DWW: Electric Acorn 9: Poetry : Charles Travis

Charles Travis

Appalachia

Appalachian blood
runs with uisce beatha,
Rusted relic of a V8 engine cradles green shoots
In Easter mud.

A creek trickles behind
A line blowing rags outside
A cobbled tar-paper shack,
As if to wash poverty from the bones in the soil.

The old mystic
Lives drunk in these tangled hills
Following the pregnant moon at night.

And a girl,
Barely a shadow of garden below her belly,
Tastes corn-liquor on the tongue
of a silent suitor.

In the candle light of a wake,
The waxen face of the dead glows
dressed in black.

High in the holler,
The keening rises to the sky
Thunder clogging,
As the rain pours upon the faces of the congregation.

And an old mountain tune,
From Ulster is recalled
Faintly in the misty eve.

Pagan Moon

A serpent coils at the doorstep of my skull
Guarding the gods of wind and blood, while the saints
In the attic of my mind swing from a trapeze.
At dusk, a breeze catches the candles in your painted eyes
As my heart shudders in repose.
You lead me up your winding staircase
And down a hall of laughter,
To a banquet table holding bowls of golden wine.
Lyres are plucked by the hands of ancients
And the music floats like song birds over fields of barley
Where the sky is the colour of rain
And the stone ruins of a kingdom
frame the pagan moon light.

Sisters

for Robert Bly and Seamus Heaney

A crow flies over Bogside through drifting sheets of summer rain,
Between black entrails of petrol smoke
Ejaculated by rusty petals of silent flame,
Settles in silhouette,
Shakes beads of drizzle from its crest.
She Caw-Caws across the shadow of waters,
Becomes the raven-haired woman,
Tarred and feathered by the brush-strokes of Badbh.

Macha's horses kick blood and shit from Augean stables,
Their flanks flecked with crimson offal,
They canter through Derry streets,
To scatter Rosary Beads and Lambeg Drums, Armalites and Shashes.

III

See the Teeth Mother at last
As Morrigan straddles the mouth of the Foyle,
Faighin failteach an Daghda,
Legs quiver with the ecstasy of violence,
Thighs trust to devour the Children of Uladh,
An rosc catha expiated through dying lips.

The soft Dawn comes to Tyrone,
An cailleach rises to kneel and suckles the teets of a dun-cow,
Kissing the swollen udder in thanksgiving
For the tender sweetness of milk.

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First Poem

First Story

Appalachian blood runs with uisce beatha, Rusted relic of a V8 engine cradles green shoots In Easter mud. A creek trickles behind A line blowing rags outside A cobbled tar-paper shack, As if to wash poverty from the bones in the soil. The old mystic Lives drunk in these tangled hills Following the pregnant moon at night. And a girl, Barely a shadow of garden below her belly, Tastes corn-liquor on the tongue of a silent suitor. In the candle light of a wake, The waxen face of the dead glows dressed in black. High in the holler, The keening rises to the sky Thunder clogging, As the rain pours upon the faces of the congregation. And an old mountain tune, From Ulster is recalled Faintly in the misty eve. Pagan Moon A serpent coils at the doorstep of my skull Guarding the gods of wind and blood, while the saints In the attic of my mind swing from a trapeze. At dusk, a breeze catches the candles in your painted eyes As my heart shudders in repose. You lead me up your winding staircase And down a hall of laughter, To a banquet table holding bowls of golden wine. Lyres are plucked by the hands of ancients And the music floats like song birds over fields of barley Where the sky is the colour of rain And the stone ruins of a kingdom frame the pagan moon light. SISTERS for Robert Bly and Seamus Heaney I A crow flies over Bogside through drifting sheets of summer rain, Between black entrails of petrol smoke Ejaculated by rusty petals of silent flame, Settles in silhouette, Shakes beads of drizzle from its crest. She Caw-Caws across the shadow of waters, Becomes the raven-haired woman, Tarred and feathered by the brush-strokes of Badbh. II Macha's horses kick blood and shit from Augean stables, Their flanks flecked with crimson offal, They canter through Derry streets, To scatter Rosary Beads and Lambeg Drums, Armalites and Shashes. III See the Teeth Mother at last As Morrigan straddles the mouth of the Foyle, Faighin failteach an Daghda, Legs quiver with the ecstasy of violence, Thighs trust to devour the Children of Uladh, An rosc catha expiated through dying lips. IV The soft Dawn comes to Tyrone, An cailleach rises to kneel and hail the teets of a dun-cow, Kissing the swollen udder in thanksgiving For the tender sweetness of milk.