Kevin. J. Nolan, Dublin born, holds an honours degree in Philosophy from The Milltown Institute. He also studied fine art in the National College of Art and Design. His writing has appeared in, Skylight 47, Colony and Studies, among other journals. Also a singer/composer he has recently released his debut album entitled “Fredrick & The Golden Dawn”, notably he has recorded a duet, “Aubade” with Julie Feeney.
The Making of a Memory
(modernist architecture, the twin towers and you)
With functioning structure
the steel skeletons sought
to lift the spirit of the city.
Bad acoustics, frames,
rain and excrement
left a modern mark
upon a people
unable to answer or endure.
Was it night’s alleys that drew revolt?
Would sunrise stop the muggings?
September sun hung swollen
between two glistening towers,
like two wounds across the heavens.
Inflicted by a rational animal
cornered by meaninglessness.
Till city shook
Fallen communities of the sky
to the stronger shoulders
of another world’s spiralling spirit
unable to answer or relate.
Alienated from truth.
TV light shone blue and white
Us as two platonic prisoners.
I craved to search in vain
for the hiding animals
of a reality void of humanity.
‘Poetic’ I thought, but
I didn’t scramble for my note books.
Instead we talked all night
and I remember then you loved me.
All the blood
swishing around in my body
and the vibrations of my heart beat.
Really I have nothing to say
swishing around in my body
and the vibrations of my heart beat
and my thoughts
and the silence.
The road Stones
dead now where once he wore his hat
yet fake energy filled fat-fingered hands
scribbling lines and ta-ta-tatting
into ontic typewriter
nine years of the gay science
trapped at that penultimate phoneme
left him an illiterate Rat Man
tomorrow he’ll find his life’s story
a type of realism he would never accept
it stopped coming up in conversation and
he no longer counted the stones
on the road outside his house.
Dancing to amplified silence
and scantly clad billboard thoughts
take the form of one voice
running outwardly awkwardly
and understandably so
like vibrating sounds of buzzing machinery
rusting and rabid
a relentless, timeless democracy of sound
bleeding with pleasure
against a piano landscape of rust prints
and natural advertisements
this is a private reverie speaking
in the year two thousand and eight
the sky’s lungs are old and overcast
like the face in the crowd
denunciated, reviled but renowned
wrinkly with sin and sawdust
with scarecrows eyes
tempting every doghouse dandy
that walks or crawls
through forests of naked pianos
and the absurd undergrowth of
once in the yellow light of a late train
intrigued and rambunctious
drinking drafts of heavy rain in the inky night
I touched on the thrown thoughts of my youth
cumbersome but unified
a bookshelf existence mummified in my mind
thwarting toward too many unanswered silences
verso, recto, verso, recto
a sacrosanctity sadly subject to a useless scrutiny
I had no answers
and them like pausing dancers
waiting behind velvet curtains
urging me “outgrow this transparent silence
take up the sword and speak!”