By Louis de Paor
A bilingual poetry assortment (English & Irish-language) via Louis de Paor. A collaboration among 3 assorted artists operating in 3 diverse media. Kathleen Furey's photos of loss and separation and Ronan Browne's musical settings supply a counterpoint to Louis de Paor's poems, which fight continually in the direction of mild and redemption.
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Additional info for Agus Rud Eile De (And Another Thing)
23] H OW T O T R A I N A H O R S E T O B U R N One method always works. Tie the horse in its stall and pile the old straw high. Douse the straw, the stall, all the wood, all the tack. Open all the windows for a draft. Stuff cigarettes up your nostrils, cram cotton in your ears, light a match and run. Horses hate fire. They whinny, snort, scream. They buck and kick. Flames grow in their big eyes, smoke chokes them, the hooves and flanks heat up. Then the shoulders, the neck, the withers. The tail begins to burn like a torch whipping the bark-dark, then the mane.
They are too slow, too quiet. They ask too much of us. 3. And what have I done with my life? What song can I sing out across this dark water? I have made of my life a string of words long enough to reach the moon, far short of the sun. I lack the elegance of a single loon swimming through shadows of white pine on water, wailing to its family, like a ship of solid bone.  4. Oh my children, I would carry you on my back forever, but still you would swim, dive into the water deep as life itself and leave me afloat on this dark lake calling your names as if words alone could enfold you in feathery shields, keep you safe from eagles, from turtles, from gulls.
The Golden Toad of Costa Rica gone. The Vegas Valley Leopard Frog, the Rancho Grande Harlequin Frog, the Mountain Mist Frog—extinct. Death and deformation wear human masks, descend like angels of acid rain, ozone thinned to scalding, ultraviolet radiation. And what symbol do I imagine now? That Christ-like Prince of Frogs strung on a cross of human bone.  T H E D I G N I T Y O F C O C K ROAC H E S Death comes to cockroaches like a foot wider than the ceiling. The dying lift their legs in a last gesture, a memory of pretzel salt, a toothpick daubed with mustard, sugar floating like an oil slick on coffee.