A Different View, poems by Miceál Kearney
Miceál Kearney; 38. Starting writing at the turn of the century. Published nationally, internationally and extensively in his Parish newsletter. Doire Press published his debut collection; Inheritance in 2008. Read as part of Poetry Ireland’s Introduction Series in 2009. Arlen House published his 2nd collection; The Inexperienced Midwife in 2016. He also writes plays; 4 of which have been staged. In his spare time he likes to converse with vegans on Facebook about the colour blue.
Nebulous
The Golden Shower… I mean
The Golden Rule today – don’t
assume. Way too illegal. Then why
so not clear with your costly words.
A person of colour? Vague much?
I have to trust my eyes: but please
explain, what kind of color?
Red; you embarrassed, an injun
or one of them damn Commies?
Yella? You a Chinaman or chicken?
Pink; you one of them puffs?
Green, orange, moonlight…
Is Jew a color? There’s over 500
shades of blue – one for every gender.
Being white I, too, am a person of colour.
The Paper Rain of Nine Eleven
Amid the screams and fears
on that infamous day,
paper fell from the sky.
Memos, faxes, emails…
Iron clad contracts,
pages of procedures:
in the event of –
relevant now
as logic to lovers
A Different View: from the Same Field
Exiling myself to Sweden.
Their stones don’t smell.
Not quite the sulphuric-scented
familiar fragrance. Literally
the smell of nothing.
The soil is weird too,
soft and bouncy. Loose,
there’s no clay in it.
Great shovels though.
Mighty little yokes.
The Woodpecker’s their Cuckoo
heralding the changing equinoxes.
I keep the sugar sealed in a saucepan –
the ants are very cead mile fuckers.
I’ve taken to English Breakfast tea
and vegan milk: I assure you that
was the language barrier. Asking,
“Where’s the Post Office” –
“Only the Government write letters.”
I whisper into your ear: and lovers.
Front doors open out here; just as well,
the amount of strewn footwear
clutterin’ the mat would knock a horse.
It’s dark, like…you could trip. You know.
Partially understood “Stubs” – “Yes,
in the morning.” An inspirational smirk.
There’s no English equivalent for Logam.
We have begrudgery. Multiculturally speaking
it’s spite: distilled with such pure passion.
100% proof, known locally as the silent killer.
And don’t let Google Translate trick you
like me with the milk: there’s nothing
silent about it. In the middle of the mat!
Why not off to the side? I get it;
fermenting – conditioned and trained.
I don’t have those years.
While not-surprisingly sharing mutual
millimetres: Aldi only having one till open;
waiting for texts in carparks
and the trees have arms…
to reach the clouds and sit
under the moon with the stars.
Apparently; in the Holland
falling down the stairs
is a common way to die.
Farm Inspections
1.
He arrives 20 minutes early
in virgin wellies and a clean coat.
4 trees worth of paper just to prove
the Environmental Officer was,
in fact, here. Knowing full well, still
he desperately inquires “Is that it?”
Shot down like so many rats.
Then maps are produced. “Why
does the shadow of this wall not
correspond to the one shown here?
Explain to me please using Algebra.”
“Why?”
2.
At precisely whatever time he arrives
even the dog knows, this time, not
to christen anything.
Inside the jeep: with its inconspicuous
white bags of lamb creep and bull crunch;
yellow and cracked spent buckets of lick
and useful lengths of second-hand twine –
the uncomfortable slowly become comfortable
until the radio interrupts their commentary
on the corner-forward’s performance last Sunday
with notice of a sudden death.
Genealogy Bingo is played.
“The wife was from Leitrim wasn’t she?”
“Didn’t he have a brother who…”
Chuckles taper, settles into silence.
“The leaves are late this year.”
A glance is cast through the splattered glass
across the green laboured stubble
and beyond the gnarled naked fingers
in the sky.
© Miceál Kearney