02 April 2009

Hills - Moya Cannon

I got called on to read during my Intro. to Irish Poetry and Environmentalism class. We're studying Moya Cannon this week. She's a pro, so of course all her stuff is pretty good, but I really liked this one called "Hills."


My wild hills come stalking.
Did I perhaps after all, in spite of all
try to cast them off,
my dark blue hills,
that were half the world's perimeter?
Have I stooped so low as to lyricise about heather,a
adjusting my love
to fit elegantly
within the terms of disinterested discourse?

Who do I think I'm fooling?
I know these hills better than that.
I know them blue, like delicate shoulders.
I know the red grass that grows in high boglands
and the passionate brightnesses and darknesses
of high bog lakes.
And I know too how,
in the murk of winter,
these wet hills will come howling through my blood
like wolves.


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