A Poetry Showcase from Hiram Larew

Image by Kevin Mosc (Unsplash)

If you had been with me
I wouldn’t have wandered the orchard
I wouldn’t have mossed over these edges 
          or thought so much about the dead
I wouldn’t have savored the café’s rain 
         or stepped down into the stone ruins so eagerly
If you had gone with me
         the fuchsia shrubs wouldn’t have bloomed this red  
         and the bogs might not have glowed to amber.  
I love you but if you had come along
The stewed fish wouldn’t have sung to me
         this deeply with its harp

Well Born

When every day floats by 
          like smoothest cream 
          and all you’ve known are peaches  

When every day is cream or sunny days
          or languid sighs 
While others try as may

If ever day is ladled cream 
          or spoons to lick 
Then yes 
          what does someone else’s 
          curdled anger mean 

If Briefly

I’ve never wanted anything so much
        as roads to meander --
Gravel the better and dust through 
        some wandering summers 
Or weedy musk-melons like childhood 
       gone off on a ramble

I’ve never wanted anything as much 
        as that kind of lost

And how I love to visit door-to-door
          the memories made of ligustrum and rabbits
          or fences
          if even briefly

No I’ve really never wanted anything as much as
         porch rugs 
         and how my bare feet  
         traveled on them  
                  to distant cousins 
                  or dreams

So please as I reckon
         may I get one of three wishes 
        I’ve asked for --
                 to become vines hanging over
                 or to be a row of praying mailboxes
                 or wherever I go
                        to envy these springing 
                        whooping grasshoppers  
                        that leave me behind


Open air is all my hearts
         its beckon shirts my days
What wildly loves in me 
        grows in clumps 
        or tufts in rain or ditches 
        and never fails

This open air is my every kiss
       as birds scoop straw that strays --
My out beyond 
          flies upside down

While side by side my simples wilt to grow
          and homes of home are made

Largest is my love in open air
        and steps to gathered chores 
                  are what I am --
These sacred swoops of nows-to-then 
      and my being made of twine 
      of twirls or hope embraced
      or dripping brims 
     of bucket-years that play

Bio: a blurb from Regie Cabrico, Larew's poems are psalms, driven by nature and memory, his language makes clouds gush and twigs listen to the chorus of trees. Larew's art is an abiding love for the earth and its man-made wonders: pyramids, bread, and barley swept brooms.  Larew is a seeker and seer of sentience: when all is lost, there are gentle hyperboles that give hope and illuminate the living and non-living with halos. Every poem in Mud Ajar is a tiny blessing, an invitation to embrace the sky, the perfect panacea to the unprecedented frenzy we've been engulfed by, enabling us to reflect upon our own unflinching resilience. Mud Ajar packs a wallop of truths by a skilled and unpretentious poet gifted to shower lyrical beauty upon you like holy water. 

Larew's poems have appeared recently in Poetry South, Contemporary American Voices, Honest Ulsterman and Iowa Review.  www.HiramLarewPoetry.com and www.PoetryXHunger.com

Larew's newest collection of poems, Mud Ajar, has recently been released 
by Atmosphere Press..  

A Poetry Showcase for Alan Garrigan

Game Of Thrones, Ireland, Trees, Hedges

photo from pixabay

Vita et Morte

(After Fred Herko)

“Look around at the azaleas making fuchsia star bursts” 
Anna Quindlen

A royal rhododendron
The hand of the clock
Holds Alfred Jarry
On his cycle Clément,
I wrote this

A sheltered construct of will
A dogfight
Pauline or Socratic,
Until somebody answers
questions from
The tiniest screams,
Of existence

Believe the mad dove:
Conditions and circumstances shift:

Gramsci, Marcuse and Jean Genet



In black vase
deeply spouted
Following all:


Spiritus Veritas

(After Arthur Rimbaud)Myths are public dreams; dreams are private myth” -Joseph Campbell-

He was the res idiotica
Beyond the mythic-literal
Call him an Abednego
Refer to his revolutionary embodiment

There’ll never be another
Whoever he was: mos maiorum
Savonarola, Marat, Bakunin
Still burning like a lake of fire

What we always wanted
The recollection of his image
Rivers of subterfuge
Eudaimonia: his clear ocean

Implicate this man in particular
Impossible to describe him
Enantiodromia: His want of spectacle
His thought can shatter and transform

When he appeared like Cerberus
None of us wanted to be there
Bringing the pain on himself
His bleeding element forever an eye

Now darker than the deepest sea
Beyond the simulacra,
We look to the continuity
To resurrect his singing ghost


(For Nadezhda Tolokonnikova)

“The criminals of the vision are a totally different matter”
Pier Paolo Pasolini

In Countless stars
Sonorous and mystical
everywhere a voice

A soundscape silhouette
A flash of guns
From the pitch black


The realisation of truth
Beyond the recognition
Of capital ghosts


(For Timothy Morton)

“Do not weep; do not wax indignant. Understand” -Baruch Spinoza

I feel a great

But often effaced

symbolization of death,

an ecstatic moment of release

An experience unclouded

By great personal fears

An insignia that colours

The great shadow of the psyche

In spirit, son and father

Through creation and destruction

Two cleansing forces,

A truth to evoke rising visions

All this representational courage

Can be traced back

To one primordial image

One figure of truth

One world

One voice,

One distance

One Breath

Pandemic Blues

(For Yusuf Komunyakaa)

'Covid has magnified every existing inequality' – Melinda Gates

Did you hear
Or did they
shut your ears
Another poor man down

A victim of authority
Who was not a priority
Couldn’t order the rupture
When the Corona came

What a vision
Took his humble living
It was given away
When Corona came

Inequality made him
Racism broke him
His poverty spoke
They cut the rope

When Corona came
When Corona came
There was no way to choose
When Corona came

Did you hear
about the man
who lost it 
during the pandemic?

Bio: Alan is an MA student from Ireland (UCD) and have been previously published in some small publication magazines. Alan likes avant-garde and conceptual text. Philosophical poetry is an area of particular interest to him. Alan has written a 20,000 word thesis on poetry. Alan particularly enjoys ecopoetry also. 

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