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Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

Filíocht Nua: New Poetry Billy Ramsell REEL This is the most perfect fusion, surely, of man and machine; Pat McGlinchey in March 52. The tape yields, welcoming into its cellulose the scratched reel of an émigré in Williamsburg and delivering it to my ear-buds safely through what analogue and cloned generations? Fiddle insistency. The creak of horsehair makes a frayed sublime. Spools whirr in an out-of-hours immigrant bar. For each jig twists to meet itself like a corkscrew shaped hill and every slow air is the sea The man whose tune becomes a standard takes leave of it, in awed disappointment must watch it depart, like a teary child tracing a kite that's been wind-caught, pilfered, that's just a cerise and hand-made diamond vanishing, trailing its brilliance above the winter roofs, cherished, remarked on, by craned ignorant necks that know nothing of its birth or begetter. For each jig twists to meet itself like a corkscrew shaped hill and every slow air is the sea Look at him sidelong at 60, in his crisp maroon uniform, as he discreetly opens the rear doors of sedans on a Manhattan dawn of awnings, of gratuities so delicately palmed (Good Morning Mrs Wilkinson, new hibernia http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png New Hibernia Review Center for Irish Studies at the University of St. Thomas

Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

New Hibernia Review , Volume 18 (1) – Mar 15, 2014

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Publisher
Center for Irish Studies at the University of St. Thomas
Copyright
Copyright © 2008 The University of St. Thomas.
ISSN
1534-5815
Publisher site
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Abstract

Billy Ramsell REEL This is the most perfect fusion, surely, of man and machine; Pat McGlinchey in March 52. The tape yields, welcoming into its cellulose the scratched reel of an émigré in Williamsburg and delivering it to my ear-buds safely through what analogue and cloned generations? Fiddle insistency. The creak of horsehair makes a frayed sublime. Spools whirr in an out-of-hours immigrant bar. For each jig twists to meet itself like a corkscrew shaped hill and every slow air is the sea The man whose tune becomes a standard takes leave of it, in awed disappointment must watch it depart, like a teary child tracing a kite that's been wind-caught, pilfered, that's just a cerise and hand-made diamond vanishing, trailing its brilliance above the winter roofs, cherished, remarked on, by craned ignorant necks that know nothing of its birth or begetter. For each jig twists to meet itself like a corkscrew shaped hill and every slow air is the sea Look at him sidelong at 60, in his crisp maroon uniform, as he discreetly opens the rear doors of sedans on a Manhattan dawn of awnings, of gratuities so delicately palmed (Good Morning Mrs Wilkinson, new hibernia

Journal

New Hibernia ReviewCenter for Irish Studies at the University of St. Thomas

Published: Mar 15, 2014

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