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Another slab of verse for this Wednesday
bobbyalex wrote in bpsociety

In Flight

Da outstretched a gaping palm, his old arm

Long with budding veins, like incrustations

On a tree branch of age, of famine,

The commemorating scribbles of a raven’s feet.

 

The news of death has cooled these morning hours.

Our famished fields—where our hearts beat in the

Canals of grass leaves: the sternness of home—

Submitting to the sharpening, blue glow of dawn.

 

A whisper of the air: the plip and plap of wings…

Of birds? Of an inebriated fly! released from him,

Our son, our Hamlet, who begat his father

In our eyes. [1]

 

Lugh’s senses sharpen,

his limp ears blushing with attention:

Slán leat! a pulse of wind calls out,

And the tune, tumescent, sounds not of

Merriment, or mourning. It’s a question.

 



[1] “Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, form only begetter to only begotten. On that mystery and not on the Madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world…upon the void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. Amor martis, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?” ~James Joyce, Ulysses


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