Thread: Poetry / Poems
View Single Post
Old 07-05-2010, 08:45 AM
Morningglory629's Avatar
Morningglory629 Morningglory629 is offline
Senior Member
Join Date: Apr 2010
Location: PA
Posts: 727

Summer 1969 (Seamus Heaney)

When the Constabulary covered the mob

Firing into the Falls, I was suffering

Only the bullying sun of Madrid.

Each afternoon, in the casserole heat

Of the flat, as I sweated my way through

The life of Joyce, stinks from the fishmarket

Rose like the reek off a flax-dam.

At night on the balcony, gules of wine,

A sense of children in their dark corners,

Old women in black shawls near open windows,

The air a canyon rivering in Spanish.

We talked our way home over starlight plains

Where patent leather of the Guardia Civil

Gleamed like fish-bellies in flax-poisoned waters.

"Go back", one said, try to touch the people."

Another conjured Lorca from his hill.

We sat through death counts and bullfight reports

On the television, celebrities

Arrived from where the real thing still happened.

I retreated to the cool of the Prado.

Goya's "Shootings of the Third of May"

Covered a wall- the thrown-up arms

And spasm of the rebel, the helmeted

And knapsacked military, the efficient

Rake of the fusillade. In the next room

His nightmares, grafted to the palace wall-

Dark cyclones, hosting breaking; Saturn

Jewelled in the blood of his own children,

Gigantic Chaos turning his brute hips

Over the world. Also, that holmgang

Where two berserks club each other to death

For honour's sake, greaved in a bog, sinking.

He painted with his fists and elbows, flourished

The stained cape of his heart as history charged.
Reply With Quote