Poetry By
Clare Kirwan
Published on: 4/3/2009
The Airport Run
Four a.m. and night is greasing the streets. The breath of all the sleeping people hangs over town and I find myself waiting on red at the deserted crossroads for nobody. The moon is tangled in a net of clouds. I will go back to bed, and you will sleep on the plane. I will wake up to the familiar; the heating coming on, creaking and stretching like you when prodded awake; muttering and grumbling like you at the petty autocracy of a clock. I will hear life in its arteries, the audible thump of its heart, feel how the wood under my bare feet has the warmth of skin.
Published on: 10/22/2008
Solar Campus
It faced the south, looked out to open fields of land and sky, gathered the idle sun with glassy eyes that followed its trajectory. The temperature set the curriculum and pupils basked in rows like hothouse flowers, thoughts oven-fresh, and scented with their rising. How dazzling we were: swift, incisive, fired with enthusiasm; hard work blistering the pages; each illumination a pinprick of radiance burning like new stars in the firmament. We were inspired. Solar flares were hot in '76 - the stored-up energy of sultry June radiated through wet holidays; damp games inside on rainy afternoons with dizzy brain cells swimming in their spheres. When autumn came, our hopes and aspirations feinted and faded along with September's new books and uniforms. All the heart spidering out of our calligraphy, sleeping in history, washed out of art, leaking away into wasted experiments, lost in the winter's new geography. Hands froze above the page, and all we knew as, clouding over, we ran down like toys, was freeze-framed at the back of every skull and we became surly automatons. The first snow packed our heads like cotton wool, we lined up shivering in navy blue, hibernating, waiting for the sun.
|