The Assassin’s Shot
For Orsola Casagrande & Antonio Gramsci
who wrote many letters
Then it has come.
i have shuddered in my fluids
between your thighs,
the ceiling upended and the time passed.
“Throw it all away”, i say.
Here’s birth. A finger. An eye.
Here, with both faces,
i am lost inside things,
one foot in the past
the other rootless in its futures.
Love, they are driving my nerves
to the edge of my mind.
i return in the Fall in a littering
filling the universe with complaints.
i am inside you and your voice returns to me
the mystery of my organs
this tissue erected like a last cry
over the barricades.
i say too:
“How i am inside my me, love, that’s inside you,”
and it is another assassin’s shot puncturing the dark.
It can never end.
We are shouting at the stars
in our marvellous complexity,
these leaves crisscrossing with veins
all the directions of my life.
i touch myself with your finger.
You who have called me
in the innocence of your light among the fuses,
your party membership like another cross
we carry inside:
a confusion of colour.
Something is moving in here.
Before the earth unsettles its skin.
There are no words
Homeland For The Dead
Love, i am like a bird among the stones
and my concrete wings
are bursting from your embrace.
See this junkyard nailed to my face
and i am a man of hats headless among the neon,
another conquistador in search of a home.
In this way i wet your lips
and the summer comes inside me
and i am so cruel
in my fighting all these shadows.
i am beating these ruins to death after the missile lands.
i am kicking these corpses at my own dead face
and i am a man launched at the century
like a ship crashing on the rocks.
Here, then, are the people, an uplifting
of wind among the trees.
Now my hands are in the air.
How hard to hear with all this noise,
their incessant machinery.
Then it is your fingers
and they are opening in my middle
and i am soft and moist
and in the room of my unfolding
the silence flies away and look!
i am walking once again,
another miracle in ice and bone
walking all the way
from this cold place
In An Instant Of War, Almost (2)
Like this i am counting the beatings
in the wreckage of your skin.
i withdraw from your wetness
to unleash one last war in violin strings
and floods no plumber can fix.
“Rest, rest,” you say to me
but i am meeting myself
both man and woman,
in the lost crevices of my parts.
It is so strange, love, to find myself
i am human! after all this time.
i am unburdening my self between the
the last of my race
in a season unwinding.
It is like this for us to speak with our throat cut.
To unmarch myself into another embrace.
To stand like a child at the point
of my declaration.
To say, once, in the revolution of our
it is over! among the ruins and these suits strung like christmas lights along the avenue.
This Avenue of Lost Souls.
In this way, love, it all returns
and you stand like
at the tip of my desire:
in this instant
whether it is
Séamas Carraher was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1956. He lives on the Ballyogan estate, in south County Dublin, at present.
Recent publications include poems in The Camel Saloon, ditch, Bone Orchard Poetry, Istanbul Literary Review and Pemmican. Previously his work has been published in Left Curve (No. 13, 14 & 20), Compages, Poetry Ireland Review, & the Anthology of Irish Poetry.