Being the Bulb Planted in the Autumn

Being the Bulb Planted in the Autumn

Being the bulb planted in the Autumn
inserting the planter
cutting out the core of turf
placing the small bulb in the pit 
of the dug out earth
fill it in with the rotted compost
mixed with leaf-mould and clay

Treading it all in with my booted foot 
leaving it there not  another thought 
till  I become the bulb that has been planted
one cold spring night with the new moon in Pisces
going out for a piss no more reading of the book
using the wind to keep my legs dry
a few stars in a blown cloud break
and the bare trees howling

I remember the cold bulb in the Earth
I imagine it and so become it being myself
the clay is so cold and darker than the night above me 
I must use all my in-bound strength to push upward
roots downwards life stem upward
pushing always pushing 
I realise I am very deep
am I too deep in the earth

Emerging to this dark bitter night
I see the star come in go out 
I see the bare branches storm bent to the east
hear the heavy Atlantic roar above the trees 
what despair I feel I cannot relate 
I can envisage no daylight 
to which I might give my joy and blueness 
I coil in upon my self and wait

Leave my being partly there
my body back to the warm house
to the book a part of  me is reading 


4 thoughts on “Being the Bulb Planted in the Autumn

  1. Hi Tony, A lovely poem. I’m ok. Sorry I haven’t got back to you I will in the next few days. Yes cycling and walking. Love Jenny ________________________________


  2. What I love about this poem, Tony, is the coiled circularity. It speaks to me deeply of the past year, the rooting, the silence, the despair, the attempt to push upward past the trauma of what has been. It is so evocative of the Irish sky and soil, that quality emblematic of much of your work. I’m grateful that this time, with all its adjustments and angst, has also been so fruitful for both you and Max. Were my project/s not endless, I might feel the same! I embrace the spring sunlight, the crocus and the promise of daffodils. Soon. Much love and thanks, Beth *Everywhere is falling everywhere. – *Rumi


    • You’re so kind Beth…it is a hard time to grow older in….been reading “The Bone People” Kiri Hulme…and Ocean Vuong another young American poet. But they all present escatological phenomena ….


  3. I can see it all. The cottage and garden at night. Feeling those moods, those questions that come so powerfully in the dark. Your words never fail to deepen my awareness of what is, and of what may still be.


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