Chris Murray

Pantoum for Limerick National City of Culture 2014

 
I will be taking stock of resourcing requirements
in the light of everyone else having resigned.
I am determined to hit the reset button.
I am moving on in a calm and deliberative way.
 
In the light of everyone else having resigned,
I’m absolutely satisfied we have the capacity.
I am moving on in a calm and deliberative way.
I would like to thank those who ran screaming from the building.
 
I’m absolutely satisfied we have the capacity.
It’s been a challenging start but we need to draw a line under this.
I would like to thank those who ran screaming from the building.
I may turn out to be a blessing in disguise.
 
It’s been a challenging start but we need to draw a line under this.
I am humbled by what I’ve heard here tonight.
I may turn out to be a blessing in disguise.
This is a lot more complicated than what actually happened.
 
I am humbled by what I’ve heard here tonight.
I am determined to hit the reset button.
This is a lot more complicated than what actually happened.
I will be taking stock of resourcing requirements.

© KEVIN HIGGINS

Kevin Higgins facilitates poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and teaches creative writing at Galway Technical Institute. He is also Writer-in-Residence at Merlin Park Hospital and the poetry critic of the Galway Advertiser. He was a founding co-editor of The Burning Bush literary magazine and is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway City. His first collection of poems The Boy With No Face was published by Salmon in February 2005 and was short-listed for the 2006 Strong Award. His second collection, Time Gentlemen, Please, was published in March 2008 by Salmon. His work also features in the generation defining anthology Identity Parade – New British and Irish Poets (Ed Roddy Lumsden, Bloodaxe, 2010). Frightening New Furniture, his third collection of poem, was published in 2010 by Salmon Poetry. Kevin has read his work at most of the major literary festivals in Ireland and at Arts Council and Culture Ireland supported poetry events in Kansas City, USA (2006), Los Angeles, USA (2007), London, UK (2007), New York, USA (2008), Athens, Greece (2008); St. Louis, USA (2008), Chicago, USA (2009), Denver, USA (2010), Washington D.C (2011), Huntington, West Virginia, USA (2011), Geelong, Australia (2011), Canberra, Australia (2011), St. Louis, USA (2013), Boston, USA (2013) & Amherst, Massachusetts (2013). In November and December 2013 Kevin also read his work in Basel, Switzerland and Phoenix & Tucson, Arizona. Mentioning The War, a collection of his essays and reviews was published in April 2012 by Salmon. Mentioning The War has been described by Clare Daly T.D as “a really good and provocative read. It will jolt you; it will certainly touch you; make you laugh; maybe make you snarl a little bit as well, depending on where you come from or what your background is.” Kevin’s poetry has been translated into Greek, Turkish, Spanish, Italian, Japanese & Portuguese. The Ghost In The Lobby is Kevin’s fourth collection of poetry will be launched early Spring 2014.

THE SMELL OF IRON

 
The moon asleep in the well under
The surface of the blackwater, four
Stars of steel and a badly done
Impersonation of my-
Self,
Erase and compensate
Repeated his voice from the bottom
Of the glass, you
Were shining
You said it again
In Neverland there’s no more room
For the Lost Boys
And she – the moon in the well – had
Lost her lips, removed
Her cuticles
One after the other, she had
Consumed a few names
From the wings of the doves, there
Was no more vision, no more dreams, it was
A realm of shadows, no
Lament was rising
To the ceiling, blood was coming
Back modulating itself in clots, no
Punches
Only water
A lot of water inside
The well, where the moon asleep used to
Lie
Staring at the sky
The bars
The coins
You were shining, locked outside
Collecting
The smell of iron, the colour of dice
A heart broken in a thousand valuable gems, a small
Horse, fragments of coal, your rubbish
The moon in the well was drowning, was crying, it
Couldn’t be done,
Here is what.
It couldn’t be done.

THE SMELL OF SMOKE

The smell of iron at 9:19 am, disgusting
Unresolved, I
Would have given you the palm of my hands, there
Was a parade of objects in hibernation, and
The wire was made of plastic
I couldn’t
Walk, Tiburtina
Railway station blew up around me, the
Upside-down lilies hanging and dangling, you
Were sewn inside
My chest and pushed
Broken
You were breaking my ribs, shrieked, I
Was thinking about your hair
The embrace
The window
The cat
On the other windowsill
(As if he knew)
And you
Moving forward in the smell
Of the smoke, expanding
And she
Keeping on, she was filling up
All the cans
Was labelling and talking and talking
Pretending she had never
Existed, she
Had been
Transfigured
Hidden inside the white, she
I miss you, you kept saying, it
Couldn’t be done.
Don’t you understand?
It couldn’t be done.
 

THE SMELL OF RUM

 
All is well except
That the wall is made
Of perspex, transparent
And her wings hit against it without
Making any sound
While
The rift she treasures on her sternum is
Cicatrizing under the sun at seven o’clock
In the morning, while
The smell of flowers is piercing through the path
Of cold and
The smell of rum, the memory of the stolen candle, twenty
Meters running under the pouring rain, inside
My ears, the city is swimming in
The dark
And it’s ours.
Dismantled.
It hurts.
The taste of the broken tooth, the
Badly stitched dream, and no need to say it:
The waiting.
While the hand is pushing, the shouts
Are drawing strange vortexes
Under the hair and
The air continuously recycled
Is ingesting
Massive amounts of
Darkness
As
You advance
Defying the butterflies
Adjusting your heel
From time to time.

THE SMELL OF FLOWERS

 
The city was turning
Into a mirror.
You were trying to move as little as possible
Fearing variations more than anything.
The essential — now —
Consisted in not disturbing.
The cold was eating your legs, your cheeks
You were calm and wanted to go away
What was left to hold you back?
Your heart was burning and nightmares were
Surrounding your hair.
You were looking down, looking
For your own ankles
You were paying attention to the echoes,
Searching for
Someone who would grab your arm
You only wanted to hear a no
— and it was not coming.
You were hoping for some
It’s not true
— and it was not coming.
The dart had been shot
Punctual and similar to bees
Poison
It was getting you sick
You were struggling to survive
While hoping, however, to die of it.
It would have never killed you.
The smell of flowers was vanishing,
The city had turned into a mirror.
Now you could only cover your eyes.
 
The Smells , a series is © Kira A
Image is © Monna Lisa Forni