2 poems by Stuart Flynn


Back in the slanting, tilted days

we tore great chunks off each other

and then crept slowly apart, not looking back,

like sidling crabs over cooling sands

and wrote with bloody fingers on the walls

words that still drip down to acid puddles;

I wished I could cry in my sleep

and wait for the dreams to come.

But I’m none of those thousand phantoms;

not a prisoner in love with his jailer

nor a blind man married to an angel;

just a broken rung on the ladder,

a handful of scattered shells and driftwood

when the teasing tide recedes,

like I’m stuck by a hotel pool 

two steps from the bar and just a drink from Hell.

Easter Island, 1500 AD

The five stars tremble through the branches

of the last tree on this island. At dawn,

my loyal axe will cut it down to raise

the final moai of my ancestors

and the long-gone dead will smile.

But there will be no wood for platforms

to one day lift me huge and rocky

like the eyes that talk to the sky,

my cold stone back to the living sea,

my painted eyes scorching the bare earth.

I tremble, too, but the ancestors call my axe.

About the contributor

Stuart Flynn was born in Australia of Irish origin and now lives in Dublin. His first poetry pamphlet was published in 2001 by the British literary journal Acumen and he has published various others, as well as many poems, translations of Italian poetry, and essays in magazines and anthologies.

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