Noah Is Flown
Noah is flown,
A Book Flown.
Desert wildlife
scurry in and out
of the emptiness.
The sun sighs brilliantly
against flashing surfaces
in the sculpture garden.
The winds for now
wrap gently, whimsically
around each piece.
The White House gleams
in stately stillness
and hails its true chief.
The moon,
architect of madness,
wistfully watches over
his works.
Noah is flown,
A Book Flown.
The connoisseur of art,
eclipsing fame and fortune,
creating from the Perspective
of the Little People
exits the Theatre of life
alone
on the Kirby Express
to that surreal
somewhere.
Noah is flown,
A Book Flown.
Now he belongs to the ages
as he belongs to each of us
or none of us,
for we could never
locate him, catch him
or pin him down:
he was always
out there by himself,
beyond our knowing
yet within our understanding.
Noah is flown,
A Book Flown.
We only glimpsed him
through the Signs of Neon
into an ever expanding
assemblage of dark matter.
His pages
of unanswered questions
disassembling up and out
into the deep landscape
of the universe,
where he waits for us
with the Gonebefores,
at home in his easy chair
with a glass of the best wine,
a mischievous eye,
a warm smile
and the usual greeting:
why are you
here?
and
what are you
going to do
next?
Noah is flown,
A Book Flown.
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
March 6, 2004
In Memoriam
Noah Purifoy ~ 1917-2004
“I do not wish to be an artist. I only wish that art enables me to be.”
~ Noah Purifoy,1963
www.noahpurifoy.com
Christopher
Christopher Dorner
in the snow
your Black heart
covered in White.
A bear-less mountain retreat
to receive eternal rest
from your sin of righteousness
arrested.
Saint Christopher
medal on your chest
guiding your mind
across the broken waves,
the old honor now
perhaps pinned on
by other deaths
you conquered,
layering long tears
over Blue Lines
in a code
only you might bind.
Dorner,
African Man
on the run
the ancient saga
at your heels.
Will the hounds
reach you first
to lick the wounds
that scarred your life
of thirty-three years
Of “little black sambo”
“gorilla in the mist”
“nigger”
“boy?”
Or will uniformed fears
invade your solitude
to steal your frozen frame
then hang your image
as a victory
over shame?
Chris,
will it finally
come to this?
( For Christopher Dorner, former LAPD officer and U.S. Navy reservist, burned to death on February 12, 2013 by Southern California sheriffs in concert with LAPD manhunt)
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
Written on February 10, 2013
Dear Joe,
We sent a letter
to Joe Biden
our Veep
and waited for an answer
It would not come.
We also mailed
by snail
his boss
the boss’s first lady
and sundry representatives
of the U S of A.
But we really counted
on Joe
because he takes the train
and seems like us
we thought
he’d care and carefully
read our letter
and care about
the 16 suicides a day
in the U.S. of A
by military veterans
we read about
in the newspaper
that morning.
We could see you, Joe,
board a train to the V.A.
and shake down Shinseki
as only you can do
It didn’t happen
Nothing happened.
Should we not have used
the king’s English
and instead
ranted uncivilly
like you do sometimes
Joe?
Was it the idea
to raise taxes
on the rich
to pay for counseling
before 17 more
active duty kids
pull the trigger
or the chair?
Our letter, one page,
told you
to ask your boss
for an executive order
to serve the kids
now back home
from the land of i.e.d’s
to lives of PTSDs
Dear Joe,
If you had a 24hr hot line
GI Joe could call you
Then will you care
Then will you act
Then will you write back?
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
June 14, 2011
June 1, 201116 US Veterans Commit Suicide Every Day
June 1, 2011. Washington. The startling revelation emerging from last week’s Senate Veterans Affairs Committee meeting deserves repeating, ‘16 US military veterans commit suicide ever day’. That was the reminder when the Veterans Administration reported that vets account for twenty percent of the estimated 30,000 suicides in America each year. That number jumps to almost 17 per day when active duty soldiers are included.
Apotheosis
(Today)
Tears puncturing gargoyled faces.
Legs gone astray.
Arms hanging loose.
Existence doubted
in dazzling light that kills.
Nightmare music exploding
in hero-dreams.
Insistent video games
playing blood and guts
in dying colors.
Heads cocked alert,
ready to fight or flee.
Going home, now.
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
and smile, smile, smile.
(Yesterday)
“Irritable hearts” crawled out of Gettysburg.
Shell-shocked silhouettes
stumbled through the Argonne Forest.
GI’s dressed in battle fatigue
after the Bulge.
A soldier blinked his eyes
in Saigon and
woke up with Falloujah
on his mind.
Lives salvaged from war dumps,
always going home.
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
and smile, smile, smile.
(Now)
So pack those uniforms neatly away.
Wage a life inside your heads,
until the other shoe drops,
and you rise to the next call.
Smile, boys, that´s the style!
What´s the use worrying?
It never was worthwhile.
So, pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
and smile, smile, smile!
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
12-16-04
(Written after reading in NY Times today that American troops are coming home from Iraq with post-traumatic stress disorders in increasing numbers and stretching available mental health services.
“Pack Up Your Troubles etc.” lyrics from World War I Song composed by Felix Powell; words by George Asaf, published in 1915)
Ali et Ali in Dublin: Between Scylla and Charybdis
Ali bin Dub Ahmed
and Ali Mohammed bin Dub
stand a drink
at Davy Byrnes Moral Pub
September 2009.
What’ll be
Ali asks
in ArabicEnglishIrish
Fair play to you, man
a snug-bound voice responds
but first
remove those feckin’ chains
and you’re very welcome here,
chime others.
Your man, Ali bin Dub Ahmed
unchains himself and his cellmate
sheds Guantanamo-getup
orders a round
raises a jar
to the old woman of Beare.
So
how was it in Cuber
a red-bearded fellow inquires.
How do you say
fughin’ madhouse,
your man fully man replies,
let me tell yous
and all lean in
grogfaced.
(Upon the occasion of the Irish Republic receiving two Guantanamo detainees from the USA, September 2009)
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
9/26/09
Congregation
Paddy Stink, Mickey Mud and Maggie Blue
tied together
with beads of persecution
Sisters of Mercy
Have mercy on me
Christian Brothers
See Christ in me
Maggie Blue, Mickey Mud and Paddy Stink
poverty our crime
the cross our salvation
Holy Father in Rome
bless me
Holy Mother Church
succor me
Where is Mammy?
Where is Da?
Who sent me here?
Who doesn’t care?
Sisters of Mercy
pray for me
Christian Brothers
care for me
Away to mountain cliffs
Behind cold stone walls
“No wonder they sent ye here
ye brazen article”
Sisters of Mercy
save my soul
Christian Brothers
scorn my flesh
A state within a state
Christian Brothers patriots all
bullied for old Ireland
beaten for her sins
Sisters of Mercy
humiliate me for God’s sake
Christian Brothers
rape me for Eire’s sake
Free State English taught
spare me from the lash
free me from the
rosary round my neck
Holy Mary Mother of God
help me now
and at the hour
that dark hour
Where is Mammy?
Where is Da?
Why send me here?
Who does not care?
Paddy Stink, Mickey Mud and Maggie Blue
tied together apart
died together alone
Holy Ghost
spirit me away
infuse the flame of wisdom
in those who prey
Amen.
Amen.
Amen
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
May 23, 2009
Sic nos sic sacra tuemur
Peregrine Problem Again
A soldier in a video.
Conserve him, please!
Hope American-style
for this blue-eyed
bird of prey. Home
is so far away.
Release him to
the wild West.
Please.
Get out of town
captors instruct.
Or we’ll kill
the guest
we feed so well.
Once upon a war
we did not see
the sad turmoil
of youth under arms.
Now
we can choose to see
or not the cross-legged
blond shaven scared kid
screaming noiselessly
for salvation inside
a shalwar khameez.
Worried waiting wanting
yellow ribbons in
dwell time
get married
have kids help folks
live out his
small town days.
While hashish opium
morphine heroin
are paying
for his cage
back in Idaho.
What was it about
Uncle Sam’s finger
that dashing recruiter
a desert crusade
A Band of Brothers
proud family
that’s missing?
Peregrine problem
again. Conserve him
PLEASE. Release him
fly him to the
wild West.
Now.
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
July 19, 2009
Monody
In my dictionary,
empathic companion for old age,
I scan for the meaning
of monody from a poem
I am reading by Edgar Allan Poe.
But I reach the word Mosul first
and catch myself surprised
as though glimpsing a familiar face
on the street or in the market.
I read
“a city in North Iraq on the Tigris,
the site of ancient Nineveh,
population 180,000.’”
I reckon
there was a time
when Mosul as a place
meant nothing to me
yet now it simmers in the
vocabulary of terror,
paraded before me
dressed in armor,
carpeted in blood,
peopled with tears.
I realize
I will never know Mosul
as itself. I find monody
from the Greek “monodia”
or “singing alone.” Also
“…a poem in which the poet
mourns another’s death;
…a lament; a dirge.”
I am singing
alone
apart from the fever of war:
my words a dirge
a solo reconnaissance
over Mosul.
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
7-23-04
Final Journey
My heart pressed down
by dense steel beams
floats uneasily
towards the east.
Farewell to NYC
Staten Island
and the rest
my star-mangled home.
Sheared by machine
seared by torch
reshaped into cubes
for ready shipping
the twin remnants
unceremoniously scrapped
for their final journey.
Woven unseen
amidst the girders
on this untouted venture:
the sinews of my soul
the blood of broken bones
the residue of dreams.
Towers tonnage
from Ground Zero
to find new life
in India
in China
recycled
into useful metal bars
for other
lesser towers.
My vanished life
insinuated among the ingots
carries sorrow’s freight
so heavy
it breaks through
vessel’s bottom
ascending into memory
alone
aloft
alight.
(This poem arose after reading today’s (1/21/02) Reuters report on Internet:
“World Trade Center Scrap Sails for India, China”)
Siobhán Ó Mócháin Breathnach
on Martin Luther King’s Holiday
January 21, 2002
