The Manchester Suicide Bomber

Poem By Francis Duggan

Empty, for winter is harsh,
it searches while it waits
for grape seeds, the light
of cherries.
At this moment the background
smell is cold,
like a fearful heart.
But beating.

Translated by Anna Crowe

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First thing in the morning I wade into the river
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towards another river, another day, to the same
smell of a cloth for holding trout: ‘Here!'
The same hands, but they're tiny, tightly
grip the black handle of the landing net.
I hear my little spool rewind,
bend patiently over the water,
on a flat rock with trees around,
early evening, silence, mosquitoes,
I see, rising from the river, my
father's broad back, pulling in,
slowly stretching out his arm,
throwing, pulling in again,
wearing a cap and big green boots,
the same boots with which warily
I test the river's bed, the stones,
slippery detritus of the years,
then turn, lift on the line a trout
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Translated by Christopher Whyte

Let it be always September

Let it be always September, and winter
wait for us in vain.
Let every downpour,