Dispossession

‘Eamon Ceannt Park’ by C. Murray

Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle

 
I.
 
Ingress.
 
Her boot leathers are wet, grass greened.
 
Things have gone aground at the grove,
only the fairy-ring stands in her circle
of spectral gowns,
 
her parasols all caught up in a breeze of light.
  
Wood clattery heels sound
against the stones at the gate,
against a cluster of coppered leaves;
 
their outsoundings, a filigree.
 
II.
 
Inscription.
 
The park is scattered as after a storm.
The destruction is knave-wrought

 
A crescent moon is inscribed into the soil
by the small grove,
a willow weeps by its exit.
 
And the sky is close as goose down.
 
Brent geese screel and beat overhead,
someone has sprayed yellow paint on his memorial stone.
 
III.

 
There is a man in the stone.
 
The dew is playing fire at her feet,
wetting her legs.
 
A legion of rooks guard his stone.
 
IV.

 
Stasis.

.
The route through the groves is frozen today;
even the treetops are caught in ash.
 
There is no mistaking this scene for a balletic stasis.
It’s stick-strewn.
 
A cold sun rises above the minarets
at park’s edge.
And the sound of bells emanates from behind somewhere .
 
She is glad to leave,
glad to kick the ice from her feet against the stones.
 
V.
 
The Queen’s Rook.
 
And what if she entered that garden wearing her last veil?
The others being ripped by fierce wind and claw.
 
The willows lash her face
driving her into ecstatic groves.
 
The only thing seeming alive in this desolate place
Is the Queen’s Rook.
 
He stalks above her veiled head,
his call drowning in his throat.
 
She heard a name.
 
VI.
 
Egress.
 
She looks back to the stone
From thence to the furrowed hill,
It is of ordinary green.
A rook is atop the gate.
 
She no longer sees the far away
lit by careening crows.
 
The path is different by day.
 
Coda

It is dark beneath the tree.

And,

The rising sun has not yet caught
the edge of the stone.

And,

A clutter of dry debris, a black feather
is housed there.

And,

She would sing him if only he let her.

And,

“Intreat me not to leave thee
Nor to return from following after thee
For whither thou goes I will go ..”

she leaves.

‘Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle’ by Christine Murray was first published at Bone Orchard Poetry Ezine and collected then in Cycles (Lapwing Press, 2013)

 

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4 Comments

  1. This cycle is outstanding even by Murray’s high standards. One is tempted to avert to “the line of beauty” the point being that Murray, so fabulous as maker, doesn’t mire her ego in the work but reveals a shaping energy like a dance. She’s not afraid to show her hand because the whole she’s drawing on and bringing her reader into touch with — touch being the key word– that whole is open to us once she opens it. Her generosity is proportionate to her gift, which is enormous. Guess I’m a fan of her dancing.

  2. “wood clattery heels sound against the stones”/”sprayed yellow paint on his memorial stone”/”There is a man in the stone.”/”A legion of rooks guard his stone.”/”glad to kick the ice from her feet against the stones.”/”She looks back to the stone.”/”The rising sun has not yet caught the edge of the stone.” I have so many questions about the role of the stone in this poem that I practically feel an essay coming on. Well done over all and especially the rumbling meaning of the stones. Also, shocking switch up with the biblical reference to Ruth’s comment to Naomi.

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