Lost Futures, poems by Phil Lynch
Phil Lynch lives in Dublin and has also lived in Belgium. Publications in which his poems have appeared include: Even The Daybreak (35 years of Salmon Poetry), Revival, Bare Hands Poetry, Boyne Berries Series, The Poetry Bus, Headstuff, OFi Press Literary Magazine (Mexico), Wordlegs, The Runt, Census, Circle Time, Bray Arts Journal, Flare (Sunflower Sessions). He has also been featured on the Arena Arts Show and the Poetry Programme on RTE Radio as well as on a number of local radio programmes.
In 2015, he was placed third in the Doolin Writers’ Weekend Poetry Competition, shortlisted in the Red Line Poetry Competition and longlisted in the Dermot Healy International Poetry Competition. In 2014 he was a runner up in the iYeats Poetry Competition and longlisted in the Over The Edge New Writer of the Year Competition. He is a regular reader/ performer at poetry and spoken word events and festivals in Ireland and has read at events in the US, UK, Belgium and France. Phil is a co-founder of the spoken word festival, Lingo, and a member of the Dalkey Writers Workshop. His first collection, In a Changing Light, was published by Salmon Poetry in 2016. LINK
Lullaby to a Lost Future
The sudden thud of darkness falling down
impacted like a punch, a big ka-pow,
as in some comic strip; who’s laughing now?
This darkness shrouds another kind of clown.
The poet who picked this moment to depart
left us with his vision of disorder,
said he’d seen the future, it was murder.
We wonder what he meant. Is this the start
of time when freedoms will be put on hold,
a portent of a deadly darker age?
Blue light transfixed upon an empty stage,
plain truths denied by lies that will enfold
and gather like a poison to be puked.
But beauty still will flourish in the roots
of trees no longer free to bear new fruits.
Those with anthomania, when rebuked,
in search of sleep will count each petalled bloom
and dream of landscapes no one else can see,
great landscapes where again they will be free
to light a light that lifts the darkest gloom.
On the Rocks
Seen through gin-drenched eyes,
the tear-stained moon
looks lonely on its own.
How much better it would be,
for the full round moon and me,
if this late-night contemplation
was lightened by your presence
and the promise of sweet everythings
once drinks were drained
and conversation done.
The playlist shuffles
from Waits to Cohen.
A blob of cloud intrudes.
In the shadow that is cast,
I reach out for the bottle
and pour another glass.
The chair sits empty
on the balcony,
its back turned
against the evening sun,
as if to say –
there is only shade
since you’ve been gone;
as if to say –
even unbroken things
need to be fixed.
trapped inside a drop of rain
runs down the window.
on the face behind the pane
captured in the glow.
© Phil Lynch