18th of September


Flowers at the end of Summer

in a last desperate blooming,

livid, harsh and beautiful,

like a gaudy old whore who

clings to her youth too long.

Disappointing yellowing stalks

from which droop sad bright petals,

decaying at the edges.

Oh!  that beauty should ever adorn

such a deathly image.

“She looked so beautiful

and healthy,

what a fine corpse.”

Death you mock us with our life.

Life you mock us with our death.

Cruel paradox.


Copyright D. Clancy (1987)


Original Note from my diary:

This poem was composed in a state of warm and sunny euphoria in St Stephens Green.  It was written down in progressive stages of inebriation over an excellent bottle of Muscadet in Rajdoot’s Indian Restaurant.


Authors Note from today:

The corpse in question was Nana Clancy who’s death affected me fairly profoundly.  I think this is the best poem I have written, but that’s my personal emotions around the whole thing.  And it may be the wine talking.  Rajdoot’s has closed down, which is really sad.  I loved that restaurant.

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