john o'connell

a clarinet
brightening up
the night
in the cheerful
...

a failure.

the harsh note of reality
had crept into his voice -
...

You are like a well
of fresh water
in a desert
of desolation.
...

writing.

none of this
is important.
...

3 in 1,
1 in 3,
all being
almighty
...

after sun and sea.

the rush to the station,
back to the town;
...

a soul on fire.

the village, this morning,
a snowy world
...

2 girls
full of joy,
linked
arm in arm,
...

outside my window
the blur of a november fog
hastens up eternal ghosts, hades-like,
from gardens bleeding with pungent odours.
...

as children
we played
spontaneously
together;
...

a human voice,
a Slavic magic
storming into
the dried out
...

a cool breeze
shaves the contours
of my face
in a night lit
...

a piano sonata
echoes
from the valleys
of a heart's
...

march winds
scurrying across the bending tree tops
and
high in the watery heavens
...

I am not
in control anymore;
unidentifiable powers play
with the furniture
...

the dregs of a late-night
hanging over one,
the aftertaste of alcohol
and tobacco,
...

alone again
in the nochturnal
hours,
with pen
...

ah! the light
and a day
beginning with Bach;
the clicking of fingers
...

I must be mad -
up the whole night,
a favoured night,
writing and writing;
...

see!
the savage will's sinking fangs
bite deep down into the bubbling head
of the madly laughing larynx
...