SurVision Magazine / Mary O'Donnell

Shells

Of course, the animal would not be very satisfied with a circular shell,
because he could not keep growing inside the shell
— Jorge Picado, Universidade de Coimbra, Portugal

Pour softer self deep into the spiral,
beneath the lip, sense space

for the nestle and suck of a secret self,
know without being told the nature of that spiral,

that you cannot enlarge your shell uniformly,
nothing that is not weighted to one edge —

building lustre and grit at once,
as you create the spiral, reveal translucence

for the opposite edge, the one never to be filled
if you are to grow gnomonically, intent.

So build the mathematical world.
House yourself, fasten to the edge

of this building, aperture to triangular curve,
follow the rules of growth.

As if
July 13th, 2016

As if.
    A sieve.
Every letter,
word,
note of every song —
filtered.

Long gone to the side,
    parallel:

fern fronds uncurl acid greens,
black toads lurk in the garden.

Such minute holes.
    The words,
almost unswallowed,
    tumble down airways.
Her golden letters melt.

Truth too, in eye-spiking notes,
such salt, hey, hey,
she saved the world todaay-ay.

She doesn't believe a word.
    Not enough to seal
    those sieve openings —
find bees' wax,
    molten hooves,
        viscous oils,
            myrrh,
                frankincense,
and sweet Egyptian golds —
to hold words, notes,
    at some distance,
to be kept from composing themselves
through her.

It's not yet time:
    sit it out, a friend advises.
    Take the medicine, a doctor offers.
Sit. Take.
Water-swigging what's offered,
then wait in high summer
    when life
    is blood-red abundance,
but bleeding out.

Each dawn brings feeding-frenzied swallows,
young rooks first-seasoned in the soft web
of birch.

And yet this mess,
so much sifting through —

As if.
    A sieve.

Mary O'Donnell is from Co. Kildare in Ireland. She currently teaches poetry on Galway University's MA in Creative Writing programme. Among her first poetry collections published by Salmon Poetry are Spiderwoman's Third Avenue Rhapsody (1993) and Unlegendary Heroes (1998). Her Selected Poems were published by New Island in 2006; her latest two collections, The Ark Builders (2009) and Those April Fevers (2015), by Arc Publications. She has also published four novels and two collections of short fiction, including Where They Lie (New Island 2015). She is a member of Aosdana, Ireland's multi-disciplinary arts organisation

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue One MARY O'DONNELL Shells Of course, the animal would not be very satisfied with a circular shell, because he could not keep growing inside the shell — Jorge Picado, Universidade de Coimbra, Portugal Pour softer self deep into the spiral, beneath the lip, sense space for the nestle and suck of a secret self, know without being told the nature of that spiral, that you cannot enlarge your shell uniformly, nothing that is not weighted to one edge — building lustre and grit at once, as you create the spiral, reveal translucence for the opposite edge, the one never to be filled if you are to grow gnomonically, intent. So build the mathematical world. House yourself, fasten to the edge of this building, aperture to triangular curve, follow the rules of growth. As if July 13th, 2016 As if. A sieve. Every letter, word, note of every song — filtered. Long gone to the side, parallel: fern fronds uncurl acid greens, black toads lurk in the garden. Such minute holes. The words, almost unswallowed, tumble down airways. Her golden letters melt. Truth too, in eye-spiking notes, such salt, hey, hey, she saved the world todaay-ay. She doesn't believe a word. Not enough to seal those sieve openings — find bees' wax, molten hooves, viscous oils, myrrh, frankincense, and sweet Egyptian golds — to hold words, notes, at some distance, to be kept from composing themselves through her. It's not yet time: sit it out, a friend advises. Take the medicine, a doctor offers. Sit. Take. Water-swigging what's offered, then wait in high summer when life is blood-red abundance, but bleeding out. Each dawn brings feeding-frenzied swallows, young rooks first-seasoned in the soft web of birch. And yet this mess, so much sifting through — As if. A sieve. Mary O'Donnell is from Co. Kildare in Ireland. She currently teaches poetry on Galway University's MA in Creative Writing programme. Among her first poetry collections published by Salmon Poetry are Spiderwoman's Third Avenue Rhapsody (1993) and Unlegendary Heroes (1998). Her Selected Poems were published by New Island in 2006; her latest two collections, The Ark Builders (2009) and Those April Fevers (2015), by Arc Publications. She has also published four novels and two collections of short fiction, including Where They Lie (New Island 2015). She is a member of Aosdana, Ireland's multi-disciplinary arts organisation
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