M. T. C. Cronin Poems


for R.M.

I love shaking the bones in your arm
the humerus, radius and ulna.

Some people have such bones -
men, like you, across the top of the back!

I love you at the train station
so young . . .

The song of that bird
executed only in the morning and evening.

I love the way
you just do it!

Perfect commas, two profiles, eyelashes
moles and turtles in your smile.

I love the movement between our reality
and imagination - that gold step

then my head empties into the whir of the day
all brain stem!

I love your judgement: chaise-longue
in that spacious room of possibility

filled with sun and poetry and music
and the pain you will not deny.

I love the little red hat
that makes you look like someone else

and the early fruit you pick for me
when I am overcome by ripeness.

I love fucking you
most of all:

there is no corresponding analysis
and we become very old and not yet born . . .

I love wrapping the bones of my legs around you
femur, tibia and fibula -

only with you
can I feel my heart.

I love its weightiness
that I have learned

through the long, slow practise
of you.... more »


for Georg Trakl

Autumn can last a lifetime.
There can never be enough blue and black.
Wandering has a passion of its own.
A suffering without direction.
There is only one month.
There is only one large death.
The country opens onto its unploughed fields.
A short lyric is one who passes.
Made of earth and coarse poetry.
No longer ears and eyes.
No longer indignance and inclination.
What sort of desire is unreasonable?
What sort of living?
Landscapes occur as if they were limits.
Repentance seeps from the body in breath.
Winds have speech with shadows.
Paths break into the infinity along their sides.
Autumn again after the last Autumn. Beyond, a man's back.
He is always walking away.
He turns many times to glimpse his executions.
The world is empty of him.
Only time is filled to the brim with his unending selves.
Everywhere they vanish like fallen snow.... more »


for Jack Gilbert

The fog in these mountains
is a reminder
of how far up our feet are
when they are on the ground.
As the baby has aged
she has taken up wrestling
with my breast.
As if the milk had bones.
The gorge is like owning something
frightening, merging with the self
what won't sustain life.
The stars' odour.
The man who felt so keenly
that all around him hearts broke
like the tears of a young girl
for an animal.
Occasionally you hear the gunshot
and yellow-headed birds
with the fan of their wings
spin fear into beauty.
The children don't remember the city.
Its expensive horizon.
Here, they listen to a history
of sing-song in the rain.
Here, where God never says anything.... more »

M. T. C. Cronin Quotes

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