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Best Famous Eamon Grennan Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Eamon Grennan poems. This is a select list of the best famous Eamon Grennan poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Eamon Grennan poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of eamon grennan poems.

Search for the best famous Eamon Grennan poems, articles about Eamon Grennan poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Eamon Grennan poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Poems are below...


Written by Eamon Grennan | Create an image from this poem

Cat Scat

 I am watching Cleo listening, our cat
listening to Mozart's Magic Flute.
What can she be hearing? What can the air carry into her ears like that, her ears swivelling like radio dishes that are tuned to all the noise of the world, flat and sharp, high and low, a scramble of this and that she can decode like nobody's business, acrobat of random airs as she is? Although of course a bat is better at it, sifting out of its acoustic habitat the sound of the very shape of things automat- ically-- and on the wing, at that.
The Magic Flute! What a joy it is, I feel, and wonder (to the end this little scat) doe , or can, the cat.
Written by Eamon Grennan | Create an image from this poem

Song

 At her Junior High School graduation,
she sings alone
in front of the lot of us--

her voice soprano, surprising,
almost a woman's.
It is the Our Father in French, the new language making her strange, out there, fully fledged and ready for anything.
Sitting together -- her separated mother and father -- we can hear the racket of traffic shaking the main streets of Jersey City as she sings Deliver us from evil, and I wonder can she see me in the dark here, years from belief, on the edge of tears.
It doesn't matter.
She doesn't miss a beat, keeps in time, in tune, while into our common silence I whisper, Sing, love, sing your heart out!
Written by Eamon Grennan | Create an image from this poem

One Morning

 Looking for distinctive stones, I found the dead otter
rotting by the tideline, and carried all day the scent of this savage
valediction.
That headlong high sound the oystercatcher makes came echoing through the rocky cove where a cormorant was feeding and submarining in the bay and a heron rose off a boulder where he'd been invisible, drifted a little, stood again -- a hieroglyph or just longevity reflecting on itself between the sky clouding over and the lightly ruffled water.
This was the morning after your dream of dying, of being held and told it didn't matter.
A butterfly went jinking over the wave-silky stones, and where I turned to go up the road again, a couple in a blue camper sat smoking their cigarettes over their breakfast coffee (blue scent of smoke, the thick dark smell of fresh coffee) and talking in quiet voices, first one then the other answering, their radio telling the daily news behind them.
It was warm.
All seemed at peace.
I could feel the sun coming off the water.
Written by Eamon Grennan | Create an image from this poem

Cold Morning

 Through an accidental crack in the curtain
I can see the eight o'clock light change from
charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things

in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it
as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone,
telling its tale of how hard the night had to be

for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood
no match for the mindless chill that's settled in,
a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff

from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze
glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped
on every window, its petrifying breath a cage

in which all the warmth we were is shivering.
Written by Eamon Grennan | Create an image from this poem

On A Cape May Warbler Who Flew Against My Window

 She's stopped in her southern tracks
Brought haply to this hard knock
When she shoots from the tall spruce
And snaps her neck on the glass.
From the fall grass I gather her And give her to my silent children Who give her a decent burial Under the dogwood in the garden.
They lay their gifs in the grave: Matches, a clothes-peg, a coin; Fire paper for her, sprinkle her With water, fold earth over her.
She is out of her element forever Who was air's high-spirited daughter; What guardian wings can I conjure Over my own young, their migrations? The children retreat indoors.
Shadows flicker in the tall spruce.
Small birds flicker like shadows-- Ghosts come nest in my branches.