a tree dies in Sligo

[eclipse]

The old tree in Sligo died between

a false moon projected by the ghost

of Yeats and a false ghost of him

created by the moon. The false

phantom sits at the top of the tree

in silhouette mouthing verse as it's

spirit sails away, words fall from

branches, they will land demanding

an authentic inquiring Irish tongue.

Senators seek synthetic light into

their darkness as they protect a

singular address from which they

impress upon the public, creaking

paradigms, arthritic rhymes. The

spirit of a dead poet wears the night's

black coat- emptying the pockets of

stars-the moon resting on his tongue

will never make contact with the orb

in his eyes. Two Irish states are too

close to dance, their is an incantation

in the confluence as the day shakes

out the newly born, falling into existence.

[David W. Parsley]

Hi Barry, I can't help thinking the old master would take a wry, piquant pleasure in this piece. In some ways it reminds me of a sonnet by Wordsworth titled, "London, 1802." There is an unmistakable sense that the poet is saying within himself, "Yeats, thou shouldst be living at this hour: Ireland hath need of thee!" In your piece, the grizzled poet and dissident, indeed is shown as having "dwelt apart" but could yet be looking on in the guise of a shifting phantom, perhaps no more than a trick of the moonlight. The spirit existence is evoked with image and language somewhat reminiscent of the early phase of Yeats' poetic oeuvre, dream-like and ethereal.

 

Nice!

- Dave

[eclipse]

hi There David-thank you-good to see you here_barry