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Departure from Tradition (edited/redrafted)

Posted to Action Poetry




Departure from Tradition

The bog
has all
been dug,

each slab
has been
annexed.

The past
a shelter
unchanging,

each retreat
guiltless
submersion

or subversion
in the sludge
of (yeah) some “self-evidence”
of time.
The Present
harder
to reasonably define;
its clime, its chime, avoiding ritualistic refinements, even slight re-draftings or avoidances,
For there is no 'thing'
and my city centre cannot hold
its truth
its paradox,
its persistent flux of nothingness.
Nameless. A null skull wrapped in packages
ever the consumers friend (but cannot be exhumed in time)
and still “ugily” alive,
a gross Belly,
and a heart still murmuring
unlike that mute sodden
silence of our traditional past your
of Heaney peat, past now,
Yeat’s particular history’s dead,
Thick tongued Kavanagh an alien sound,
For in here is my life without rain or wind –
no organic earth abounds;
Your ochre bandaged Antaeus is banished
'Simulacra', 'Synthetic Plane'
(Being Industrial Breath)
*My* own birth pain
Begins here

John McGuirk (Oct, 2002)