Alan Patrick Traynor

 

 

(Ireland)

 

 

 

OCTOPUS

 

The poet’s neck

is made of clay

and hair is just the DNA

of Octopus

leaving

your body

 

Octopus how strange

was born in flesh

to preserve

the shape of light

lightning

as it leaves the body

 

Oh work

how it boils us up

into its stew

and serves us out

through the teeth of spoon

 

The poet’s tongue

is black

just as the ocean

is the ink

he swims in

 

Sacrifice is the name

of true love’s partner

 

And if true love is present

it comes

like something

that fits

into the scars

 

The poet’s neck

 

 

 

IN  SPIRED

 

Sometimes

You feel their gills

 

The dead man’s shoes

In every step of knee

 

The dovetailed bone

Of filing me down

 

Into my steel

 

Into the pinprick

Were day

 

Is just one night

Outside her womb

 

When I am wildfire

There is no forest

 

 

 

 

 

 

BLACK NEST GROAN

 

I could not cover you

but

 

you ate like hunger

from

 

the bowl

 

Smoke from my heart

will

 

you leave

with me

 

what groans in me

 

Her dress

it

 

paints the path

 

Her hair

it

 

pulls on me

 

Black heart nest

 

You

empty me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________________________________________

 

Bio:

 

Alan Patrick Traynor is a Poet from Dublin Ireland.  It has been said that his poetry is the paint that sets the fields of Provence on fire.  His poetry is a galvanic beast that can’t be tamed, and his unorthodox style and approach to writing is to sail in the diagonal beast, with pen in hand.  Alan has been featured in literary journals worldwide, and is greatly respected amongst his peers.  « Edit Not My Soul” and « Edit Not Blood » are two of his own poetic voicing’s that describe him best.

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