The Ofi Press Magazine

International Poetry and Fiction from Mexico City

Tim MacGabhann: 2 Poems Published

Poems by Tim MacGabhann (Ireland/ Mexico)

Published in The Ofi Press issue 43  

 

 

Nestor

 

All understandings had missed.
I gave myself over to the shapes
traced out when hail scurs down.

 

Only the weather happened.

Winds combed fog vapour 
like steel hair into the valley.

I'd shred pages to eel-thin strips,
leave them in a bucket on the roof.
The rain scrawled on: new alphabets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Helen

 

1: 

 

At the end, she'd cut her own hair,
scry the snipped, dropped-free letters,
and then scatter them with a toe.
"It's not there, don't worry."

2: 

"Mountains alone stay dumb to me,"
she'd tell me from her stare. Layer 
after layer, deep into fog distance,
the curves were torn-out pages.

 

3:

 

Our southern nights were "illegible".
The pen stayed in her hand,
but made no more cormorant dives
to shatter the white. She'd been stilled.

 

4: After

 

I'd read the old quarry walls where ivy
had drunk calcite from split limestone:
then died and dropped free. Ghost strophes.
They told me nothing in every language.

Helen

 

1: 

 

At the end, she'd cut her own hair,
scry the snipped, dropped-free letters,
and then scatter them with a toe.
"It's not there, don't worry."

2: 

"Mountains alone stay dumb to me,"
she'd tell me from her stare. Layer 
after layer, deep into fog distance,
the curves were torn-out pages.

 

3:

 

Our southern nights were "illegible".
The pen stayed in her hand,
but made no more cormorant dives
to shatter the white. She'd been stilled.

 

4: After

 

I'd read the old quarry walls where ivy
had drunk calcite from split limestone:
then died and dropped free. Ghost strophes.

They told me nothing in every language.

Helen

 

1: 

 

At the end, she'd cut her own hair,
scry the snipped, dropped-free letters,
and then scatter them with a toe.
"It's not there, don't worry."

2: 

"Mountains alone stay dumb to me,"
she'd tell me from her stare. Layer 
after layer, deep into fog distance,
the curves were torn-out pages.

 

3:

 

Our southern nights were "illegible".
The pen stayed in her hand,
but made no more cormorant dives
to shatter the white. She'd been stilled.

 

4: After

 

I'd read the old quarry walls where ivy
had drunk calcite from split limestone:
then died and dropped free. Ghost strophes.

They told me nothing in every language.

Helen

 

1: 

 

At the end, she'd cut her own hair,
scry the snipped, dropped-free letters,
and then scatter them with a toe.
"It's not there, don't worry."

2: 

"Mountains alone stay dumb to me,"
she'd tell me from her stare. Layer 
after layer, deep into fog distance,
the curves were torn-out pages.

 

3:

 

Our southern nights were "illegible".
The pen stayed in her hand,
but made no more cormorant dives
to shatter the white. She'd been stilled.

 

4: After

 

I'd read the old quarry walls where ivy
had drunk calcite from split limestone:
then died and dropped free. Ghost strophes.

They told me nothing in every language. 

About the Poet

Tim MacGabhann is a freelance investigative journalist and a co-editor of the literary magazine and press Mexico City Lit. His fiction, non-fiction and poetry have appeared in gorse, 3:AM Magazine and The Stinging Fly.

Image: "Archer on Craig's Roof" by Bart Everson.