#glanmore

So i keep seeing gifsets of the trailer for the new Carmilla movie and I keep seeing my old work 😆

Glanmore Sonnet III . This evening the cuckoo and the corncrake (So much, too much) consorted at twilight. It was all crepuscular and iambic. Out on the field a baby rabbit Took his bearings, and I knew the deer (I’ve seen them too from the window of the house, Like connoisseurs, inquisitive of air) Were careful under larch and May-green spruce. I had said earlier, ‘I won’t relapse From this strange loneliness I’ve brought us to. Dorothy and William—’ She interrupts: ‘You’re not going to compare us two...?’ Outside a rustling and twig-combing breeze Refreshes and relents. Is cadences.

Glanmore Sonnet II . Sensings, mountings from the hiding places, Words entering almost the sense of touch Ferreting themselves out of their dark hutch— ‘These things are not secrets but mysteries,’ Oisin Kelly told me years ago In Belfast, hankering after stone That connived with the chisel, as if the grain Remembered what the mallet tapped to know. Then I landed in the hedge-school of Glanmore And from the backs of ditches hoped to raise A voice caught back off slug-horn and slow chanter That might continue, hold, dispel, appease: Vowels ploughed into other, opened ground, Each verse returning like the plough turned round.

Glanmore Sonnet I . Vowels ploughed into other: opened ground. The mildest February for twenty years Is mist bands over furrows, a deep no sound Vulnerable to distant gargling tractors. Our road is steaming, the turned-up acres breathe. Now the good life could be to cross a field And art a paradigm of earth new from the lathe Of ploughs. My lea is deeply tilled. Old ploughsocks gorge the subsoil of each sense And I am quickened with a redolence Of farmland as a dark unblown rose. Wait then...Breasting the mist, in sowers’ aprons, My ghosts come striding into their spring stations. The dream grain whirls like freakish Easter snows.