Trevor Joyce
from Ana
court
tombs
constitute
our earliest
examples
local sites
exhibit small
side chambers
transepted
galleries
only the
largest
slabs
remain
fallen
displaced
smaller stones
purloined for
nearby walls
or roadworks
the ideal form
exists
in imagination
only
+++
torrential
penetrates
and rots
the sight
starved
memory
lives off
its store
and wastes
letters? no
correspondence
change? yes
necessarily
it occurs
subdued
of little
consequence
am
out of
harm’s
way
here
stone
streaming
glass
opaque
+++
barbarians
are bad
at walls
ours keep
them out
hordes
break
like a river
against
our bastions
and then
flow on
sweet
orchards
gentle
hounds
we have
the hands
of slaves
draw us
sweet
water
up
+++
his dying
words
flesh
from his bones
be boiled
familiarly
inhumed
those urgent bones
to head
his remnant troops
in battle
this was not done
instead
flesh by bones
together
sweated
slow
remission
long
among
candles
+++
hollowing
out the
darkness
nesting
there
sheeted in
with glass
wood lead
and with gold
or silver
skins
bookbinders
endpapers
or fabric
for matting
are still lifes
memories
gardens
listen
uncertain
steps return
always at
night
+++
they offered
hospitality
to our gods
who unaccountably
decamped
city
groves
and temples
voided out
our prayers
decrees
and formulae
blind
breath
terror
and forget
fulness
succeeded
gods
and salt
trade
gone
who is to
pity us?
+++
beyond
neat roofs
ancient
irregular walls
protrude
grass
and taller
vegetation
thrives high
the escape
into deep
space
encompassed
is invisible
from the upstairs
window
sometimes
pigeons
scatter up
some day
the child
will go
look
+++
the marvellous
bird
won’t sing
on every
branch
i don’t
always have
a quilted
bed
pity me
wait for me
turn to me
kiss me
pity me
red apple
eating
straw bale
sleeping
turn to me
+++
right
shoulder
red?
from vein
of neither
bird
nor beast
that ship
lacked keel?
all tenders
demand care
calendric
thumb
and thimble
push
the flashing
past
they rear
and scamper
back
ragged bones
terror
so selved
+++
withdrew
through brick
coal sheets
of readings
counts
accounts
his mills
grind slowly
it is appointed
unto man
replaced twin
trepanned plugs
of bone
slipped back
into field
dressings
turned
and he
laid down
his life
+++
Trevor Joyce’s collected poems, 1966-2000, were published as with the first dream of fire they hunt the cold by Shearsman, from whom a volume of workings from the Irish, Courts of Air and Earth, will appear in 2006. Also this year, The Gig will publish a collected volume covering the years 2000 to date. Joyce was born and brought up in central Dublin, where he co-founded New Writers’ Press with Michael Smith in 1967. He now lives in Cork, on the south coast of Ireland, where he has been a director of SoundEye: The Cork International Poetry Festival since its beginnings in 1997, and manages the soundeye.org website. He is a Fulbright Scholar and a member of Aosdána.