Austin McCarron

 

 

Immigration

 

On Waterloo Bridge I eat

a thousand languages

with my back to the world.

I taste its smell with the riches

of earth.  I invent a home

for each continent of light.  I find

a place for each island and man.

History is like music, a tradition

of song.

 

On a stone clock with gold hands,

the sun is setting on the hour.

Towering over churches of rest,

the City of London, its universal

tongue. Go in peace; the

water is equal to your destination.

 

 

The Hypnotist

 

Hanging around my neck the soul

of the twentieth century,

still warm from its dark cremations.

Looking

into its eyes I suggest a final number.

I hear millions and millions of voices.

 

The innocent conduct house to house

searches and like

grim fathers the evil return with flowers.

Green with animal nature,

the blood of countless races oozes out

of the death of its unspeakable  hands.

 

Hoarse screams and blind laughter reach

a climax and coagulate.  I snap my fingers.

I pass out rushes of light.

Returned from trances with peaceful and

calm revelations the children of snow

coloured forests and dangerous inventions.

 

 

Austin McCarron © 2011

Great War Poem

 

I sail on a ship to nowhere

but the sea is a cloud through

which fire passes.

Ribs of flesh I gather like coins

to throw at air.

 

On travels of existence I wind up

in a hut with docile sores and read

in silence

to friends of decomposing corpses.

 

Out of experience of loneliness

I know blood is possessed of a scent

to rub on the soul of my enemy but

truth is forgiven and

I see clearly the end of its desolation.

 

Animals butchered return my vision and

the water erupts like a stall of extravagant

meat, where death

is its own conscience

and scarcely is the sun a reward for time.

 

Rolled back like a boulder outside a cave

my compassion has few tears

but I pity grey avenues

with profound  tunnels groomed for loss.

 

I count the price, where freakish creative

winds stir the medals on a far off shirt.

Behind silent coaches there is a grave

I once knew and its patience is described.

 

 

Austin McCarron © 2011