Ciaran
I remember well his kangaroo courts,
perhaps he'd auditioned to play Perry Mason
in those am-dram love-ins he'd flaunt to fawning plebs,
quoting witnesses who didn't exist to send Marty, Chris and me
to whatever Van Diemen's Land stole the show in his fantasy play;
it was not Ciaran's first offence - courting legal drama
on real-time stages, by which time we'd forgotten
his masterly callings -
was it Kavanagh, Heaney, or Ted Hughes
he'd been appointed from on high to school us in,
or clearing corridors of trash with a swipe of his hand,
a kick of that still keen and hungry boot -
it was hard to tell where Ciaran's code lay most closely,
perhaps his arse on the turf
as those goals somehow continued to sneak past him,
our elders wise to his timeless folly, that given July Sunday -
it was good to see,
those who'd marked his card long before he’d made any kind of bar,
near judge and jury, suspicious goalposts,
or a bogman's water-hole to saturate his id and superego in
Seán
Envelopes are useful things to have at hand,
for letters to say a son's hair's too long,
a daughter's dress is far too short,
that the boy will make nothing of himself in life -
but absolute failure. The boy is a disgrace.
An envelope is a useful thing to have at hand -
that pale teacup brown, metaphor of hidden debts,
luxuries unaccounted for, or a notice to inform Lucifer of his fall from grace,
tribunal's fingers clasping those luke-warm teas,
watching the man sweat and squirm in brown envelope disgrace
Speak English Please
هذا مستشفى، لا يوجد إرهابيون يختبئون هنا - This is a hospital, there are no terrorists hiding here
Trẻ em và bom napalm không hợp nhau - Children and napalm are not compatible
از ماهیتابه، به آتش - Out of the frying pan into the fire
Tuniniarneqanngilaq - Not for sale
Quiero queso extra con mi hamburguesa de la democracia, por favor - I'll have extra cheese with my democracy burger, please
The Tree We'll Hang You From
Ironwood, we think, should suffice - we'd like to hand you as swiftly as we can to Satan -
no room for friendly fire or miscalculations tonight;
its branches will point to Heaven, blessed by the Mosque of Khan Younis,
divine light to electrify your screaming cadence;
The girls of Minab were learning today about ideal conditions to plant a tree,
how seasons affect growth, particularly man's path toward evil -
we'll give them a shovel each, hand them seeds,
watch them grow to adulthood, if only through their toil;
watered by the rivers of the Colorado Basin, the tree fills with poison, toxin levels
higher than your stock market cocaine jerk-off -
a Navajo rain dance will cleanse the soil after we cut you down;
did we forget too, Giuffre, the Uyghurs, the degradation of the Menindee,
working men and women scarred
by the tricolour and union jack tribes
or the families of Bucha, stagnant life dragged down a sulphurous road?
each and every one will weave the rope we wrench across your throat,
let a death-metal chord resonate from Abu Ghraib as your neck snaps in perfect tune,
Heba Zagout and her easel nearby, capturing your soul's descent into darkness
John Doyle is from County Kildare in Ireland. He returned to writing poetry in February 2015 after a gap of nearly 7 years. Since then he's had 7 poetry collections published. His 7th collection, "Isolated Incidents" was published by Pski's Porch in Summer 2021.
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