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ONLINE BOOKSTORE FEATURED TITLES

 

Best of Irish Poetry 2009
Best of Irish Poetry 2010

Editor: Matthew Sweeney

 

 

Songs of Earth and Light

Songs of Earth and Light
Barbara Korun poems translated by Theo Dorgan

 

 

Done Dating DJs
Done Dating DJs
by Jennifer Minniti-Shippey
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Richesses: Francophone Songwriter Poets
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MICHAEL COADY

 

 

Michael Coady photo

 

Michael Coady lives in the town of his birth, Carrick-on-Suir, Co. Tipperary and was elected to Aosdána in 1998. His publications by Gallery Press include All Souls, One Another and Going By Water—each integrating his poetry, prose and photographs in a genre he has made his own.

 

 

 

 

 

_____

 

Human Child

The Poetry Effect

 

 

_____

 

 

 

Human Child

At the Yeats Exhibition in the National Library

 

 

He was forever making an exhibition

of himself, in public or in private,

in thrall to table-rapping and Maud Gonne,

away with the fairies or Cuchulainn,

turned on by George’s automatic jottings.

 

He might have been less airy-fairy

and more grounded, but then

my father on lost evenings of my boyhood

might never have recited ‘The Stolen Child’

by heart from his sickbedmight never

 

have become this ghost awaiting me

in the National Library of Ireland,

the faint voice reaching me through glass,

intimately telling once again

of otherworld, enchantment, tears.

 

 

 

The Poetry Effect

... for poetry makes nothing happen.
                                      W.H. Auden

 

The postman says Joe Flynn

was found this morning dead,

although alive and shouting still,

cradling a cider bottle

 

in a printed poem of mine

where he waits in ambush

with a rant, quoting Tagore

as we cross paths on Main Street.

 

Perhaps what poetry makes happen

is to undermine itself:

no sooner into print

than its undone offstage

 

as in that gnarled blue gate

nobody noticed until

I outed it in verse

as a found work of art

 

which someone consequently

deemed to be in need

of a complete clean-up

and three coats of grey

 

or that chestnut tree

no sooner sung by me

than chain-sawed

to the ground

 

because a neighbour was upset

by falling leaves,

and roosting birds

dumping on his Ford Fiesta

 

or that old pub that I immortalised

in lyric verse, not long before

it burned to the ground

on Christmas night ...

 

Well miss Joe now hes gone

the postman says

and all the times

we dodged him on the street.

 

Although hes gone I fear

perhaps hes turned the tables

to put the hex of poetry

and consequence on me,

 

for here hes wormed his way

back on the page again to haunt me,

cradling a cider bottle

that hell never empty

 

and miming still into my inner ear

Hey poet! Hey poet!

Come here till I tell you what

you never heard or seen.

 

 

©2011 Michael Coady

 

 

 

Author Links

Aosdána Bio

Coady at Poetry International Web

Coady at Gallery Press

 

 

 

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