THE MAN OF ARAN
But what if it were not epic.
Before the echo sounder was invented
fishermen let down weighted piano wire,
they listened for a school to hit, a note to sound.
Perhaps a scale -- grace notes as single fish
hit E flat minor, say, or strange tunes
as a shoal crescendoed through the water,
minnows and sharks, sharps and flats --
heard from above at a different pitch
not perfect, but accurate, close enough for a jazz;
their watery playing gave them up to slaughter
but the boatman dreamed of women singing
and the song coaxed him as he lured mackerel
with feathers that darted like blue jays
through the clear sea. He stayed out too long.
Let's leave it at that.
There would be cliffs rearing soon enough,
weather fighting.
No need for all that hauling of wrack
to the wrong side of the island,
for half-drowning the locals, for shark.
We know how it works.
A pretty lure, hunger, the hook. No storm is as sweet
or deadly as the sting, the barb's sink.
THE JOINER'S BENCH
Somehow she found herself drawn
to his desk, that intimate place,
ran her hand over its surface
as you would smooth a skirt down.
A ridge where the lathe had skipped
delayed her and she looked up at his eyes
surprised by how familiar
their blue black stain. It spread like ink.
His mind played over her poems,
her hand slipped over the scarred timber,
a wave of slim-fingered elegance. Best left at this
best to have set the ocean on fire
between them than a shared desk --
trees were her nemesis.
--MARY O'MALLEY
Borrowed from a volume I heartily recommend:
THREE IRISH POETS: An Anthology
Paula Meehan, Mary O'Malley, Eavan Boland
Edited by Eavan Boland
Carcanet Press, 2003
