Six Poems by Paul Connolly

 

Christmas Past

 

Grimaces turned at his transgressions were joys he didn’t recognise until

future seasons of lethargy, hanging with malingerers in festal waste and

vindictive memories, or in the later holiday goodwill of severance agreements,

the pricked watch for things to come. Weeks before, she’d left a letter

in his room. They’d laughed at the spasm but made space for possible intrigue.

 

The couple who’d never forgive him would forgive him soon. The awkward lunch

disintegrated. He left with her and a few others. Was there a fine sleet

slashing their faces bloody-fresh on the bridge? There’d have been bells, lights

hallowing the brown and grey. When did she take his hand? They paused at the bar

for whiskies, she puffed her flatmate’s cigarette, or that was some other time

and they went straight to carols in the hall where he sang too deep and loud.

 

He wasn’t sure. He remembered the taste. It lasted, although it was an end,

hospice sweet, savoured in music again and dulled with drunkenness,

a recollected act of recollection, knowledge that he wasn’t in his perfect mind. 

 

Lebanese Sublime 

 

A sandstone hill face, where erosion reveals

strange dwellings or cultic tombs cut into it,

desert-dusted, as if its Nabateans were long gone

leaving rubble for the dogs, puddles and litter

that gather in destruction and abandonment.

 

A pine-disinfectant pool elicits the viewer’s

stumbling exegesis until wider angles

show a lagoon and spread the sea. Surrounding

activity and settlements suggest a battered port.

How can catastrophe be beauty, in a delicate bulb,

 

white-flower bloom, sky-seeking towers,

a Babel of russet fumes, the all-shaking breath?

Silence is fitting, but we slake conscience, cry

miasma words of news, stats, and all the while

aesthetics will get the ends we love from ruin.

 

August 2020

 

Beata Viscera

For Notre Dame

 

Hell was grafted across

your sanctity dwelling among us

speaking without limits

between and among us

 

the fug and fire were dislocation

like seeing you for the first time

was dislocation

impossible loss

a martyrdom of someone known

 

and there was weeping

bitter resolution and defiance of course

but dry weeping into emptiness

 

till a solitary breath is drawn

 

while cinder-falls cool

and activities of audit

assessment and relief

are hungover with nothingness

the gash a noiseless scream

limbo

because another baffle to the battering

seems lost

 

and released the breath

 

stirs the ashes

with a possibility of birth

from blessed entrails

hesitates

arcs towards the firmament

 

and quells the fear of broken promises

and betrayals to come and softens

the circumambience of distinctive sirens

birdy flourishes of backpacker giggling

to a single vibrancy in space

 

quieter than silence

 

and through the frying aroma

from tourist traps

the rubber-toffees fuming up

between the flagstones

and even the ever-present blends

Brownian suggestions

and rich enveloping gusts

of cooking stock boiled

and reboiled from innards and scraps

 

it drifts with the solemnity of dust

whiffed off stone

 

and off books that teach us that even

what is mocked

in the violence of fluid and flesh

what is broken and bleeds

can perdure

and guts and gutting

cradle a never-ending promise

whose proclamation burns

 

again the voice quavers in your belly

trembles your vaults

caresses window bones

prominent as the ribs of a ribcage

stretching to breathe

 

then rises and soars up

past the belfry’s many shades

out across the rooftops

over boulevards of destruction

and restless reimagining

 

 

Fire Sky

 

Sky was white inferno:

laminate of dazzling glare

with thick fiery rending,

sheets collaged then spattered

with shell fragments glit

in mother of pearl whose

het-up edges catch

and burn, paper edges

afire in silver filament,

heat’s writing on the sky,

monster and warding once

upon a time, still

half-glimpsed with terror

for a moment, quelled here

at a busy ice-cream van

on a Bank Holiday outing,

a moment only but still

a moment, for heat’s voice

calls into the face and demands

attention or quiescent breasts

at least, ready for worship.

 

A Memory

 

comes at her from the fuzz

surprises of half-doing

scraps of face and thought

nothings not done, what

 

do they say to you child,

the sparrows, said Mum

should’ve said, said

somewhere in something

 

to the child in the pushchair

staring or seen staring 

later in what, a poem

maybe, poem by the child

 

grown up, looking then,

then, and looking across 

pithead shadow in

ever-present asphalt scent

 

layered on posh suburban

now, the defective sense

still witnesses roundabout

the copy of her expectations 

 

Obstetrics 

 

Culled Agamemnon gets fresh culls

from chilled Orestes’ butchery. Wild Electra

waltzes away through crimson. Joshua trumps

 

Jericho down, exile-victim, annihilator,

chosen instrument, and lays every soul

in Eglon waste. Mamillius is no more,

 

Jenůfa’s boy’s under the ice. Olwen’s owned

by bloodying the earth. Unlettered chimpanzees

stalk a neighbouring troop, lock and load,

 

then tear, rape and eat. They spit on the fields

of Gaul, fresh with hands and pretty chickens.

So shatter rocks and backbones with magic spears

 

while a famed onanist circles the women, beats them,

seeks out and sends the inconvenient their summonses

to a private show trial, where he finds them

 

wanting, hits delete, for they’re exhausted,

their lives and limbs spent to realise a plot

to get the rippers, gore’s idols, perfected.

 

We’ll even flower this Autumn morn’s dewdrops

as countless polyps bleeding on the straw

inside a minatory band of mist. Out pops

 

something we’ve nursed at the gate again. In forms

we deliver wrecking horror, fresh paradigms

to hallow disproportioned wrath, incarnate the brainstorms

 

behind a muscle’s heedless traction, and with rhyme

glut a Cycnus temple, though the bones mutter

speak peace my friend and let us lie.

 

 

Paul Connolly’s first poetry collection will be published by Broken Sleep Books in Spring 2027. Nominated for the Forward Prize and Best of the Net, shortlisted twice for the Bridport poetry prize, longlisted for the Orwell Prize in the blog category and for the Bridport novel prize, he has had poems published previously in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, as well as Agenda, The Warwick Review, Poetry Salzburg, Stand Magazine, The Reader, Scintilla, The Manchester Review, Chiron Review (USA), Dawntreader, takahē (New Zealand), Dream Catcher, Orbis, The Journal, FourXFour, The Seventh Quarry, Sarasvati, Envoi, Obsessed with Pipework, The Bombay Review, The Cannon’s Mouth, Southlight, Foxtrot Uniform, Guttural, The High Window, Nine Muses, Eunoia Review (Singapore), The Honest Ulsterman, Canada Quarterly, Unwhispered Legacy, The Book Bag, Cable Street, Ink Sweat and Tears, Littoral Magazine, Northampton Poetry Review, London Grip, The Saltbeck Orion, Wildfire Words, Sixty Odd Poets, The Courtship of Winds, and Quadrant (Australia). Shortlisted for the Charles Causley Prize and a finalist in the Walk:Listen:Create Walking at Night competition, he was highly commended in the Sentinel Quarterly and third in the Magna Carta Competition.

 

Five Poems by John Grey

MY VERSION OF A PANIC ROOM

I’m crossing the parking lot barefoot 

on a blistering hot summer’s day,

and, according to the agony on my face,

it’s like walking on burning coals 

and I’m no fakir or faker either.

I’m surprised the cars don’t melt.

And then there’s the rough stones. 

The shards of glass to step around.

I’m doing my best to go native

but civilization won’t hear of it.

By the time my soles rest comfortably

on sand, they’re as raw as the dialogue

coming from the couple ahead of me,

woman in bikini, guy in speedos,

more cuss words than on a HBO series episode.

He strikes her. She thumps him back.

It’s that searing parking lot transformed

into people who can’t get along. 

He gave some beach bunny the eye.

She hopes he gets a melanoma.

He’s had enough of her whining.

Her mother was right about him all along.

I thought I’d made it to paradise

but their fury is just something more 

for me to suffer my way through

as are the lesser irritants  

like running, screaming kids 

and globs of jellyfish bobbing  

just beyond where the waves break.

But I’ve made it this far 

so nothing will stop me  

from flopping down in that salty water,

letting its coolness foam over me,

as I embrace the blue nothingness around me,

despite the near collision with the oar-stroke arm

of a body surfer and the splashing of young lovers

who, according to the gravity of aging,

will someday become the squabbling, bare-knuckle pair

farther up the beach.

I carve out my own space, unchained, unencumbered.

Every now and then, I even feel the world’s love.

Cool, refreshed, no anger, no complaints,

I forgive the parking lot, Mr. Rocky and Mrs. Apollo Creed 

and every other obstacle and annoyance,  

that hindered but couldn’t stop me reaching my destination.

That doesn’t happen often.

But waves rolling up the sand, retreating into the ocean –

that happens all the time.

     

THEY'VE FOUND A BODY

Someone's being hauled out of the lake.

It's a woman judging by the matted blonde hair.

Rescue's doing the dirty work.

Uniformed cops flick open notebooks

but they don't write anything.

Yellow tape holds back the crowd.

Most are simply curious.

A few are concerned because

they can't account for everyone they know.

So was it an accident? somebody asks.

Or suicide? Or maybe even murder?

That last word runs through the onlookers like a flu bug

They're all very careful in whatever they do.

No way, they'd ever end their life.

But there's one or two out there

who might...given the circumstances...

if they'd had a little too much to drink...

and a gun was handy...or a knife...or...

death is fascinating but not when it's personal.

Then someone cries out, "Oh my god, it's Sarah!"

There's much relief from all who did not know her.

One cop writes the word "Sarah" in his book

and then goes off in search of a last name.

The police doctor arrives

at the same time as Sarah's mother.

A quick examination by the MD

says, "Looks like a drowning."

Sarah's mother has a lifetime

to come up with the real reason she died.

The body's taken away.

Cops spread out into the neighborhood.

The crowd dissipates into family groups,

safe in their houses,

awaiting the arrival of the law,

already prepared to deny they know anything.

Sarah's aunt is on her way

to take care of the grieving parent.

Sarah's best friend cries alone in her room.

Her younger brother can't make any sense of it.

There's not enough folks affected

to stop the world from turning.

THE SOIL AND THE BODIES WITHIN

The soil has memories,

but lacks conscience.

It keeps its secrets without judgment,

cradling whatever we give it:

the peacefully stilled heart,

the skull fractured by a sudden, brutal light.

All of it becomes the same dark currency

in that blind economy beneath our feet.

Down there, the earth works its way

through flesh and calcium,

turning us into something useful,

a richness, a murmur of minerals,

and asks nothing but time.

Trees grab what they can

and react accordingly.

Some lean into the wind

as though burdened 

by crumbs of flesh and bone.

Others stand straight, immaculate,

offering no commentary at all.

They have a voice

but it cannot be heard.

So their true testimony is gestures.

Which is more than the soil provides.

Steadfast and silent…

it eats away

but devours nothing.

RISKY BUSINESS

It’s another night where I put 

my life at risk. I leave my 

room, dodge bullets. I step 

out onto the sidewalk, 

avoid, by inches, the

drunk driver who swerves his

car off the road and through

a storefront. At my favorite

bar, a swinging bottle brushes

by my ear, hits somebody 

else’s head. The woman 

on the stool to my left has

poisoned three husbands

already. Luckily, I strike 

up a conversation with the

woman on my right. 

On my way home, I

step around some guy who

the cops are beating to a pulp

for looking at them funny. 

And, to think, I look funny 

at cops all the time. So

far, they haven’t noticed. 

I make it back to my room,

curl up in bed, pretend the 

pillow likes me and the sheets

are kind. But my dream is a 

nightmare where I’m pursued

by a three-headed, six armed,

crocodile-toothed bloodthirsty beast.

Come morning, I awake unscathed.

But the hunt is nowhere near over.

  

WOMAN WITH MY NAME

Woman – with the face of dawn 

but a heart of dusk –

you slip through the brush like a dingo

with my name between your teeth. 

Drop it. Drop it now.

You don’t fool me - 

I’ve seen that grin catch fire 

under a savage sun, 

your tongue flicking tall tales,

your heart a mongrel dog, 

never to be tamed.

Listen – my pleas have faded

but my orders still thud sharp and loud

as axes ringbarking trees.

And my laughter - sharp as crow caws - 

can handle any cynicism, even yours. 

Besides, my thoughts were hands 

in another lifetime.

They’re made for grabbing ghosts,

for shaking truth out of liars.

Oh by the way,

a woman could choke on a stolen name.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.