The Myth of Fianna

As I leave the Oriel gallery
and the avenue darkens in its
snowdrift like a stampede of pollen

the neon trees where
the market blossomed
recites dark scarlet
over the antique homeless
musicians like
a song waveringly breathed in sleep

I walk to where
my hunger takes me
and a young woman in silk
where the roseate dye of her scalp covers
her eyes is kissing
a blind woman by
the river’s spoonful of mirrors
as if blood can whisper the language
of tongues when their fingers
braille against each others’ arms

and though their hands are the faces
of the pale and undernourished
like a false hyacinth arcing over the lip of a bottle
I am enticed as any

always scenting out the unannounced
always kneeling before thin candles
and dreaming the earth
is flight’s climax, dreaming

I could be whispered of
in adulterous pages of a lake
that keep folding over moonlight

for the city is mournfully alive
with the wilderness Fianna made
who spoke too to me that evening,

how custom is the elder
hidden inside the forgotten orchard.

tear the rind, tear the pith, and our hands are golden.
our hands are our nation. Be it famine they cherish,

let whoever parts their lips be a hunger for refuge.
Let no mouth salvage what has already gone.
Our elegy will echo to where the road vanishes, and we travel only the earth.
Let Fianna sing the debris back into the earth.

The Myth of Fianna

Ben Porter

Swanley, United Kingdom

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Artist's Description

poem after a wonderful day in dublin. all occured

Artwork Comments

  • timbuckley
  • evon ski
  • KobayashiMaru
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  • Cynthia Lund Torroll
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