“The most magnificent barbaric monument in Europe” George Petrie on Dún Aonghasa, Inis Mór
The route and the man take me to this place, back when I do not understand the importance of maps.
And as we board, the boat is full of plastic bags full of stomach contents. The cross purposed tide is the first warning sign I should not ignore.
That red haired woman boards the boat too. For her, the first and last time to Inis Mór.
You had been before, you say. You had met a cool American woman here, before we met, you say, after the cool, older, French woman to whom you say, you lost your virginity, you say, in that cool spot, overlooking Binn Ghulbain, with her back to the sea. She did not hear it coming.
The second sign appeared in the bar when we arrive. I fit in with strangers who are not. I had a pint or two. I remember three things, a smile, an eye, a beating of wings with someone who was not you, you who stood awkward, alien, watching me, the door, and the lorg mór choosing to kill or bring me back to life. I can see your big red face, but I cannot hear what you utter in the glare. Yet in my belly, in that moment, as a black feather is shed, I feel your choice.
This is when you, Dagda, believe I am yours to do with.
And something at some time will be done.
Your will not beat, we leave the warm place, to walk a long walk to the place you want to take me.
The third sign is the rain. Uaithne tries to stop you. But you push on and pull me. It beats at your face. Look.
And I look at you, throughout, through this light box, captured in your moment, as you stand here on this black and white day. My small eye against this vastness.
And why, I wonder, is there something U2 ish about this moment? Click, whirr, click, whirr, click, whirr, click. Your black shirt is billowing. Dark shadow hides half your face, the better-looking half. Your arms rest ownership, entitlement on the chevale de frise, which you have breached, not without a struggle. Worth it you say, as I lose my balance for the first, second and third time, fall, using your camera, to photograph you.
I see you.
The photo never did you justice and in the afterlife of ruins, when developed, you say it never happened.
Rerighting ellipsis ellipsis ellipsis
is this a line__________________or
the problem am I
Ineradicable the problem prose but to
this poem the problem from its own
I’ll say ‘the problem significant events’
that both that both that flush left
and the problem
margins constantly loom
as the problem
The problem thought I was about to
Write the problem and
Making me write something
Else the problem entirely even
Though I am going
The problem back and the problem still
Six words the problem
The word problem
problem the word
the problem oblem word bird