Ireland 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 Whiff 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.. www.HiramLarewPoetry.com
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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, Somehow: 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 Responsory: Tsutsusi In black vase deeply spouted Following all: Azalea 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 Aequitas (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 Allegretto The realisation of truth Beyond the recognition Of capital ghosts Pneuma (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.