john o'connell

after sun and sea.

the rush to the station,
back to the town;
...

a clarinet
brightening up
the night
in the cheerful
...

a failure.

the harsh note of reality
had crept into his voice -
...

writing.

none of this
is important.
...

3 in 1,
1 in 3,
all being
almighty
...

You are like a well
of fresh water
in a desert
of desolation.
...

a soul on fire.

the village, this morning,
a snowy world
...

outside my window
the blur of a november fog
hastens up eternal ghosts, hades-like,
from gardens bleeding with pungent odours.
...

as children
we played
spontaneously
together;
...

a human voice,
a Slavic magic
storming into
the dried out
...

a piano sonata
echoes
from the valleys
of a heart's
...

a cool breeze
shaves the contours
of my face
in a night lit
...

2 girls
full of joy,
linked
arm in arm,
...

march winds
scurrying across the bending tree tops
and
high in the watery heavens
...

I am not
in control anymore;
unidentifiable powers play
with the furniture
...

the dregs of a late-night
hanging over one,
the aftertaste of alcohol
and tobacco,
...

I must be mad -
up the whole night,
a favoured night,
writing and writing;
...

see!
the savage will's sinking fangs
bite deep down into the bubbling head
of the madly laughing larynx
...

monday morning
faces, schulptured in sunken gloom,
throng the streets
in despairing and anxious haste.
...

alone again
in the nochturnal
hours,
with pen
...