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Alan Jude Moore

Flowers on Clarendon Street

Step past the river --
wide with tears
and exhausted roses.
Drawn beneath the stars
and billboard advertisements,
the streets are dark marine.
Falling through headlamps,
horns howl from the corner
to the bridge where love has jumped.
Sparrow's wings drag the night
through screaming;
through violins and feathers,
through the metres of regret.
In a market-place of bones
hearts choke
on the seeds of themselves.


Station

there was a time
I almost forgot the name
the plants that grew up against the wall
receded, like things do
the flowers on the balcony
died facing the light
as the convent of St. Anne’s
went up in flames

the pillow arched against the headboard
begins to fall out of place
for the last time
I forget the shape it made
the hand carved candles
that were Adam and Eve
dissembled themselves
into lumps of wax

the flowers on the balcony
died facing the light
the fragrance in the hallway has changed;
the bare beams of a burnt out roof
blackened cloth more black than before
and tiny altars that will not hear prayers again





©2004 by Alan Jude Moore


Alan Jude Moore was born in Dublin 1973, and graduated in Political Science from Trinity College. His poetry has been published in various journals and magazines, including Poetry Ireland Review, The Stinging Fly, Kestrel (USA), Jacobs Ladder (USA) and Pelagos (Italy). Other work is forthcoming in The Black Mountain Review and Poetry Salzburg Review. His collection, Black State Cars, was recently published by Salmon Poetry. He currently is living in Russia.


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