from Sweeney Albannach

7/24/2019 from Sweeney Albannach

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from Sweeney Albannach

Gerry Loose


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from Sweeney Albannach

Gerry Loose

otatas bookshelf

2016


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from: Sweeney Albannachcopyright 2016 Gerry Loose

otatas [email protected]
mailto:otatahaiku%40gmail.com?subject=from%20sweeney%20albannachmailto:otatahaiku%40gmail.com?subject=from%20sweeney%20albannach


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from: Sweeney Albannach


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I heard the cuckoo with no food in my stomach.Malcolm MacLellan, Crofter, Grimnis, Benbecula,as reported in Carmina Gadelica


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fragments 1-72

that fat spider hungon translucencethen there wasonly a great whiteraggy winged moth

I catched itin my hand but feltpitythen

the dog it wasfound my placein heather

you count theseno worthbuttercup daisy thistle

the quadrated plantsrare words I foundbut did not pluck

you count theseravings of invisibilitythey know better


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his head sits his bodyonly queerly

guilt tearsworse than blackthorn

goosegrassbut no geese

whisky ohwhisky ohwhisky in the bushes ohthorns dont matter

and then we examine

the politics of our timeand nd stillChurch


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the moral law

of birdsong

my poetry

is entirely made upof the sounds of rainon leaves

its that form of silenceI call wanderingthat form of wandering

you call delusion

you think me derangedto return as oaklooking over the kylesstand for a thousand years


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the eider is in awethe cuckoo agreesthe yae agrees

the gulls mock me

that night I wove the clouds

wild honeybee stingsthe aying syrupof self pity

Sweeney attempts to list all

thingson the strand

seals and singing


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Sweeney is not sueringhis head

the world is indierent

once he found a case of oranges

have you known hungerwithered windfallin May

Sweeney seendeer slots on the strand

farewell to Lochaberor maybe petrol city


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only the cuckoocalls hellotwo gowks togetheruntil night

drops

the cantand antiphonof shearwatersa mouthfulof cressto my ache

I sit herecounting punsinventing words


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there are no mirrors

below the yellow hill thereare cavesthat keep out the rainbut not the reaches of cold

nor the midges' perforations

rusty hingeof a lapwings

voiceand unhingedme

I am beside myselfwhere the best conversationsare to be had

the fattest snailsare foundin the graveyard


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I steal eggs from the gullsand from Marys henscrack and swallow

when I passthey knit their brows

along withtheir childrens socksonly Sweeneydustyis unspun

twelve by twelve inchesa square foot

what Im here forthe rst cast of the quadrat

one buttercupone nettleone stem of cleaversI remain empty

show me the passagebetween the poised mindand the frenzied mind


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theres a high windin my lungsto give life

to the re

its rude to sit

with your backto the sunevery cormorant knows that

theres the black catwho visitseach morningto roll and haveher stomach scratchedshe doesnt know Im broken

and theres a toadwholives around the corner

I drink red winefrom the kettlefor this moment Iam Li Pothat same wind rattlesour watery retreats


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the cuckoo singstwo notes she iesindefatigable

how can I be less

the deserted churchbrowned owersbroken gas mantlesheh. heh. priests

gone from this placebut still seclusion

stealing appleswhile erasand starscollapse around me

although I am conceived and dieI conceive of yet more


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the priests evenatheistsmaunder words

of soul and spiritblasphemies of beliefsuch things are inslaters and wrens

fear mecry me gealtbecause you fearchange

you fear revolution

there is no restat night stars

Saturn distant Marscold Jupiterin the church ruina Sheela na gigI ee even hermound of Venus


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the tempest takeshurls the doveI run into the heart

there is no abiding there

when the rain lifts

tracing snail trailson the rock

with a cold nger

at night Iwaken to myselfnot thereeither

pouring wateranother vertigoto fall


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plover fears meees on a path of airclatter dove wing

rising from oakstartles me to runinto the path of brambledread keeps us living

before the stormthe cuckoos complaintafter the stormcuckoos lamentIm still here tooafter all

beside the rear

tractor wheelits tyre ata stainlesssteel socket setand rusty headed hammercrow on the cab roof

things are noturgent


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roof mostly skywalls to east and southsgurrs

north and westseasthe robin hops insidecrows row through

lucid and ludicis madness that whirlof hair ying roundSweeneys headthat tilt into windas he lifts his armsand rolls earth words

fuck the polissuch lyricism is easyfuck the priestsbut they screw themselves

with faith and certitudeand theres only the last lit pale

constellations of ramsons hereon out into blue blackbruise scarred night


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the seventh throw of the quadratearly purple orchid wild garlicraspberry leaves bluebells

bracken red campion but outwiththe connes of the quadratthey grow where they please

the eighth quadrat on rockwhite lichen red lichenthese are not symbolsnot the thingnot the opposingconjoined forcesof church and statebut substantive

my love gave me a meadowthat walked to the seamy love gave me every seventh wavethat licked gentlymy love gave me the seven daysand I am Sweeney

called mad


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the young birch in winda child approaching

in search of fossilsfound in that futurethree speckled eggs

in the oystercatchers nest

that which resolves itself in sleepis lost to Sweeney

yes Im scared jitterytwitching jumping

alert mistrustfulbut I havent fearliving in me

where do my eyes lead mewhat I see I amclinging bramble vineraking thorn peat hagand cuckoo voiceinvisible


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overseer of windnarrator of airconductor of skiesmoonhandlerstar-jugglersun-lifterbreath of your lungs

without memorycontinuous

move steeplyinto that rising

scree-slope nightcollapsing on itselfthat hides

Sweeneystartledstartlesa snipe


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Sweeneys clarity is insidemay be illuminatedbriey by a quality of

light pushing cloud shadowslighting gullies and clis in a chequered

wayon a three mile distant mountain

their taste in whisky was poor

Armeria maritimethrift

we call itSweeney has nothingno need for thriftstays nights

here and there in old smallrail cabinsRannoch Corpach Arisaigsome have full roofs

I no longer need to knowwho I amindeed and I dontmy voiceembodied


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aspen

Sweeneyby Ardtoe sliptremblein eachbreeze

greenbeyond green


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