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Alan Patrick Traynor

 

 

IN THE SHADOWS OF BIRDS

 

 

 

We are born into the shadows of birds

two bones

 

walking sone

into

 

the desert

 

they quarantine, the only thought

that

 

ever listened

 

Love, to be

 

an empty

chair

 

thus

is

 

life

 

 

MODEL IN A RED DRESS

 

 

 

Mark me

in

 

French

 

I am torso

 

the eye of man

 

the white gothic prisoner of war (is a red dress)

that

 

bleeds

 

from her breast

Alan Patrick Traynor is a Poet from Dublin Ireland. He is the author of SEVEN DAYS OF ASHES, a poetry book written on the spirit of the Holocaust, and holocausts to come. 

 

It has been said that his poetry is the mystical galvanic paint that sets the fields of Provence on fire. Traynor’s poetry shocks the eyes and soul at once, his poems are "deep veridicous spears in a rachis sky of black feathers that will unlatch and unhinge you."

 

Alan Patrick Traynor 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 phrases that describe him best.

 

PEQUOD, THINE SAILS BEFORE ME

 

 

 

In thy frenzy of blood

they are shame

and the sorcerer blames the shallow speared

Barracuda

into the deep great white

the silvery white coloured

under(world)

of her dead

overthrown be her sparks above the fire

as the harpoon shatters

her waves

to Inn's savaged soaked

in their ales

the savage voyage quake of a yearn too hard to bear

oh south to thy Pacific south

so baled in bones

to wooden teeth that row around me row

oh one last breath

around me row

oh bitter sheets

Pequod, thine sails before me

mast to thine acre's flesh Ahab

to thine Maker's

wings thatched of men

and sky

to bargain hard the terms

of what secures both teeth to bone

Pequod,

are thine memories so spiraled

hone to the deep

last voyage

cold

and colder still are the bridges of thine depths

to the steam of great rock solid eyes

before the day when great men

might be sold

to her thousand winged anchors

that pull her

down

into the hull of sunk and duller mind

the talismanic awaits

you

pulling oars out from the dozen

thine holes build life

so greater

oh the depth of breath she breathes

I long to psalter

pain

like the smoke that bellows

thorns out from

the rain

 

I beg the waves to slaughter

like the siren so she sings

to bend

into thine chasmed fire

of harkened sorrow

 

Adown thine thorns of smoke

thine thorns of pain

 

we are breached

till the hunt

come thine swords of rain

 

Down rip mine sails

to thine Sacred

Marrow

 

oh chasm thy fire

oh chasm

 

mine fire