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Savlen Dempsley Poem
Ranted I in fiery dance
Upon the rushed floor.
It plyeth mosaicate from out my thought.
Lucid it creels through battlement and prepapace.
Upon this tower, I cleveth Erin’s loved lorne lore.
It’s marshed earth with braided stench of wilded bush,
Where curlew lace no hatch,
I hear her shreak solitary now the gaunt of wealthed flax,
Each non cut rock a grey and weary fetus
From the kernel of my mind,
Barren spiral stair raped from all it wept; mankind
The ancient tenants dead; nay mummified.
Both munk and pastor
Phoenix merlined in the tempest of my dream.
Oh’ ape above fortalice cloketh brotherhood,
Who staple me on hazelnut and dace
God’s wild innocence of grace;
Who flung spring leaf infant to the boundary of the air,
Still gurgler plyeth his silketh threads;
Then taunts its ebonite onto a higher throne.
The chalice battle-beaten
Scurried through the airs of earth,
From within the conifers, the silverberches;
Now lies within the hidden wood.
Upon the grave where sages cried.
The headstone dead, with silver trail
That maws about its chiselled bed
Aged marrow coils the new formed yews.
He marched a drought and bat the tin boot torture from his shins
Now he sits outside the farriers and waits, and contemplates;
Soaring rainbow, fin-whipped structure of the gleam
Nose that cut the film sifted fly with hoover suction.
Hour glass smashed, finger cut,
Blinded look of gleaming leaf devoid its former smuts,
From page and gilded edge.
Farrio -onis ferratus
White elk herded peppered witches from the glare,
Still farrier wields his marriage bore,
It calls to all insundry
Copyright © Savlen Dempsley | Year Posted 2005
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Details |
Savlen Dempsley Poem
The new roves are not like the old,
They purvey an unwieldy aspect
To their elderly kindred folk;
Even on this steep hill forms encroach
Upon an edifice grand of bygone grandeur;
So to ‘Ghurt Muire’ that Jacobean domain
With its winding entrance avenue,
And meadows of barley cane;
There the ancient tenants lived’
Atkinson, Redmond and the Burke,
John Garner Nutley,
A City sheriff of the Purse;
It lastly lived in by Le’ Froy
A family still remembered;
There I met Brother Mangen
Just back from Tanzanian stay-
Who tutored me at Synge Street,
With fervent holistic play
There I spied a boathouse
Formed of natural rock,
From that spanned a lilied pond,
It formed in like a frock;
There I saw the Douglas fur,
The ash and native beech,
Where woodcock made their nest,
And flew amid the oak and alder weep.
To the East there stands a folly tower,
Built in De’Burgo style
And made of local granite,
With rising stair and panelled wall’s
And chanclet niches on it:
Onto the house and to the rear
A conservatory must be seen,
Of wrought iron base with florid motif
Adorned about the screen;
Built of arcs and circlets
With geranium reds, coppers, ambers, greens and blues
Of hueful inset panes,
And a lightning pin shoots up amid its arkful maine.
On entering the billiard room
One’s senses do amaze,
At copper embossed cladded walls’
And a fully fennialed fireplace,
Which has in ceramic tile there,
The muses of the arts fare.
Then above:
The ceiling must be seen,
It fully bracketed and lofted
With kings and queens of post,
And pilistered at every rafter
All this of native oaks.
But to the front and to the north
An eyepiece is in view,
The first floor balconied window
With casements of stained glass hue;
Compromised of minute squares,
With asterix inserted centrally here and there.
And a square urned rococo balustrade,
Cut from Spanish Portland
With good speese of care
Yet in it all I found a friend,
The gardener of the gate,
He knew all there was to know about that place,
In its botonics did excale,
For he had culled and planted every tree
That could be found around the pale.
So I say to all young artists
And fellows of my race,
That if make vent to follow me,
Then also wean my trace;
For often here in Ballinteer,
On a summers morning,
On a clear and silent night;
T’is like seeing angel’s deening
With their God,
Then making off to flight.
Copyright © Savlen Dempsley | Year Posted 2005
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