SEAN RUANE POETRY LIVE Dublin September 2012 (selected texts are in Description below)

STILL CRAZY I saw, in a middle-aged stranger's face, The fine-drawn, darling features of a girl I'd loved in college: full lips; arched brow; brown Eyes that mirrored my straining and my squinting Incredulity as we waltzed our way, As if on castors, towards one another. It hardly struck me if she'd changed that much, Though she must have. Time had crumpled and folded Back onto itself like her yellow scarf For the few minutes that we ranged and squabbled Over and rearranged the autumn lived Together and the decades spent apart: "You've got a memory like a sieve", she said. Later, I wondered if my looming mug Had simply shocked her in its grizzled state, Or if it still retained some of the boyishness From the days our affections, at full gallop, Had shied at the first high gate of commitment. But since I'm not the sort to waste my nights Undergoing by windows the metallic And meticulous surgery of moonshine, Or one to sift through memories of hair, Tawnied and winnowed by an evening breeze And the cornfield-loving light of September, To curious friends I laughed the whole thing off: Evidently she had no regrets, I Quipped -- she was far too happy to see me! "What about you?" they asked, "Regrets?" -- Regrets Are what the French discuss over baguettes And filter coffee and unfiltered cigarettes. CATTLE-GRID After the raids by driven sheep and cattle On his lawn, the Neighbour dug a neat pit At the entrance to his property: That'll Keep 'em out, he said, when he'd bricked the edge And laid an old five-barred gate down flat on it Yards from his cottage, Don't do things by halves! The Neighbour never did. That summer, hedge- Hogs fell and rotted in his dark cage, calves Broke legs, and children crashed their bikes in it. While Neighbours of his in that close-knit village Speculated and pondered on the grid And what lay under or between its staves, He just stood at dusk, right foot on the bottom Bar and arms folded, looking down with pride On the vast, rolling acreage of his kingdom. POWER CUT There was a power Cut in the south-east of County Meath In the same hour My father breathed His last of twilight And July. I flicked a light Switch -- automatically At first, as I reached His room For candles; but then deliberately, And repeatedly, As my eyes adapted To the gloom. "255242" "Two double-five, Two-four-two": A balanced phrase synonymous with home And days of perfect length; an unencumbered Sound estate! This easily-remembered Line of poetry, hidden in a huge tome, Could spell me back from rusting-spoke-filled hallways To the oak desk and the cast-iron chair, Evoking me for old friends anywhere. Its incantation was auspicious always: "Two double-five, Two-four-two." But while the apparatus calmly slumbered, The banns were read, robotically intoned By electronic clerics of the telephone Announcing that its single days were numbered: Soon it must stand preceded by an "Eight"! I took it badly, I admit. How strange That loss is often preferable to change, That love's less blind than unrequited hate: "Eight, two, five, five, two, four two"? My beautiful palindrome! My caesura, And the dactyl-swallowing anapaest: All of its poetry ceased to exist With the hulking arrival of that extra And primordial figure -- as when you met Your childhood sweetheart with her fiancé, And her words had that syncopated rhythm: "Engaged", she said; "Do ring". But now you can't get Through on "Two double-five, two-four-two" Without that fucking cipher in the way; And yet, you're still reluctant to leave it. Some people take their landline numbers with them When they move house? I can well believe it. CORRECTIONAL FACILITY When my only goal was avoiding mistakes, Pride and Perfection were gods to be assuaged. For my and everybody else's sake, The cutting-room floor must have no out-takes And the waste-paper basket scrunched-up page. When my only goal was avoiding mistakes, I bet with matchstick pittances for stakes, Held down the job with the steadiest wage For my and everybody else's sake, And learned to distinguish authentic from fake By using my own self-calibrated gauge -- When my only goal was avoiding mistakes! -- But caused, ironically, so much heartache, Silently suffering imprisoning rage For my and everybody else's sake, Refusing to countenance any gaol-break Although I held the keys to my own cage When my only goal was avoiding mistakes For my and everybody else's sake. All poems COPYRIGHT © Sean Ruane