{"id":11479,"date":"2020-07-28T08:53:03","date_gmt":"2020-07-28T07:53:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11479"},"modified":"2020-07-29T12:09:25","modified_gmt":"2020-07-29T11:09:25","slug":"2-poems-5","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11479","title":{"rendered":"2 Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/h4>\n

Late Blight<\/span><\/span><\/h4>\n


\nThe field had spent years drinking
\nrain and pills. Received infusions, dialysis,
\npesticide repair. Creeslough breathed again!
\nIts scarred mouth opening, sleep-heavy.
\nThe field is threaded through for the new
\nharvest, overwintered. The lambs,
\ncloud-woollen, bounce over orange soil
\nto find a new water, frost-hardy.
\nSome were quick-footed. Some came back later,
\nothers loved the image: their children, alive.
\nHow the young love cappuccinos. The field
\nunderstood, knew they had to swim elsewhere,
\nand was content with its hair of soft grass.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The field, mid-Rosary, was appeared to.
\nTwo boys in soil-brown dungarees. One
\nleading the other by the hand. Not wanting to disturb
\nthe field’s braided hair, they skirt the edge.
\nThey disappear into the cosy wood. ‘Fuck
\nmy mouth’ it hears, and the field, in response,
\nhopes they stay. It pierces its ears with helleborine
\nand blue-eyed grass. The boys come out
\nof the trees. Crack of a can. Come back home
\nSaid the field. The leaves of grass
\nare whistling. I’m wakened It says, reeling.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Grief Jog <\/span><\/span><\/h4>\n


\nThe Lagan is lying low
\nand its pocked mud banks
\n\u2013in the moon\u2013could slowly
\nturn to craters. This vision: thanks<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

to uneven pounding of tarmac
\nby wee trainers that\u2019ve had<\/i> it,
\nand a fringe firmly lacquered
\nto a forehead. Everything is shit.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

And I could easily complain
\nabout the elusiveness of this \u2018rhythm\u2019
\nthe good ones have; I look gremlin-like, slain,
\ncouldn\u2019t save him.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Cutting along as much as I can, up
\nand around the gloomy perimeter of the park.
\nYou smell juniper.
\nThe trees are disquiet in the dark.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

It has been January since even
\nyou left (now March)
\nand a mediocre run in deep evening
\nis all I can manage.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The hospital rises
\nout of the pukey water
\nlike a honeycomb earringed spire
\nall reflected back in the calm river<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and the quiet of 9p.m. on a Monday,
\nbar the wind to the trees
\nand all the runners running,
\nbreathing in, and bounding home.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Late Blight The field had spent years drinking rain and pills. Received infusions, dialysis, pesticide repair. Creeslough breathed again! Its scarred mouth opening, sleep-heavy. The field is threaded through for the new harvest, overwintered. The lambs, cloud-woollen, bounce over orange soil to find a new water, frost-hardy. Some were quick-footed. Some came back later, others […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":346,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[394,395],"tags":[398],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n2 Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11479\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11479&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"2 Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Late Blight The field had spent years drinking rain and pills. Received infusions, dialysis, pesticide repair. Creeslough breathed again! Its scarred mouth opening, sleep-heavy. The field is threaded through for the new harvest, overwintered. The lambs, cloud-woollen, bounce over orange soil to find a new water, frost-hardy. Some were quick-footed. 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His poems appear in Poetry Ireland Review, The Stinging Fly, and fourteen poems. His first pamphlet of poems\u2060\u2014Safe Home\u2060\u2014has just been published by Green Bottle Press.\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?author=346\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"2 Poems - The Manchester Review","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11479","next":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11479&page=2","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"2 Poems - The Manchester Review","og_description":"Late Blight The field had spent years drinking rain and pills. Received infusions, dialysis, pesticide repair. Creeslough breathed again! Its scarred mouth opening, sleep-heavy. The field is threaded through for the new harvest, overwintered. 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