Eamonn Stewart

 

The Fountains

 

Once, we sucked

The Sherbet Fountains of Paradise;

The pseudocyesis of our joys bore vice

When we were no longer boys.

 

Though snakes were banished from our land

The Dipsas thrives in a caul of blue bags

The trees and the railings fly them as flags

Now all joys and all sherbet taste bland.

 

 

Our Guns of August Returned to me in a Dream

 

The only ticker tape parades they had

Were our volleys of cap guns firing like mad;

And the tape worms in the parcels of shite

We lobbed in the jeeps on those August nights.

 

The alter boy  who swung the censer

Inspired us with CS gas.

Neon cat’s cradle of tracer,

Efflorescence of windscreen glass.

 

Traffic intertranspicuous with pig-iron sunshine

In The Indian Summer of 1969.

Votive penny candles’ arrays

Slopped  Muybridge-ing autos-da-fe.

 

The Apollo Mission left me stunned

And I was allowed to stay-up late.

Then, The Guns of August

Fired by Shankill ‘Huns’

“Keep throwin’ Shell” was their litany of hate….

 

 

Transit of Venus/Transit of Access

 

 

On the day of the transit of Venus

Belfast was overcast.

The Family Court clerk

Metered the Teardrop Effect

From first to last.

 

My daughter wouldn’t see me

Since I spoke to her like my peers –

Both case reviewed in 244 years.

 

My First Communion congratulations

Were profane

“Not age-appropriate

Too urbane.”

 

Later, The Evening Star’s

Portentous Eclat,

Not sleeping, I saw it rise the same.

 

 

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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #43  - June 2006. ISSN 1479-425X

The International Journal of Poetry & Graphics...since 2002. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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