{"id":3728,"date":"2014-07-02T16:00:49","date_gmt":"2014-07-02T16:00:49","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3728"},"modified":"2014-07-03T10:20:59","modified_gmt":"2014-07-03T10:20:59","slug":"four-poems-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3728","title":{"rendered":"Four Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

FALSE FRUIT <\/strong><\/p>\n

I keep my eye on the love life
\nof these solemn winter crowns<\/p>\n

and when light becomes various,
\nreturn to the garden to root and mulch<\/p>\n

their tubers, like blousy beasts
\nof kale and reed. Raking and turning<\/p>\n

the sulky pits, I nose them out like truffles,
\nwith their albino breath and stage fright<\/p>\n

bending over to force the pace,
\ncover their face with a mottled drape<\/p>\n

or cosy strip of carpet or cardboard.
\nFor this medicinal false fruit, I\u2019m all<\/p>\n

out of breath, as the puck\u2019s shoot
\nmuscles into a chill that sharpens<\/p>\n

and liquorish stems, purplish swelled
\nreach out to be harvested<\/p>\n

by my host of migrant shepherds
\nin a pre-dawn candlelight.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 
\n<\/p>\n

ORTALON IN BALLYNAHINCH<\/strong><\/p>\n

Mid July, a deluge, a marriage
\nand a hillside church. Ample time
\nto dress a brace of buntings,<\/p>\n

kept in the dark, blinded like lovers,
\ngorged on millet, grapes and figs
\nthen drowned in balls of Armagnac<\/p>\n

and baked for however long
\nit takes to blanch a heart.
\nAnd if beneath the photographer\u2019s<\/p>\n

cape, you taste those other lives –
\nliqueur soaked rambles in the thermals
\nof the Pyrenees, grapeshot<\/p>\n

through Sahara and Camargue –
\nlet it be a ghostly flutter
\nor something approaching order<\/p>\n

that has one yellowhammer house \u2013
\nfrau rise again, to mind the heavens
\nand dust the stars into a paper bag.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

SNOWMELT<\/strong><\/p>\n

Supper talk was of last year\u2019s snow,
\nthaw was late, the mountains white
\nand now as June was growing old
\nthe run-off might come overnight.<\/p>\n

If we never pass this way again,
\nstand and admire the antiquated kilter,
\nthe accommodations wood makes
\nwith itself, and then as shelter<\/p>\n

and then our landlord\u2019s brisk \u2018goodbye\u2019 –
\nisolated, garrulous pioneer,
\nminding his cabin bought mail-order,
\nshipped and delivered here<\/p>\n

as a lonely script, this equerry
\nspeaks of an attendant life, sublime,
\n\u2018I might be living out
\nsomeone else\u2019s design\u2019 –<\/p>\n

and as our highway thunders,
\nless than a notional block,
\nand new bridges speed us over
\nthe gorge to another flat-pack,<\/p>\n

posted, no doubt, from a hanger lot
\nnear the foot of the Cascades, we race
\nthe snowmelt, like the racket
\nin a locomotive\u2019s distant embrace.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n


\nTHOSE DAYS<\/strong><\/p>\n

I used to stand on my porch
\nand see as far as three days walk
\nbut those days are out of reach.<\/p>\n

Near sighted now, a concave earth
\nseen through crushed sand
\nhas a bevel line to show its worth.<\/p>\n

It used to be that I could see far away
\nand that partly still holds true,
\nbut shortened sight, reined in everyday<\/p>\n

is what constitutes the matter now.
\nSoon everything will be at arm\u2019s length,
\nluger, cell, remote and wrinkled brow,<\/p>\n

enough to make me want to stay,
\nmore than enough to be going on
\neven if I still dream in the far away.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

FALSE FRUIT I keep my eye on the love life of these solemn winter crowns and when light becomes various, return to the garden to root and mulch their tubers, like blousy beasts of kale and reed. Raking and turning the sulky pits, I nose them out like truffles, with their albino breath and stage […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":91,"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":[303,306],"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=3728\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3728&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=\"FALSE FRUIT I keep my eye on the love life of these solemn winter crowns and when light becomes various, return to the garden to root and mulch their tubers, like blousy beasts of kale and reed. 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His awards include The Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, The Brendan Behan Award for Poetry and Literature bursaries from The Arts Council, Ireland. Fanning's poems have also been adapted by the composer Ian Wilson for his Harbouring Suite (2008). 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