The Resurrection of the Body at Killysuggen

So, the title poem … As Paul Maddern noted, there’s a bit of Stanley Spencer in here, but it’s also a slant hymn to a landscape I love, between Ards and Belfast, woods and drumlins, farmland and small settlements, and of course Killysuggen graveyard itself where my paternal grandparents are buried.

The Resurrection of the Body at Killysuggen

To think it would happen just at the dawn of winter –
querulous rooks startled from bald woods

like banknotes from a fire. We are back in our bodies
if not back in our clothes, even the dead babies

reborn in the prime of lives they’d never had,
and the old-timers struck again by sex’s ambush –

the gravedigger’s shed is a boudoir, but so is
every headstone, obelisk, and grass-grown path.

A moss-gowned Virgin tactfully lifts her gaze
over a sandstone wall towards Bradshaw’s Brae.

There are hundreds of us making love here,
all in the blink of a trumpet. In a single note from an eye.

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About Martin Mooney

Author of four collections of poetry - Grub (1993), Rasputin and his Children (2000), Blue Lamp Disco (2003) and The Resurrection of the Body at Killysuggen (2011.)
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