Sunday Poem

From The Pearl Works

Little Yang Sing, Yuzu, Hunan, Wong Wong, Imperial Siam:
all those bright syllables cascading into the bottle-bank at 5 a.m.

Spring. We get it.
After weeks on ice, buckets of pussy willow outside Woo Sang blossom & each evening is granted a little extra credit.

This is the goose-egg symbol of perfection that your perfectly pursed little lips mouthed in my direction, darling, many many moons ago.
O . . .

And this? The handful of coppers daylight borrows from October.
Come bright hour. Be bright. Be ours. Be extra, ecstatic, immaterial, other.

Glory be the carnal surface:
aluminium on flats across, blasted lime by late sun; the water cooler’s translucence, a still p.m. in the office.

Friggin’ Wigan pier! Nada here, zilch, squat, divil the peep . . .
‘The point’s the road to Wigan pier,’ she’s giggling, ‘not the pier.’ Deep.

Herewith my current credo: all pastoral is virtual, ever was & shall be, world without end . . . Boom!
This day of our lord I glimpsed into the server room.

I sleep in my daughter’s bed one night, I sleep in my son’s the next.
I pray that I will wake each morning to azure, to absolution, to text.

I toast my new age. I drink its tongue-roll, its wheel-whirr, on the road to Montecarlo.
Quarantaquattro, quarantaquattro, quarantaquattro . . .

Grazie Signore for ordinary time, for this privilege of sound & light,
for bricks & stones that hold its heat after the sun has been & set.

Glory be this glare, this solar self, this blanched out screen.
Glory be its tangerine charging me all afternoon. Glory be its indoor green.

Grazie Signore for this fathomless astronomical fluke of landing here at all,
for the full circle that we’ve come, the blast it’s been, the ball . . .

O slow coach, freeze-mode yellow solar yoyo O hand-thrown old gold snow globe
O rose most blown O whole whorled ‘out there’ lodestar de l’aube

O glory hole l’aurore O bowl-of-cored-sloes stone-cold low glow
O homophone O grown son showboating solo over our known world so moments ago

O heliotrope O blossom bole O trompe l’oeil orange grove we home in
O old soul, no bones glowworm without whose strobe we’d mope eternal gloaming

O closing words O lovely hopeless song (one more!) invoking love gone south
O storeroom door that’s on a slope & opens outwards O open mouth

by Conor O'Callaghan
from The Sun King
Gallery Press, Oldcastle, 2013