New Poetry- Arthur Broomfield

The return of the artist

It was that kind of a once-in-a-lifetime
snow and hailstones day
so dreamed of by smug artists and Yale dons,
dendrological in a buns and sofa way:
King David on his throne,
Bathsheba pouring goat curd and curses
over the scone mix,
when the garlic guest strolled in,
carrying his masterpiece on a head
[true to his training],
the snow and slurry from his mosaic boots
beguiling the Axminister with rocks of ages.

“My ship is waiting at Giza”,
he explained,
“the clouds are bubble-wrap on the easel”.

We danced on the head of Cleopatra’s knitting needle.
Others sang the Horst Wessel
to the air of Blue moon in Kentucky.
The guest wept and changed his sou’wester
For an eye on the dollar.


The latticed jaw of the old
rag and bone department secretary
glanced knowingly at the steel hull
of the egg and banana sandwich.

“Time for the séance,”
he announced to the assembled
gas chambers and matches in waiting.
These were the moments he relished,
longboats thrusting out to sea,
curraghs driven by tattooed oarswomen,
an old philosopher set on the remains of the planet Pluto,
memorising the book of Enoch.

“Now”, he rasped, fresh from the stench of the farriers’ meeting house,
“who can give me the pickled head
of the webbed foot profit
in an old hat box?

The blood red moon sailed by the blacked out window,
widows and childless crooned
the  last verse of I’ll be seeing you,
a tribute in yodel to the ode of Saint Vitus.

 Cill Rialaig Poems


To say their story is empty egg shells
on moon mirages,
twinkling watercress and cheviot sheep
with no strings attached,
she played the last deuce in the water lily plot.

The many options carved in sacred clouds
of mist and chewed gum,
known to three of the four horsemen,
plough on regardless of the shifting acrylics
and sneaky shadow with pitchfork feet,
reflect the shapely nude on the butterfly wings
that support the impressive palace.

Knowing this first she ate the laid egg
and carried them on beds of thistles and whooping cough
to the church of the confused chicken.




About the contributor

Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet and Beckett scholar. He is editor of the on-line poetry journal Outburst. Arthur’s chapbook The Poetry Reading at Semple Stadium (Lapwing) was published in 2011. His poems have been published in most Irish journals and in Orbis and Envoi in the U.K. He has been shortlisted for the Hennessey Award. He is in the process of finishing a work of literary criticism on the works of Samuel Beckett (Cambridge Scholars Press).

Related Articles

Daniel Edward Moore, Poetry

Daniel lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems have been in Spoon River Poetry Review, Columbia Journal, Cream City Review, Western Humanities Review, and others.


Stephen House has won two Awgie Awards (Australian Writers Guild),

Stephen Schwei. Poetry

Stephen Schwei is a Houston poet with Wisconsin roots, published in Wax Poetry & Art, Beneath the Rainbow, Hidden Constellation, Borfski Press, and the New Reader Magazine.

More Like This

Reverie- Gerard Sarnat

Reverie Summer Sunday Morning, Not exactly Lazy, post Early lunch Made up Of kiefer Or grilled Cheese… Last time I napped ...

Summer Sestina and other poems by Caoimhe McKeogh

IT IS NOT THE TELEPHONE it is not the telephone it is the stove with its timer beeping in that never-ending way...

Thomas Bailey- New Poems

Thomas Bailey is 21 years-old, and lives in London. He is currently studying English at Cambridge, and is editor of his college's annual poetry...

2 Poems by Patrick Green

A Letter to You 3 A.M. in the kitchen   Shooting chips under the white light Hitting our heads on your door,   A...

At the site of the crash – Brendon Booth-Jones

At the site of the crash all is thunderingly still. The street, trees, and houses lie curled asleep in the predawn chill....