The Truth of Angels and Ravens
If you have ever read an autobiography
of an Angel you know
they first kiss every page, then let
them float bound with white hair
in the morning mist of sunshine
until they drop
into the mailbox of God.
If God rejects the submission
(for he gets far more
than he can possibly publish)
he summons a raven
to collect the words - the small
symbols for mankind to decipher - and ties
them to a black feathered back
with golden string made from
stolen ingots confiscated from wall street
embezzlers and big business
brokers. Then the raven swoops down
to earth and drops the manuscript
at a bus stop, or train depot,
or alley way in Brooklyn to watch
the words blow like wind waves
of everyday lives.
And that is how we know
Angels write quite exaggerated
prose about the possibility of their existence.
Three Poems for Joyce and Beckett
Thoughts for James Joyce on Bloomsday, 2009
The heart is a son
made from a world of whispered names.
He makes us beg for secrets
in dark forests.
Trees peak still like Ireland
lit by a century of new slogans.
We are clothed in ancient flesh
borrowed like God’s candles
burnt down for cracks in wooden faces.
We make out lilies by the sea
faint white avenues in air
pavements where canes step down
coat sleeves beat a gesture from light.
Easter with Samuel Beckett (Born on Good Friday)
Upstairs my wife’s family is having house church.
Downstairs I’m waiting for Godot.
Poem Written on James Joyce’s Birthday, Feb 2, 2010
Clear glass eye-patch,
Mass card labyrinth.
I can see your sugar of roses
foul pleasures in the spring
emblazoned on a bench
pipe smell of burn.
A long letter
costs half a crown,
parchment caresses the skin.
Tremble now, say yes.
Copyright Tyler Farrell 2012