MORE MODERN POETS

INTRODUCING BLAIR SMITH AND MORE FROM EAMON LOINGSIGH:

“SALVADOR TO LAPAZ”

From sealed bus windows the derelict cannot lick you,
and you find yourself in Salvador,
five hands in your pockets,
only one your own.

Desperation swarms to you,
in the city at polar ends with its beginning.
So we suck ourselves back to seventh floor balconies,
and dream their open hands, hollow eyes, and the place it once was.
A place where a leather tin-man was once-a-walking,
his only vocal, his leather tin.

You sleep forward now,
grinding and shaking into town,
miles from where the train guard threw your cervaja out the window,
as if the hills could open it, sip it,
to a high walled un-hostile hostel.
A salad of once scattered fruits.
The Latvian in the tracksuit who cannot stop to breathe it in,
the stoner from Bristol – a  cartoon who shares our puff.
The German girl who limps and the French that do not smile,
all stay here for a while.

– Blair Smith

(Updated: Read the full poem HERE)

“THE SICKNESS OF FATE”

The earth is a cell laid hallow sheath,
An impetuous paradise churning,
Burning within its parboil simmer,
And bulb out of the pasty film.

Watching suns and moons,
Holding on as they faster quicken,
Turning quicker in their youthful boons,
Flicker,
Flicker through the sanguinary churns of ballads unjust,
Its prisoners grow from within its crust,
And brackish browns gargling in the deepest red,
Just honest children born of bacchanal stead.

And generations come and pass along the coasts of Gods,
Blind,
Feeling out for the moon to find,
A new life of softened terrors that tread among gentler frauds.

The golden tinctures of rum whisk their sons into the wash of perpetual vengeance,
Washing them into the marching promenades and archways,
Ushering them into the flowerets,
The Autumn-swept cemeteries of homogeneous civil wars.

And when the theatre and spine of the mastiff Gods,
Are brought down by the logic of aloof mobs,
And the light behind the eyes of man begin to tremble,
And assemble against this deflated chamber of tremble,
An age of cynics then do apply,
Their masks and portrayals of a supernatural fool,
Deny,
And then reply,
With a burlesque of wisecracks and the reign of ridicule.

Men in suits gather in great columned edifices,
After a hundred years of meditations,
And conclude that boyhood victims shall die for their projections,
To sad songs of impatient rest,
The gaunt face of justice barely revealing itself,
From the gloomy chant of the ancient contest.

They are hoping to usher us in one way or out another,
To the silky hills of imagination,
To the upright flounce above the stewless jaunt,
Divine assimilation,
And the godless haunt.

Do not go into the muscle of memory,
Find blind paths where you and I can make it together under the influence of the newly laid hallows our bodies create.

All this earth needs is a little more plump milk,
From the moan of mothers,
From the ecstasy of her bent back and contracting pelvis,
Rushing down in waterfalls from her backlit love,
Onto children bathing in the warmth of the fatty sauce her body built,
From the love to create,
And the gathering of her floods,
Over the town bridge for all to cleanse the guilt,
Of a lover gone wicked with the sickness of fate.

– Eamon Loingsigh

“Love, is not much more than a wondrous derangement and those with the fatal gift of a wild and starry imagination stand in awe of the night-sky that spells their depictions, their stage-plays of invented constellations.” – Eamon Loingsigh

(Read a delightful interview with Eamon by clicking on his name above, or going here)