matthew sweeney: irish seas matthew sweeney ยท itzul /tras: kirmen uribe
Matthew Sweeney was born in Donegal, Ireland in 1952. He started writing poetry at an early age but dind't publish anything until he was twenty. Since then he's published 8 books of poetry, a novel and a book of short stories. JHONJOE'S SNOWMAN
Johnjoe built a snowman
shapek like a wigwam
and postbox-sized.
What he didn't tell
was that inside the snowman
he'd stuffed the cat.
All Sunday morning
he patted with his shovel
the sides of a snowman.
He didn't bother with a head.
He'd never seen a snowman
that looked real yet.
How was it snowman?
Because Johnjoe said so,
and he should know.
What the world didn't need
(apart from forzen cats)
was another white snowman.
In memory of the cat
he took the snowman
and prayed it black.
THE COLD
After the all-hour drinking bout,
and the punchless acrimony,
he set off for the sea, on foot,
a good mile in the wind,
past zigzag lines of parked cars
and the disco din, past streetligths,
though if he'd needed light
the stars would habe done:
down to the beach he wobbled,
a beercan in both pockets,
to sit on a rock and drink,
and think of his marriage,
and when both cans were empty
he removed his shoes
to walk unsteadily into the sea
and make for Iceland,
but the Atlantic sent him home again,
not a corpse, not a ghost,
to waken his wife
and complain of the cold.
A SMELL OF FISH
A smell of fish filled the valley
and all the seagulls came inland.
Cats run everywhere, sniffing.
Men checked the level of the sea.
Some could be heard hammering.
Churches filled to pray for wind.
Johnjoe built a snowman
shapek like a wigwam
and postbox-sized.
What he didn't tell
was that inside the snowman
he'd stuffed the cat.
All Sunday morning
he patted with his shovel
the sides of a snowman.
He didn't bother with a head.
He'd never seen a snowman
that looked real yet.
How was it snowman?
Because Johnjoe said so,
and he should know.
What the world didn't need
(apart from forzen cats)
was another white snowman.
In memory of the cat
he took the snowman
and prayed it black.
THE COLD
After the all-hour drinking bout,
and the punchless acrimony,
he set off for the sea, on foot,
a good mile in the wind,
past zigzag lines of parked cars
and the disco din, past streetligths,
though if he'd needed light
the stars would habe done:
down to the beach he wobbled,
a beercan in both pockets,
to sit on a rock and drink,
and think of his marriage,
and when both cans were empty
he removed his shoes
to walk unsteadily into the sea
and make for Iceland,
but the Atlantic sent him home again,
not a corpse, not a ghost,
to waken his wife
and complain of the cold.
A SMELL OF FISH
A smell of fish filled the valley
and all the seagulls came inland.
Cats run everywhere, sniffing.
Men checked the level of the sea.
Some could be heard hammering.
Churches filled to pray for wind.
