  Poetry
This week: Austin Clarke Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady
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Japanese Print by
Austin Clarke
Both skyed
In south-west wind beyond
Poplar and fir tree, swallow,
Heron, almost collide,
Swerve
With a rapid
Dip of wing, flap
Each in an opposite curve,
Fork-tail, long neck outstretched
And feet. All happened
Above my head. The pair
Was disappearing. Say I
Had seen, half hint, a sketch on
Rice-coloured air,
Sharako, Hokusai!
The Blackbird Of Derrycairn
by Austin Clarke
Stop, stop and listen for the bough top
Is whistling and the sun is brighter
Than God's own shadow in the cup now!
Forget the hour-bell. Mournful matins
Will sound, Patric, as well at nightfall.
Faintly through mist of broken water
Fionn heard my melody in Norway.
He found the forest track, he brought back
This beak to gild the branch and tell, there,
Why men must welcome in the daylight.
He loved the breeze that warns the black grouse,
The shouts of gillies in the morning
When packs are counted and the swans cloud
Loch Erne, but more than all those voices
My throat rejoicing from the hawthorn.
In little cells behind a cashel,
Patric, no handbell gives a glad sound.
But knowledge is found among the branches.
Listen! That song that shakes my feathers
Will thong the leather of your satchels.
Austin Clarke was born in Dublin, Ireland on May 9, 1896. Sadly there was very little written about his childhood or his parents. He Studied at University College Dublin before moving to England to be a journalist. He met and married Clarke married Cornelia Cummins 1920, their marriage is said to only have last a few days before the two separated. Clarke and Cummins never officially divorced, she died several years later. Clarke met his second wife Norah Esmerelda Patricia Walker while still legally married to Cummins. The two had three sons together and married in 1945, two years after the death of his first wife Cummins.
While working as a journalist Austin wrote “The Vengeance of Fionn” in 1938 which was a long narrative poem, followed by “Night and Morning.” These were his only two poetry piece published before 1955. He spent most of his time during the week writing for work. In his free time, his writing focused more on his novels and playwrights. During this time Clarke was met with some resistance in publishing through mainstream publishing companies on his topics so Clarke opened his own publishing company, Bridge Press. Clarke published “The Bright Temptation” in 1932, “The Singing Men at Cashel” in 1936, and “The Sun Dances at Easter” in 1952. All three novels were banned by the Irish Censorship Board He was co-founder of the Lyric Theatre Company and hosted a weekly radio poetry program for a while too. Then after fifteen years in England as a journalist Clarke returned to Dublin.
In 1955 Clarke published a his first collection of poetry in seventeen years “Ancient Lights.” His return to poetry had more focus on church and state than his earlier carefree writings, but was met with the same acclaim. His own mental breakdown and battle with substance abuse is said to be the contributing factors in the direction his poetry went in his later years. “Mnemosyne Lay in Dust,” is said to be a personal reflection of his on dealing in life. He also published memoirs, “Twice Round the Black Church in 1962” followed by “A Penny in the Clouds” in 1968.
In 1974 he published his last book while living “Collected Poems” followed posthumously by “Selected Poems,” in 1976. Austin Clarke died March 19, 1974.
The Planter's Daughter
by Austin Clarke
When night stirred at sea,
An the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.
Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went --
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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One fine day, as I was searchin' for my Muse,
the Storymaster wrote some code that he could use
to build a sanctuary for writers,
so we could tarry and pull all-nighters,
trying to light the creative fuse.
May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration
with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration.
May the witches brew a ton of titillation
in the cauldron of your imagination.
The folks at Writer's Cramp will test our wits,
and Stormy Lady's words will give us fits,
but kansaspoet's ghost still lingers here
to make it absolutely clear
that quality counts in a poetry blitz.
May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration
with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration.
May the witches brew a ton of titillation
in the cauldron of your imagination.
While the werewolves are howling at the moon
and graveyard residents moan their gruesome tune,
we'll write it all for posterity,
each and every monstrosity,
thanks to Storymaster's creative boon.
May the goblins of gab ignite your conflagration
with a gallon of pyrotechnic inspiration.
May the witches brew a ton of titillation
in the cauldron of your imagination.
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: October 12, 2016 Issue [#7908]
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