Cave of the Firbolg
(Nano Reid, oil on board)
Not even a trespass of sky to compromise the dark
where blood beats in the body of the heart.
Nobody thinks, Why do we do this?
The nervous system ferries its thin shards of glass
down among the clay, where the blunt flint
of the soul remains.
Pollen embedded in the riverbed, a prehistory
of refuse in the lower layers, every end
is a chance to start over, but the river
cannot start again, or the voice in the cave
speak in a righteous tongue. The body too
gives way as the blood deposits its memory
in the tributaries of the cave, the sky
pushed out, the heart yet to know
it can go without.
Could Be
The molten coin of the sun
slots behind the horizon without making
a perceivable sound
city lights distract from the dark
we are about to be pitched into
so sudden the day has ended
so soon the night begun my vision is slow
to adapt I have poor eyes cannot see
beyond where the light falls
shaping the night the moon is no use
always misseeing the light at my window
as the moon’s which is only
another misseeing a habit which knows
no other way of saying what is seen
the sun disappearing like the sun
of the previous day going down
like the sun of the previous century
going down as a favour to the moon
coming up I should say instead
don’t look I should say instead don’t listen
turn your face
like you would from a stranger
in the city the sun is a bitter crust
to swallow is bitter honey
the noise in my ear is getting louder
and louder in my ear could be
the sound of the day going down
of the night coming up
or the sound of a human
voice shrill and precise
berating me slowly
into slander
and admission
Scenes from a Life
Hanging by a hook on the wall,
mirroring the mirror,
she has stitched leaves
for wings, a remedy for boredom.
Riven by the absence of stone, she burns
down a suburb made of wood,
slumps her body under a tree,
as good a place as any to lie down
forever. On the brittle foliage
she thinks, If the soul has texture
it will feel like this.
Six Easy Steps
In a cubicle of partitioned light
I must eat before remembering
the sign above my bed solicits
silence I am misrembering the brain
like lightening must find ground
they ask me to draw boxes
I have been filling up pages ever since
I unremembered the contours
no one speaks they insist I find
my native tongue my proper ground
insist I remember the proper
outline of myself I am misrepresenting
the dimensions of my thought
a cube of sky is visible
from my bed six equal sides
of containment the part
impersonating the whole
is not helpful count out loud they say
listen to the sound of something familiar
the mower on the lawn
for instance the cut grass is still
grass six easy steps to find again
the self impersonation
is not useful try again
to speak in your native tongue
try again to trace the outline
hollow enough for a body
solid enough for a soul
January i.m. Caroline Quinn The moon on the last day of January 1998 was full, as far as I can remember, though it was, in fact, only the seed of a moon. I have found the records, checked its phase on your date of birth and mine, now that you are no age. Is used to the same as forgetting? I always wanted to live in real weather. Is it wrong to say I’m no longer sure? No one here seems to mind. They go about as though they have forgotten yesterday was as bad as today. Is used to the same as forgetting? Can you remember the night we spent in a house either still going up or coming down? I don’t remember which, but the moon was red, something I haven’t seen since and can find no record of. Is used to the same? I don’t remember which. This far from sea the air in winter is dust dry and sears your mouth when you try to breathe. At night I listen for noise in the lungs, the sound of winter fever. I always wanted to live in real weather. No one here seems to mind. Is used to forgetting? Surely the moon was a circle of ice. Surely our bodies shivered beneath it, a row of pines beginning winter.
poems from Some Lives © Leeanne Quinn
About Leanne Quinn
Leeanne Quinn was born in Drogheda, Co. Louth, and grew up there and in nearby Monasterboice. Her debut collection of poetry, Before You, was published by Dedalus Press in 2012, a poem from which was highly commended in the Forward Prize for Poetry. Her second collection, Some Lives, is published by Dedalus on October 1st, 2020. Her poems have been published in a variety of journals including Poetry Ireland Review, The Stinging Fly, The Moth, Cyphers, PN Review, and Long Poem Magazine, and anthologised in Windharp: Poems of Ireland Since 1916 and The Forward Book of Poetry 2013, among others. Having lived in Dublin for most of her adult life, she recently relocated to Munich, Germany.
© Leeanne Quinn
Poethead by Chris Murray 