18th of September

Dyingflower

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)

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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.

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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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