Castle Markree

A pre-war, meaning pre-WW2 goddess in white fur, bobbed gold hair, immortalized in paint.

Castle Markree


I am moved, I am moved, by this immobility.

The nobility of immobility.

I who am ever so nimble.

Over the mantle the portrait of a dead woman

in dead animal’s fur

such a sweet look on her face.


Do you know what poetry is?

Taking the time.

Can you spare the time?

Steal it.


I’m looking for my home

I found it

It belongs to somebody else.

The image of the perfect fortress

not mine.


It’s the size of things.

The sky, the trees, the clouds, the wind,

the rooms, the couches, the rugs,

the staircase, the antlers, the lawns.


There’s room here to be.

Quite simple.

Space is time.

Gold endures.

Give me money

set it on the mantle

in the shape of a clock

in a glass cage

without hands

without motion

brass relic.


Fire burns wood


The marble is false,

chipping to plaster.

You have to go all the way to the end,

all the way to the bottom,

all the way through.


I can smell my own sweat

freshly showered.

Cigarette burns on the occasional table,

veneer’s off the edges.

Spot the error.

Then blame someone for it.


The calm, the weight, the light

from all sides.


I was looking for my home

and I found it

beyond my reach.

24 hours I have here, not even.

One meal. Plenty of tea.

How do I carry you with me?

Will you fit inside?

Will they know, when they see me

sweating and ragged

I live in a castle really?


I’m moved by my own story.

It’s everyone’s story.

Everyone wants to live in a castle.

I thought it was only me.





7 thoughts on “Castle Markree

  1. I feel you traveling alone. It pushes to the bottom, yes – poetry. Will you travel alone again? Or have you had enough?

  2. your heart is so big and strong you can keep it inside.

    and plan for a return trip.

    perhaps next time you can visit craig-y-nos, the former home of adelina patti in the swansea valley . . .

  3. I’m reminded, of course, of that living room at 703 . . . the fireplace with the woman’s portrait over it. Was it there when you were little? Homes that feel like homes, though we think we’ve never been there before, yet know we have. Clouds and fog, trees and sea and sky . . . they link our pasts to our futures. Keep traveling, sis, till your travels bring you ’round again.

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