I Everybody knows what the year 1966 meant to Irish people. It was the fiftieth anniversary of the military adventure which gave modern Irish society its present shape. But it was also a year of some importance in the history of modern Irish fiction, for during it, on March 10, Frank O'Connor died. It may…
Dying, the salmon heaves up its head in the millstream. Great sores ring its gills, its eyes, a burning rust slowly corrodes the redgold skin. Great river king, nearby the Nore pours over foaming weirs its light & music, endlessly dissolving walls into webs of water that drift away among slow meadows. But you are…
This one does its work by returning over and over to the place where it began until even memory bears no splinters. Flatness, flatness, the plane dreams as it sweeps down every plank envisioning unsown fields, boxcars, Unitarian churches. “Lie down,” sings the plane. “Lie down and be the same as all the rest.”
In bed I’m a mad Hungarian. Propped on pillows, a cup of hot black tea on the night table. I hear a strain of bitter chords a gypsy cart halting. If I could go back that far would I find a small face similar to mine? The crust surrounding a pit of ghetto and merchants…
You think you earned this space on earth, but look at the gold face of the teen-age pharaoh, smug as a shriner in his box with no diploma, a plot flashy enough for Manhattan. Early death, then what a task dragging a sofa into the grave, a couple of floor lamps, the alarm set for…
At the table she used to sew at, he uses his brass desk scissors to cut up his shirt. Not that the shirt was that far gone: one ragged cuff, one elbow through; but here he is, cutting away the collar she long since turned. What gets to him finally, using his…
You chose me for widow not for wife transferring your pain on schedule I turned darker you turned paler on schedule. You chose me for elegy. This spring the confused migrations collide with the smokeless chimney. I air myself out with the mildewed wardrobe you left hung like an armory. Oh you’ve done it, you’ve…
He is the nail and she hits him on the head. Slowly, but most definitely he is disappearing. He is reappearing becoming the board becoming the wall and the walls becoming her home and such a home has she chosen that the windows often change their positions and the floor is wall to wall elevator….
On the inside edge of suburbs nothing approaches bear. Laying rubber around a one-way block, trying to find a man named Evanshevski, I stop to ask a man if he is him. He promises to help. Nothing approaches bear. No way anyway to go for help. We drive around, trying to find a one-way girl…
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