Sunday, November 15, 2009

612. ENTRAPMENT

ENTRAPMENT
Oh they broke this mold,
intensified the moment,
eradicated the siding - and reengaged the
big warriors - coming over the hill.
'You cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.'
It was the ending of the salad days : Armageddon
lurked. Seamus Heaney, I can recall, said back:
'the English language belongs to us; you are
talking at raking fires, rehearsing the old
whinges at your age. That 'subject people'
stuff is a cod's game, infantile, like this
peasant pilgrimage. You lose more of yourself
than you redeem doing the decent thing.'
I sat back and smoked another cigarette
while the waitress brought a tray. I faintly
recall the sense of it being a Tuesday,
and - out on the street - the Irish flares
were burning yet. Two girls, wrapped
in scarves like fish for the banquet,
strolled by, silently laughing
among themselves. I really
wished, right then,
I knew them.

No comments: