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
____________________________________________
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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