Chris Sparks moved from London to Ireland in 2003. He researched, wrote and taught political and social theory for decades, specializing in social uncertainty and the politics of fear. As theoretical fears became eerily actual, he realized that he needed to look at lived experiences from another angle and took to writing poetry. He studied for an M.A.in Creative Practice at ATU Sligo, working with writers, film-makers and musicians and has produced published poetry in written and recorded form since 2018.

Animal

You appear
And in that instant
I see – you can be lost
You are a terror to me
A wonder – still in the moment
Muscles move – a ripple runs your spine
As you unwind your snake of self
All along your ancient bones – stiff as sticks
Mineral rich – a mouthful of salt and bitter pepper
Whether I want you or not – I’ll never be sure
But I already mourn your shadow shape
The map of space that you will leave
When this is done
And you are gone

Flying Boy

So many dreams
had me in flight
Arms pumping
from a standing jump
off the landing – legs kicking
in the lively flow – a warm stream
of breezy air – where I
would find myself – slick
and easy as a skinny fish – flying
down the stairwell – to hitch
the wind-swell out the door
and up – I’d rise – high
over Hackney High Street –
above the people busy being
someone other than the one
who cast their mind
to slip the net of now
No one looked up –
looked angry or afraid
They were grounded – and
they’d seen this dreamish stuff before
They knew the pattern of my nightly flights
Each satellite event saw me –
Sparky the flying boy
weightless in wonder
blown full towards
the horizon

Magic Number

You pause – then enter,
shining like a magic number
Hallowing throaty bellows up the stairs
to where we, busy with our silly stuff of days,
stop, and smiling, put away the pens –
the paper, close down the computer –
You’re here now and it is time to talk,
to wonder – to discover
the better end of life,
draw out the good wine,
all the cheeses, pickles – and
the sourdough bread.
We’ll sit about the sturdy round wood table,
feet well weighted – booted at the floor
Leaning in to talk, and back to listen,
like sailors on the rolling sea,
like monkeys raucous in the trees.
Count us out these living accounts
The seconds –
The minutes –
whole nighttimes long –
where we are true
and truly belong.

The Healing Wound

“View through a window may influence recovery from surgery.”*

The healing wound
Cuts its dash
Forty stitches deep
To keep the (w)hole of me
Together – against
My seething self’s calamitous urge
To corrupt – to disperse unordered to the fetid air
Unbreathable – unspeakable – weighted with a worrying pain
Unbearable – almost – except each everyday
Extraordinary – and there –
This view to steal the heart – wrap it in the cloth of fancy
The tidal sea – sheer shifts of dazzle – slow and pewter smooth
Eight sly swans – all grace and killing under bare Benbulben’s bulk
A funky sulk teased – dappled by the silly sun
Set solid scuffed unhurried still and sturdy under nimbus –
Cloudy clusters blue-grey grievous with slighting rains
Run rainbows to my boychild’s eye –
Lightning strikes my glassy vision –
All of this – and all and over
A daily blaze to raise me