Tir nan Og (2003)

This journal-page is just
the surface of a lake too
bright with what we intend
to see what’s really there.
When the bothos of
this pen begins to flow
I again descend
to the chapel
of Tir nan Og, a bone
house lodged among
meteorites and
broken swords. Here
is the crystal skull
of Oran, a water-song
weaves and winnows
my words amid
dancing weeds and
drowned maidenhair.
Down here depth is
true compass and
blue the only coin
the mistress of the
house accepts,
pressing my mint
into her dread corset
deeper than any
loch in Scotland.
The music enchants
and dreams and fins
and pours like blood
bereft of pause or staunch.
ItÕs said that no one
returns from the castle
in the lake -- not quite,
though I see the shore
again now brightening
above with a spring-
sugary day. Who knows
how the selkies and
melusina will succor
the singer who remains
down there while
I emerge dripping
here, but of him I’m
harrowed in a
a way that will forever
return me back down there,
next day, next poem,
next page parting where
it’s bluest and deepest,
where all harper plays
all night in the shadow
house of song.