Morphogenetic

Pome’s form in a formless mind



morphic resonance.

Just another day here

chewing the cud, no memory

axe-mas cut down 

                          BRUSH-STROKE

POARTRY

Like an alchemist turning muck to gold,

Poetry like sunshine is free. Aged fourteen 

in 74’ in a cottage in Hackballscross County

 Louth, Kavanagh country just a mile from 

the townland of Mucker. 

Opening a half-door a red dawn shot through

 the ditch like nothing else on earth. A fox

 skulked like 'The thought fox' but 

this was a fox thought.

 

           I pay homage to the man, Ted Hughes

the spirit of the fox is within, even in

his birds eye tomb vision, I stared

At the fox and it hunkered down on

The damp earth and glared back.

I didn’t know who Patrick Kavanagh

Was but now he is in my being. Muck

Has followed me or I have followed it

To Portmuck, islandmagee. Fireweed:

 

A poem I wrote in 96’, The mist moves

in over Islandmagee blue horizons no longer

 seen. I'm here at The Poets House, locked 

in a poetry workshop: "Invasion"

 

.Jimmy and Janice Simmons awarded me a

 scholarship to study for a masters degree in 

creative writing at the poets house, Falcaragh,

 Donegal in the shadow of muckish mountain. 

Muck was the source the spring, to quote from

The Gap from my first collection of poems. 

Jimmy edited the poem Light on the stones,

poems it seems were syncing.

 I brush the soiled tears from you eyes and you

 wake in me swimming and glistentening in mine.

These are the words I  wrote for my father put 

down in the muck of black-hills, still my favourite.

James Simmons edited this poem over his 

shoulder was Muckish mountain. Both my

father and my father of literature,  with

the spirit of fox. Lost in a portal of poetry

that will follow me underground.

My Mothers ashes and my fathers Muck 

I  copy and paste substance, before the fox 

and all this I was a street-kid but the spirit 

of Fox and  Patrick Kavanagh

follow me?