It's that time of year again. Below you'll find a poem by...
It's that time of year again. Below you'll find a poem by my absolute favorite younger poet (at least for now), Sinéad Morrissey from Belfast. You can find this poem in her book Between Here and There (Carcanet, 2002) and it's the one I like best, probably because it's so endlessly confounding. Why that ending? Why? I think I have a lot to relearn about endings.
"In Need of a Funeral"
Even though no one has died and there is no oneto touch the coffin the way my brothertouched the dead-man relationwhose name we didn't know, whose features furrowedlike sugar set and whose black nails shone--I have need of a funeral.
Even though death is not where I wish to go to, down the wet green road through the straight black gate--I have love in the morning, a candle, a radioand a child's smile blooms over my fireplace.If I don't walk to the river the river is by my window--I have need of a funeral.
It came to me the day I stole communion in the cathedral,not knowing what to do and squinting wildly, that I had need of a funeral. Something the man said as he tipped wineand crushed bread felt helpful. He said sometimes a linebetween what was and what is can be visible,
which is why we eat flesh and drink blood. Kirie. I took flowers, an Oxfam veil, a bottle of Scotch, a speechand made it to the sprawl of Milltown Cemeterywhere I littered a hill with old shoes and milk teeth.
There was a pattern to the pattern my breath made on the airas it extended towards the motorway.
-Sinéad Morrissey
"In Need of a Funeral"
Even though no one has died and there is no oneto touch the coffin the way my brothertouched the dead-man relationwhose name we didn't know, whose features furrowedlike sugar set and whose black nails shone--I have need of a funeral.
Even though death is not where I wish to go to, down the wet green road through the straight black gate--I have love in the morning, a candle, a radioand a child's smile blooms over my fireplace.If I don't walk to the river the river is by my window--I have need of a funeral.
It came to me the day I stole communion in the cathedral,not knowing what to do and squinting wildly, that I had need of a funeral. Something the man said as he tipped wineand crushed bread felt helpful. He said sometimes a linebetween what was and what is can be visible,
which is why we eat flesh and drink blood. Kirie. I took flowers, an Oxfam veil, a bottle of Scotch, a speechand made it to the sprawl of Milltown Cemeterywhere I littered a hill with old shoes and milk teeth.
There was a pattern to the pattern my breath made on the airas it extended towards the motorway.
-Sinéad Morrissey
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Ellie (Archer)