Graham Burchell: Three Poems

Graham Burchell

Graham Burchell was born in 1950 in Canterbury, England. He is winner of the 2005 Chapter One Promotions Open Poetry Competition and the 2006 Hazel Street Productions Poetry Contest. He was also nominated for a 2006 Pushcart Prize. His poetry has appeared in many print and online magazines. He is author of two poetry books, ‘Vermeer’s Corner’ and ‘Ladies of Divided Twins’ and he is the editor of the online poetry journal, Words-Myth, voted favourite internet-based magazine for 2007 by readers and visitors to ‘Poetry Kit’.

A Meeting of Two Queens

Hag and harridan eyeball to eye.
Stark bloody space; though grey energy
separates the windows of their measure.

Fifteen ninety three:

Granuaille O’Malley must inhale
surprise having nothing to compare
with this painted peahen before her.
Hard to look good in one’s sixties back then.
Elizabeth is rice-powdered, rouged skin,
layered like a fancy cake
in wealthy stitch work and shine.

That daughter of fat syphilitic Henry sees
a crimson mantle wrapping a frame;
a mind that Connaught’s fight and conquer
scarred with time, and what of the teeth
under seaweed hair that Atlantic winds
blew coarse?
                     Who spoke first to converse
in Latin, mutually understood?

If only we could pick up and regenerate
still fading echoes of their voices;
grasp those singularities, even when
there is no sense from the words;
hear
        the pirate queen’s wily lilt,
        the quality of her pleas,
        innocence of an open sneeze
        in court, whispered offer
        of a handkerchief (a gift in lace),
        loud and childlike ejection of snot,
        snatch of flames in an open hearth,
        a Tudor scold,
        Granuaille’s brave reply and
feel
        the uncomfortable power
        of silence that ensued,
        before, like another blessed gift,
        a tease, then roar of laughter
sees
        the English queen amused.

Westport, County Mayo

This is Ireland getting on with itself:
Shops with Celtic script in gold on green,
white on black, lilac on white;

a three-dimensional interactive map
with colour, a monument, a clock tower,
a live river under arches, under my arches,
pubs and bars with hidden insides, hiding

among shops that are confessionals
tight with jars and bottles of secrets,
whispers held in the folds of fabric
dressing windows as they did

half a century before,
not intimidating, easy
and naive as my childhood.

Reading in the Crane

It is cabbage green in a grotting street,
yet the lady of a teashop
at the far end of Connemara knows
of Galway’s Crane Bar where poets read.

Within it is dim; light held at the bay.
Near-filled pints of Guinness are coal-dead teeth
arrayed by the barman like juggler’s plates
wobble spinning before hard heads that turn
and part as a Red Sea to let me join.

The wood of here is pale, creaking ribs
that entice me to an upper level
with a stage, microphones in a line,
another bar, pink barmaid, sprinkled seats
and low tables to add metacarpals
and phalanges to the bones of it all

before four square eyes, swivelled
to let air with the temperature
and taste of my black pint pour in, wash away
anxiety, cool confusion. I weigh
faces against places as the minutes
wander on and through like wool
to pull it all together.

Yet who runs this show? I still wonder
until the fog of thinking clears
as our host appears with his lady,
her arms laden with the business.

I am recognised from an image
on my website, welcomed and later,
after the storytellers,
after a singer song-writing grandpa
and a sweet lady who hot-mouths
in Gaelic an unreadable poem
whose words in spite of empty meaning
for me are delicious, I am introduced;

an exception to the plan; a poet
from across the water who dared to answer
their call. Come read for the Crannog, that is
The Crane, cabbage green in the city
by the bay; a warm island home floating
beneath clouds in the limestone and bog.