{"id":2435,"date":"2013-04-15T20:59:35","date_gmt":"2013-04-15T20:59:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2435"},"modified":"2013-05-15T10:39:31","modified_gmt":"2013-05-15T10:39:31","slug":"four-poems-by-conor-ocallaghan","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2435","title":{"rendered":"Four Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"you<\/a>
\n 
\nTranslation<\/strong><\/p>\n

Imagine you are this poem
\nmoments before it is translated,<\/p>\n

full of old stuff nobody says anymore.
\nThere is a mill wheel. There is even a soul,<\/p>\n

for crying out loud! And there is this stile
\nyou sit out on to catch the last of a sun<\/p>\n

that will not survive from the original
\nwhen it happens as something<\/p>\n

really simple like kids moving in
\nto the affluent block parallel to this.<\/p>\n

They have been playing lacrosse in the heat.
\nThe trucks have come and gone.<\/p>\n

Now they are placing down their sticks.
\nNow they are standing gawping through<\/p>\n

that gap in the hedge the cats bored
\nyears ago as if through fog.<\/p>\n

The farmyard implements
\nscattered like punctuation marks,<\/p>\n

the armless tailor\u2019s dummy in the asparagus,
\nhave no equivalents in their tongue.<\/p>\n

They cannot hear or answer the woodpecker\u2019s
\nlandline ringing out in your maple.<\/p>\n

They have only the handful of phrases
\nyou are mouthing to go on.<\/p>\n

I have a soul, you appear to be calling.
\nMake of my soul what you will.
\n 
\n<\/p>\n

The Sun King<\/strong><\/p>\n

I wanted his sky-blue Ford, its sheetrock, its transmission issues.
\nI listened to his low-down yodeling skimming sunk studs
\nand snake rattles like wind-chimes round his mantle in the hills
\nand parables waiting for windows to arrive where some lunchbox
\nwas always asked what sort of lunchbox he took Roy for.
\nLe roi soleil<\/em>.
\n                         It stuck, from first coming with a bucket of mud
\nto the day of reckoning his lady friend brought marble cake
\nand Roy joined hands in a ring that all lost rooms be filled
\nby a sun to which even the godless among us could say Amen.<\/p>\n

Then one afternoon Leaves of Grass<\/em> fell onto the laminate.
\nThe station wagon wasn\u2019t in the drive. The sprinklers,
\nfor all the gilt and shadow in the street, had run dry.
\nMy boy and girl were grown elsewhere. And somehow I,
\nfive years east, woke in mind of an odd-job deity no heathen
\nneed ever wake in mind of. King of sun, pray for me again.
\n 
\n<\/p>\n

Lantern Slides<\/strong><\/p>\n

Time was Money \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                           stopped with us upwards \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                                                     of a month \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                  once every year \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                 lording it large\r\n\u00a0\u00a0 burning hard \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                                        both ends.\r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0         A daylight hoot \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0               by night \r\nthe fridge shuddered \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0          supplements rustled\r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                       and there Money always \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0      already was all palaver all \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                                      sugary waffle.\r\nWhat memory prospers \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                    in grain it spends in pixels. \r\nYou still happen \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                        on receipts secreted \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0  about the place like flutter \r\n           slips or eggs \r\n           at Easter.\r\nCuckoospit, chlorophyll? \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                           Sure thing\u2026 Spring \r\nspells mostly those gorgeous residual \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                                            jitters born of assessment \r\nof a self that used be \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                  pretty fiscal. \u00a0 This \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0is of the carpet \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0                                      bag Money never returned for,\r\na parallelogram of vivid dust through the screen door.\r\nThis is \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0         of an heirloom bound in cloth Atlantic Calm.\r\nThis is of \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0             a note unopened between shakers on the table that \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0      (till now) \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0             remained implicit. Don\u2019t even \r\n\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0  dream about it.<\/pre>\n
 
\n<\/p>\n
Tiger Redux<\/strong><\/p>\n
Tiger, tiger word of mouth
\nnow that you\u2019ve gone AWOL, south,
\nhas it you were lame or wrong,
\nsleaze incarnate all along.<\/p>\n
Truth? Though you were mighty strange \u2013
\nso laissez faire<\/em>, so keep the change<\/em> \u2013
\nspare us from the dope who (bore)
\ndigs the hole we were before.<\/p>\n
In the forests of the past
\nburns your blinding sun, the blast,
\ncat\u2019s pyjamas, rush we\u2019d (\u2018craic\u2019)
\ngladly have you magic back.<\/p>\n
Magic back designer shakes,
\ngold-soaked morning-after flakes,
\nfibre optics, soft-top wheels,
\ntax incentive movie stills,<\/p>\n
Xerox plants like pleasure domes,
\nsushi bars, the second homes,
\ninvestment apts in Budapest,
\nlight rail lanes, the glitz, the rest.<\/p>\n
Magic back the casual flings\u2019
\nappetite for matter\/things,
\nowning\/craving all at once,
\none point three for tea and buns<\/p>\n
served off Polish number plates,
\nsyndicates, the real estates
\npre being repossessed by ghosts,
\nbubbly snipes and server hosts<\/p>\n
bobbing up like speech balloons,
\ncranes, Nigerian gospel tunes
\nwhooping out of refuge blocks,
\njet-set enclaves, shares and stocks<\/p>\n
crashing every christening bash,
\nlaundry bags grown used to cash,
\npolished granite firmaments,
\nsleeplessness and supplements<\/p>\n
a glossy weekend dawns to, warms,
\nfilms of sweat that habit forms,
\npins-and-needles, sales agreed,
\ndecades on skip-forward, speed,<\/p>\n
adrenalin like lemon zest,
\nmurmurs, furniture distressed,
\nbouncy castles hard with air,
\nclubs, arrhythmic ticks, the blare<\/p>\n
of sirens\u2019 song on motorways
\noverheating into haze.
\nSeems we were (regret sublime?)
\nat the party all the time.<\/p>\n
All that jouissance<\/em>, that juice.
\nPost the 80s outpost blues
\n(signed away and midweek pushed),
\nall that feeling central, flushed.<\/p>\n
All that buzz like year-round Springs.
\nAll that North Atlantic bling\u2019s
\nrising tide, the waves and boom
\ncharging in another room.<\/p>\n
All that hub became us rich:
\nall euphoric debt, all itch.
\nAll that sweetness, green stuff love
\ncouldn\u2019t furnace fast enough.
\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Imagine you are this poem
\nmoments before it is translated,<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":49,"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":[294],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nFour 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=2435\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2435&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Four Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Imagine you are this poem  moments before it is translated,\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2435\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2013-04-15T20:59:35+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2013-05-15T10:39:31+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/04\/you-reap-what-you-sow.jpg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Conor O'Callaghan\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Conor O'Callaghan\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"4 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2435\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2435\",\"name\":\"Four Poems - The Manchester Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2013-04-15T20:59:35+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2013-05-15T10:39:31+00:00\",\"author\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/c22665aaabbd9996e0730d3424810b2b\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=2435\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/\",\"name\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"description\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":\"required name=search_term_string\"}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/c22665aaabbd9996e0730d3424810b2b\",\"name\":\"Conor O'Callaghan\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"caption\":\"Conor O'Callaghan\"},\"description\":\"Conor O'Callaghan is originally from Ireland, teaches in Sheffield and Lancaster, and lives in Manchester's Chinatown district. 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