Saturday Poem

Sinead's Voice

Sinead's voice falls into me, impregnating me
as the Holy Spirit impregnated the Virgin Mary.

“Sometimes I am told in commendation . . .
that my movement perished
under the firing squads
of 1916,” wrote Yeats.

Over half a century later,
in a documentary, I see Ben Bulben,
and at its foot, the poet's grave
surrounded by the evening halo.

Still fearing my own end
I foretell the end of the world.
Life still scares me.
Restless, my horse still neighs in his stable.

On the other side of the scales
is the voice of Sinead O'Conner,
perfumed in musk,
like amber in which
forever the whale's death shriek
is captured.

In Sinead's voice, Yeats calm
departure always resounds.

Now it falls into me and impregnates me
like the light of a forgotten
pagan god.

by Peter Semolic
from Hiša iz besed
publisher: Aleph, Ljubljana, 1996
translation: 2004, Ana Jelnikar