Damascus

Poem By Seamus Hogan

Perhaps it's a little consolation that the village
Lays a carpet of whispers as you are led into
Church on Sundays. That they look towards your pew
at an angle and grab a glimpse of their lives
In the blankness as though it were a mirror.
When you hear those prayers for the sick through
The nave of the priest's hands, who do you see?
Or hear? Last winter's ice underfoot
On the way to the cowhouse, or some October's
Apple falling. Which will not splinter or fall
Through your eyes again.

Once, thinking you were alone, you shuddered.
Then, like transparent fruit, two tears were shook
Free from your pain's branch. A sob, too much
In your hands already, shattered the silence
And cracks raced to my shore of vision
Exposing a torrent of helplessness.
Sometimes when I chase a last pea around the plate
Or say 'That girl is really pretty'
I feel as if I've opened a letter
That isn't for me.

Comments about Damascus

Beautiful piece Seamus. Saw you on youtube looked you up. Will be looking for more. Peace and regards. Craig.
Heard this Poem yesterday and had to look it up. It was beautifully read and a fitting tribute to an amazing woman. It was good to get a chance to read it here again today.
Excellent, Seamus. If Maureen can read this she will be moved and instead of the shudder producing tears it will bring a smile. So much packed in here. I love 'Some October's apple falling' such a rich phrase plump with redolence -and that word 'some' imbues it with an echoing quality which places it in a time removed yet recollected. I think this may be the best I've read on here since joining last week. A memorable read which I have saved to read over. Jimmy


Rating Card

5,0 out of 5
2 total ratings

Other poems of HOGAN

Feeding Time

Out fly the fowl
Like feathers from a bolster
And who comes last but the rooster.
Pausing to raise a leg,

The Blackbird

Inside a sycamore
yellow peaked black movement

Territory

For Hannah.

Before settling for the evening
A cock pheasant

Sketch For A Self Portrait

If You can imagine a blind woman
Knitting, in total darkness, a woollen
Jumper then the wool you see is me.

Starlings

From their control tower
the nest of chicks
Guide in their parents
On a runway of cries.