Thomas Kinsella Quotes to Learn
Thinking of Mr. D
He sipped and swallowed with a scathing smile,
Tapping a polished toe.
A priest-like figure turning, wolfish-slim,
Quickly aside from pain, in a bodily plight.
Dick King
In your ghost, Dick King, in your phantom vowels I read
That death roves our memories igniting
Love.
An invalid he took to wife.
She prayed her life away;
Her whisper filled the whitewashed yard
Until her dying day.
Mirror in February
The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,
Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
A dry downturning mouth.
Chrysalides
Our last free summer we mooned about at odd hours
Pedalling slowly through country towns, stopping to eat
Chocolate and fruit, tracing our vagaries on the map.
Or to lasting horror: a wedding flight of ants
Spawning to its death, a mute perspiration
Glistening like drops of copper, agonized, in our path.
From Settings
Model School, Inchicore
The taste
Of ink off
The nib shrank your mouth
Miss Carney handed us out blank paper and marla,
old plasticine with the colours
all rolled together into brown,
Tear
Old age can digest
anything: the commotion
at Heaven’s gate
‘God help him, he cried
big tears over there by the machine
for the poor little thing’
He sipped and swallowed with a scathing smile,
Tapping a polished toe.
A priest-like figure turning, wolfish-slim,
Quickly aside from pain, in a bodily plight.
Dick King
In your ghost, Dick King, in your phantom vowels I read
That death roves our memories igniting
Love.
An invalid he took to wife.
She prayed her life away;
Her whisper filled the whitewashed yard
Until her dying day.
Mirror in February
The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,
Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
A dry downturning mouth.
Chrysalides
Our last free summer we mooned about at odd hours
Pedalling slowly through country towns, stopping to eat
Chocolate and fruit, tracing our vagaries on the map.
Or to lasting horror: a wedding flight of ants
Spawning to its death, a mute perspiration
Glistening like drops of copper, agonized, in our path.
From Settings
Model School, Inchicore
The taste
Of ink off
The nib shrank your mouth
Miss Carney handed us out blank paper and marla,
old plasticine with the colours
all rolled together into brown,
Tear
Old age can digest
anything: the commotion
at Heaven’s gate
‘God help him, he cried
big tears over there by the machine
for the poor little thing’
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