{"id":3747,"date":"2014-07-02T16:00:56","date_gmt":"2014-07-02T16:00:56","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3747"},"modified":"2014-07-02T16:20:46","modified_gmt":"2014-07-02T16:20:46","slug":"two-poems-12","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3747","title":{"rendered":"Two Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

CECIL HURWITZ, TADHG O\u2019DRISCOLL<\/strong><\/p>\n

Around 1943, Cecil, you dropped what you were doing
\nJust to follow me here into the history section
\nWith my arms full to the brim with heavy Robert Fisks,
\nHim that tries to make everything right, him that
\nIn old age thinks the world would be much better
\nIf people could only be reasonable: as you know
\nWell, that\u2019s only a lovely English fallacy, encouraged,
\nNo doubt, by too much obsessing with Edmund Burke;
\nNot that you read excessively, just that your Peace work
\nAnd your Peace Mass made you seem like a beech tree
\nIn an English meadow in an age between Napoleons \u2013
\nUnlike Tadhg, bustling, unsettled, with something
\nAlways written down, one verse of a song missing,
\nA task for the Music people, a job for Bernard and Kitty,
\nAnd obsessed upon until the job got done. Tadhg,
\nNow that you\u2019ve gone to join the Emperor of Japan
\nIn a place where books are just cherry blossoms, see
\nThat the kettle is singing, that there\u2019s a cup left for me.<\/p>\n

 
\n
\nON READING HEANEY’S ‘Oysters’<\/strong><\/p>\n

Well, I do remember the morning
\nwhen your letter clacked onto the sunlit floor
\nof John Montague’s house. We had been
\nmarveling at our first sight of a Gallimard
\nPl\u00e9iade edition; that loveliness
\nout of Paris, its 1960s velvet slip-case.<\/p>\n

Your poem on the floor was a violation
\nof sorts, an unwelcome welcome reminder
\nthat air is made of salt; and water \u2013
\nthat gives up everything to the world of paper \u2013
\nis also a thriving element. We prised
\nyour oyster open, mindful of the sea<\/p>\n

in Evelyn’s eyes: Mrs Montague, so young
\nand beautiful in her French sunlight
\n(to be born beautiful is a glut of privilege) \u2013
\nIt was not that flowers on the window withered
\nas John flattened your new poem on the table,
\nbut the redress we felt, that sting of brine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

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