Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Beyond the Howth

José Luis Pérez Abellán and Trapero Francisco are disagreeable men. Pérez Abellán’s son Miguel thinks his father is a cad and will resort to anything to get what he wants. Francisco has no children, his wife having no feeling bellow the hipbones. ‘--what a mess’ he says, ‘--all this pale skin and spoil’… ‘--this is not the world I signed on for, not by a longshot’ the skin round his eyes tightening. ‘--who in the right mind would ?’ ‘--want this, you mean ?’ ‘--yes, this mess’. ‘--all this pale skin and spoil, you mean ?’ ‘--yes, pale skin and…’ ‘--spoil ?’ ‘--yes’.

tacking homeward
he could see St. Christopher
swimming out from shore

his surplice
coddled in seaweed

beyond the Howth
he saw an old bicycle wheel
riding the waves

the salt having eaten
away the mudguard


Anonymous said...

Brilliant little poem, Stephen.


Stephen Rowntree said...

...thanks Gary,

Ireland is a place of poetry. My recent 2 weeks in Dublin were poetically fertile. How's your work coming?

Always interested in what your writing.


Anonymous said...

Hi Stephen, I read your daily blog from Ireland, quite atmospheric though I am glad you weren't beaten up by that man who wanted a cig.

My writing languishes. I think I shall die anonymous though that doesn't bother me too much as long as someone, someday stumbles over it.

Bolano keeps me going these days. I feel small beside him.


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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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