at this stage”. I’m sorry for thinking you were ugly, now I need you, you are lovely. Don’t think of socks as hoods for kidnapped hostages kept in the dark In a humid, sweltering basement, Think of them as robes of armour and invisibility So you can go everywhere without being seen. And now forgive me, I have to talk to Righty.
Photo: This text as I typed it into my notes on my phone the other morning. It came to me while getting dressed. You can argue that this is not a poem but do I care? (Screenshot from Evernote)
On a vaporetto back from the island, turbulent wake of Murano jade splashes about us out in the stern.
The sun is chasing platinum facets from the lagoon to molten confiserie. We roll with the swell, then into dock.
Children awestruck, the engine reversing churns the canal like a waterspout and our vessel wallows by the wharf.
Where we go there’s not much shade but water trickles always from a brass tap to the flagstones, for us and for the birds.
Photo: Venice lagoon in bright sunlight with view of a small cargo boat, its boatman in the stern. In the background is the church of San Giorgio Maggiore. I took this photo while on the journey referred to in the above poem, returning from Murano to Venice. (2001)
On the island of me and you, there are no worries. It’s only cold enough to make us keep warm. I get up early, you have a lie-in, the dishes are done When you appear and I go for a walk along the shore.
On the island of you and me, we’re always online. Hundreds of friends in your mind, a few in mine, So I listen to yours, playing ukes, reliving youths, And never tire of your old friends, who loved you.
I can see the island of you from the island of me, And I’m going to swim over.
Photo: With Tess on Inchydoney Beach, Cork, Ireland. Photo by Craig Moran.