from sweeney albannach
TRANSCRIPT
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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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