Peter O’ Neill – Three Poems

poetPeter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967. His debut collection Antiope (Stonesthrow Poetry) appeared in 2013, and to critical acclaim. ‘Certainly a voice to the reckoned with.’ Dr Brigitte Le JueZ (DCU). His second collection The Elm Tree was published by Lapwing (2014), ‘A thing of wonder to behold.’ Ross Breslin ( The Scum Gentry ). His third collection, a partly bilingual work, The Dark Pool is due to appear early in 2015 (Mauvaise Graine). As well as being a regular contributor to A New Ulster and The Scum Gentry his work has also appeared in The Galway Review, Danse Macabre, Outburst, Colony, Levure Littéraire, Mauvaise Graine, Abridged, and Bone Orchard.

For M

Such is the sound of the phonemes in flight
The prolific inscriptions indicative of absolute nothingness,
Like an electric saw spinning round and around,
The words spiralling out from the opening
In an unrelenting cascade of monotony.

First, how to calculate their sheer weight,
The weight of total absence in presence,
Indicative of some wholly preventable, and so tragic,
Birth trauma; what maternal deficit, what Oedipal rage
Fuels this despotic reign of linguistic imperialism?

The Quaquaraqua sequesters himself in company,
Enveloping himself in a veritable mist of parole.
The assembled company silently groan at the ensuing
Unremitting verbal assault, whose signs lead only to their unique place of origin. _________________________________

Crepuscule of Crepuscules

The full horror and monotony of the flowers is eternal mourning,
From the waves are pulverised an eternal lament
Which breaks upon the rocks transfiguring the day
Into apocalyptic evening with the sudden crashing of magentas.

Not even Shakespeare could anticipate this particular flute
Of non meaning, sing out the further canticle of our ferocious
Schooling. Oh the constant apprenticeship of tribal opacity,
And whose rich ambiguity is our sole horizon.

There it lies stretched and elongated, the total
And absolute corpse, which is to be eternally dissected,
Lying below the makeshift mating wings,

Trashing blindly at the bloodless and feverish meats,
Which will further spawn a night of the demons of plenty.
And which, only Christ’s last words could possibly deliver you.

Tenth Wedding Anniversary
For Alessia

Salvador Dali, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Luis Bunuel
Have just left Port Lligat, they were last seen entering
Porto Palma on a Steinway pulled by a couple of albino
Donkey, who in turn were being led by two Catalan priests.

The sea on which they sailed was the colour of black flint,
And upon the beach a wedding ceremony was being held;
The groom was dressed as the bride, the bride the groom.
She held in her left hand a statue signifying the origin of all patriarchs.

The groom, meanwhile, held a scissors,
And the President of the Municipal Association
Was inviting him to cut the ribbon of all ribbons.

When he did, the seas tides convulsed
And became pure Cannonau, which was later served
Up to them by the local fishermen in clam shells served with garlic.


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