Fran Lock

The last wolf killed in Ireland

 

'… for every bitch wolfe, six pounds; for every dogg wolfe, five pounds; for every cubb which prayeth for himself, forty shillings; for every suckling cubb, ten shillings; and no woolfe after the last of September until the 10th of January be accounted a young woolfe, and the commissioners of the revenue shall cause the same equallie assessed within their precincts ...' – Oliver Cromwell, 7th April 1652

 

mac tíre, strange aggressor. my name a subtle

heckle on an english tongue. to say my name

invites the mountain: mountain of malice, hill

of hides, the snow-quilted sliabh between fort

and forest, stronghold and stream. the night is

full of saints and toads. fuil, feoil, my young

son a fallen aril, stepped to stain. big men, in

the paranoid plainclothes proper to thieves.

our pelts become pennants along their border

wall. their arrows break off in my boys. mac

tíre, aconite's aisteach tincture, a pale green

bane most verdant after grief. big men erect

a republic of bone. osraige, ossory, ossuary

state. through the horny gloaming, their gimp

tread and bilious crooning. a ruined harvest,

a feudal moon. my eye is gold, and it taints

whatever it touches; gilds whatever it spoils.

this was my mountain. i had such husbands,

lean and lairy, courting my carnal skulk by

culvert, verge and hollow. our sex a vernal

errand, piseóc-sweet. to hex, to bless, their

breath was meat and burning sage. these, my

suitors: lank flags flown from paring blades.

big men, who estimate their skins by weight.

mac tíre, indulging my jugular thoughts alone.

revenge is a dish best served sprinting. what

would i give to swallow them whole? the very

towns are teething, mouthing a murderous

vowel meaning home. this was never their

home: towers and turnstiles, roads and gates,

their premonitions of decay. i lope frustrated

light to dread, enter a hateful song aslant.

the shunned house and the haunted tor. fáel.

fail. the plane. the moor.

Fran Lock is the author of numerous chapbooks and nine poetry collections, most recently Hyena! Jackal! Dog! (Pamenar Press, 2021). The next book in the Hyena! cycle, Final Hyena! is due from Poetry Bus Press next year.  Her book of hybrid lyric riff, White/ Other, is forthcoming from The 87 Press, also in 2022. Fran is an Associate Editor at Culture Matters where she selected and edited the recently launched The Cry of the Poor: Radical Writing About Poverty; she edits the Soul Food column for Communist Review, and is a member of the new editorial advisory board for the Journal of British and Irish Innovative Poetry, currently putting together a special issue on working-class poetics. Together with Hari Rajaledchumy Fran worked on Leaving, an English translation from the Tamil of poems by Sri Lankan poet Anar (Poetry Translation Centre, 2021). She teaches at Poetry School, and hides out in Kent with her beloved pit bull and eternal muse, Manny.

Our War

We who had nothing will school them in serenity

Seferis, Mythistorema

 

 

here, at the chattering turn of the year,

you tarry in my flashbacks. men who

speak of the land, the dark knot fouled

into fastening, tight at the throat. fallow

or sodden, stride it to possession.

when the mouth succumbs to psalms.

congregation: wraiths of crude carousal,

wresting their riveted stare from an angel,

gold against the strewn and quaking sky.

the angel holds heat like a smooth flat

stone. the only thing that does round

here. young men who talk of the war,

its sprawling zeitgeist, as if they knew

more of the earth than its currency of tubers;

as if they had known fear's soft aftershow.

speak, and i am newly sickened. here is

a history with all our lurking favours.

here are the birds, the sparrows

of abandon, a cursory gospel

of gulls. here are our people, yours

and mine, a pink-piss rumour

in the works of the sea, blood against

grit, between task and quest, our ship

turned back. or sunk. and us not

crew, but cargo. sweetness, our

ancestors lived through their limbs,

through the slippery wakeful nonsense

of whatever work there was. we knew.

who cannot claim the land. in the mute

slant, in the stale tang of boardinghouse

light. the turf cut into bible sized portions,

immaculate agonies of burning dirt.

in a bothy light. in a flinty cowshed light.

in a scaldy light. in a caravan light

just so. men who juggle the glamour

of crisis like swords, then apply

for art's council funding. i am tired,

refine the nervous sugar of your name,

where everybody speaks your name to

jeering. my student says: art can

only be redeemed by the expenditure

of reason. i cannot imagine anything

more nauseating. i dream of you,

of all our boys, bursting between words,

overflowing their regiments, pouring

through the great white still of the world,

through the gullet of the world, swilled

in the gob of the world between grim

obeisances. brittle you, my forbidden

irrelevant wish. that they'd all shut

up, that you'd live, my dear, you'd live.

triangle_small
spikes
bedroom tax
Sheriff Stars

thistles stretch their prickly arms afar

Black Triangle
Disrupt and Upset

Militant Thistles

prickling the politics of "permanent austerity"