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SurVision Magazine

An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.

Issue Seven




I spend ages pondering the Deity.
To date, I'm getting very little traction.
The truth is, I don't have the energy
to go beyond a lazy stupefaction.
Why in the name of God have I been cursed
with a buttercup's acrid theology?
This tongue's not strenuous enough to burst
enigma's grape. Is my futility
due to the sin of Sloth or alcohol?
I have advanced many a sterile theory,
but I saw angels in a small hotel
one night on a Croatian holiday.
They were gratuitous and not at all
resulting from my mental industry.

Nothing Happened

I was pussyfooting past the Central Bank
as one does because it comes down upon one
passing by the Central Bank, the word
pussyfoot palpably enters the mind,
and in my earphones the talkers were talking
of what's being rolled out in the pipelines,
mincing their words and their metaphors. Then,
suddenly, nothing happened! It made me think
of Kavanagh frozen on a canal-bank seat
and the three-syllable word homelessness;
how relatively reticent are sheep
compared to dogs or cats. 'People should not
take bullshit from the laws of gravity',
I thought as I pussyfooted past the Central Bank.

Half Seas Over

Fresh parsley doesn't matter, half seas over,
I say, and pour myself another drink.
The Angelus awakes the curate's lover.

Cows munching in the meadow, sheep in clover.
A savant swoons on the transcendent brink.
Fresh parsley doesn't matter, half seas over.

One potted plant, I say, deserves another;
enjoy yourself, it's later than you think.
The Angelus awakes the curate's lover.

The fowlers snipe at woodcock, grouse and plover.
Sometimes it's hard to feel, sometimes to think.
Fresh parsley doesn't matter, half seas over.

Walkers in range of bullets run for cover.
The politician's son is in the clink.
The Angelus awakes the curate's lover,

that lithe eromenos I may recover
now that the priest's no longer in the pink.
Fresh parsley doesn't matter, half seas over.
The Angelus awakes the curate's lover.

Ciaran O'Driscoll
lives in Limerick. A member of Aosdána, he has published eight books of poetry, including Gog and Magog (1987), Moving On, Still There (2001), Surreal Man (2006), and Life Monitor (2009). In 2018, SurVision Books brought out his chapbook entitled The Speaking Trees. Liverpool University Press published his childhood memoir, A Runner Among Falling Leaves (2001). His novel, A Year's Midnight, was published by Pighog Press (2012). His work has been translated into many languages. His awards include the James Joyce Prize and the Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.

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