Something Dún

Something Dún

The most magnificent barbaric monument in EuropeGeorge 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.

I do.

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


Simply chopping

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

irregular right

                                  margins constantly loom

                                                                  as the problem

Significant events

                            often interrupting



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

Reappears every

Six words the problem

The word problem

problem the word

the problem oblem   word bird