#Irish #NobelPrize #XXCentury #XXICentury
Shifting brilliancies. Then winte… In a doorway, and on the stone doo… A beggar shivering in silhouette. So the particular judgement might… Bare wallstead and a cold hearth r…
Here is the girl’s head like an ex… Oval-faced, prune-skinned, prune-s… They unswaddled the wet fern of he… And made an exhibition of its coil… Let the air at her leathery beauty…
The wintry haw is burning out of s… crab of the thorn, a small light f… wanting no more from them but that… the wick of self-respect from dyin… not having to blind them with illu…
“We were killing pigs when the Yanks arrived. A Tuesday morning, sunlight and gutter-blood Outside the slaughter house.
Vowels ploughed into other: opened… The mildest February for twenty y… Is mist bands over furrows, a deep… Vulnerable to distant gargling tra… Our road is steaming, the turned-u…
When you plunged The light of Tuscany wavered And swung through the pool From top to bottom. I loved your wet head and smashing…
She taught me what her uncle once… How easily the biggest coal block… If you got the grain and the hamme… The sound of that relaxed alluring… Its co-opted and obliterated echo,
Our shells clacked on the plates. My tongue was a filling estuary, My palate hung with starlight: As I tasted the salty Pleiades Orion dipped his foot into the wat…
The pockets of our greatcoats full… No kitchens on the run, no strikin… We moved quick and sudden in our o… The priest lay behind ditches with… A people hardly marching... on the…
As you plaited the harvest bow You implicated the mellowed silenc… In wheat that does not rust But brightens as it tightens twist… Into a knowable corona,
I sat all morning in the college s… Counting bells knelling classes to… At two o’clock our neighbors drove… In the porch I met my father cryi… He had always taken funerals in hi…
Her scarf a la Bardot, In suede flats for the walk, She came with me one evening For air and friendly talk. We crossed the quiet river,
All I know is a door into the dar… Outside, old axles and iron hoops… Inside, the hammered anvil’s short… The unpredictable fantail of spark… Or hiss when a new shoe toughens i…
I can feel the tug of the halter at the nape of her neck, the wind on her naked front. It blows her nipples
As if he had been poured in tar, he lies on a pillow of turf and seems to weep the black river of himself.