frank corcoran
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In einer eMail vom 24.09.2006 08:03:28 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:
This scanning of all my Caseys´ 1927
National School Calendar
endears Alto Lazio of the Popes to
which of their cooler shades ? They
had´nt a chance, Lord and Lady of All
Aeons, not a penny in his pocket
for little dote Uncle John´s future
tracheotomy ( -yet it´s pre-shadowed
in the hunkered smile; perhaps;
mother is back near the aunties, went
for the second-last row, perhaps her
chance of a worry-free year . )
Contrast this sunny bright Mystical
Garden of Roman medlars, peaches,
wild strawberries, thyme, mint and
onion, cress, capers, vipers´ ivy and
plum and oregano , my green-gold
Mystical Body , with what Protestant
Principle?
Lugging a green chair from tree to
knell-shadow to olive-hollow in this
very hot July, I mulled over the young
shades of 1927 ; why were ye ?
August roasting after the early
morning -hours ; in the evening you´d
sob the georgic tears of things, wield
the implacable clippers -
ivy always conceals a serpent´s tooth.
The lake, of course. - Gadaffy´s
North African light and Leitrim
melancholy, take your pick, cleanest
volcanic lake in Italy , it´s deep out
beyond Bisanzio . Did those brown
Casey children ever whinge ? I dare
carpe this diem, a lounging body
under is it an elm, now it´s become a
lovely September morning ? Onions
and garlic were out for those lads.
What the farmer don´t ken, the 1927
childer surely won´t.
Suppose I focus on mother and poor
Uncle John ( " his trachea all ended " ),
brown-shaded photographic sisters,
my living dead; suppose they´d
harvest this beautiful crop - my vines
bested, stragglers towards a Spätlese?
How would beautiful God´s
mud-daughters enjoy?
Lug down from the formal garden to
Garden Number Two where it´s
cooler and wilder. Fuse
their photograph with Virgil´s in his
"Georgics", his own shining Roman
gurney. How snorts our spinosa
( it´s three in the morning for him! ) , as
he dares gouge out Lazio spuds ? It is
here if anywhere that I´ll meet
these child-shadows. Their September
1927.
" I HATE the sun" is hardly his
jist, St. Patrick´s breast-plate.
Apparently you let your normal snake
go.There IS , mind you, water in
plenty. How those photographed
mites prayed the rain-psalms and ate
their salad salty. Uncle John´s cut
throat fell across the swell of
mother´s door , we´re talking of his
future, mind, far distant
still from that brown- lit 1927 pic.
Hands up, muddy childer. Thyme
and oregano heal. You´ll slap a
half-onion on the twin red pricks.
Keep it in, in under the cool dappled
Georgics: They had their kids´ joys,
their hunkered sorrow not noticed.
Clip, clip merciless with ivy. The
depressed thirties, you could argue,
mud-potatoes , not sun-dappled
apples . Or what if the Lower Garden
has landscaped railway- sleepers and
terr -cotta tiles. Hornets kill wasps
killing flies eating a lovely
garden´s yesterdays. Scan that
school-children´s group-photo
again, my grave family, their muddy
melody, his torn throat , mother´s
worried eyes. Share a pear
across seventy four
years. Stroke our garden cat, all
his oneness with 2006?
Do you remember ? ´Twas
auld September ? By the light of our
teacher´s camera? Plant us, bury us in
Upper Paradiso? ( - Apparently God
is light in the locals´ theology. )
Hauld all Lazio horses ! The
November olive-harvest is as
brown as mother´s and Uncle
John´s potatoe-harvest.No cat will
ever bite ye, neither now nor never,
where dead children huddle and
quiver in ecstasy, whistling " We dare
to enjoy, Lazio" .
Between mother up at the back
and little Uncle John´s future
tracheatomy, where´s the viper gone?
Marry mud and medlar.