by: Sean Condron
Sean Condron embraces poetry’s role as the repository of the bittersweet truth of collective and personal memory: namely, the stories which come to define us are woven from all that is missing and impossible to reclaim (“I’m sorry, I lost the sweater you knitted for me/ Then I lost you somewhere down the line”).
Musings on Chestnut Mare
Chestnut Mare
On the radio/
Cassette
Player
We rode that song
You and I
Right to the cliff
Some
Times
Over
We will always
Have made that drop
The stillness
Of a too-warm Spring day
Brambles scraping
The metal
Chassis
Insects
Buzzin’
Moine Moine
Moine Moine Schnecke, Wie Gehts Dir?
Even before I awoke, it was
The woman and her lists of
Was, Is, Will be
That other morning
Hungover, rudely awakened
In our first time bed, the headboard
Neptune’s nightmare
As the owner of the flat
Stripped the duvies and sheets
Off our naked supine bodies
Yelling his
Authoritarian Slavic tongue
Conveyed his utter disgust
Reported us to the StB, if he could have
But they were gone
Nightmare vapors that dissipate
Upon awakening…
Raucous joyful madcap
Too loud laughing of
Drunk didn’t know no better, fool
Happy Hour
Four dollar make you holler
Frozen margaritas, salt on rim, natch
Makes your teeth hurt
Carlsberg Special Brew on tap! Who does that?
Grappa on the run
Down seaside bar
Maid, chatting up the. Ne Mate Chance!
Don’t talk to me kid, I’m from New York and
Nobody owns the fuckin water.
Poitín and mushrooms
In the light of the turf fire
Stoned on W.C. Fields 78’s
Between bouts of
Are you sorted, mate?
I am sordid.
7.2 % in Woodstock, Christiania
Flush faced Greenlanders
The man with the 45 calibre
Watch out for those Swedes
They’re all good little
American Mickey Mouses
I’m sorry, I lost the sweater you knitted for me
Then I lost you somewhere down the line
Absinthe tastes like ass, by the way
But that won’t stop you
From almost getting
Your ass kicked
By Neil, whose parents were
Royal Ulster Constabulary
From setting the backyard on fire
Will it James? Ah, fuck, James.
Highway 51 to Ricard 51
Marseille mosques burning like jewels
As we rode over the hill,
The man was going to shoot us
For swimming in the marina
More cheap white powders for fortitude
Cannery Row cocktails
After the Gardai cleared out
The paying customers
Whiskey in Boyle, the music
Hanging in the air with
Cherubs and valkyries
When the van broke its axle.
Masopust and sweet glowing teenage lust
Like the pied piper
Parading the village youth
Into the dark Bohemian sylvan forest
Don’t get married that day! they say, and we never did
But hungover to shit, knowing I’d never have you to love
There
With Peter
In the ten crown boozer
Gambling into the wee wee hours
At the Flash London geezer’s casino
Let it ride, let it ride
Where is my rock n roll nurse these days?
Black and Tans, and Car Bombs
Rotgut Queen Margaret
Whiskey on a Sunday
Afternoon Party in our
East Berlin squat
Girtraude
In her nicest clothes, as you do
If you were a fashionista
Under Honecker
Daintily sipping from a chipped glass
Derwin, just tell us you stole the tobacco, for fuck’s sake
Industrial blue cleaning fluid
With the only Czech beatnik left
His fingers warped and crooked,
Never would play saxophone again
Beers in both pockets, unshaven
Strummin’ a banjo, and belting out
‘Ooh Wee!, ride behind
Tomorrow’s the day
My bride’s gonna come’
For the geologists
At the Guatemalan
Quinceañera
Beauty contest
A bemusing counterpoint
To these angeles bonitas
Draped in their finest
Debutante red silk
Virginal dreams
Flowers in their hair
Matts of firecrackers crackling
Through the chicken wire
As roosters pecked the dirt
Skiing downhill nose first
And a forlorn kiss with Australian Dara
Never getting to bed again
After the lock in
Throwing the pint glass
For the sheer fuck of it
Shattering
The chilly
Early morn
New borne
January air
As we crossed the Corrib
And bumped into
My wee Auntie Sheila
On her way home from Mass
What could I do, God rest her and
God rest them all,
But kiss her on the cheek
And wish her a Happy New Year.
Heyoka
On our flotillas and rafts
In the sea of dust, a mineral crimson
Like the son of a god, we stride forth
Upon these waves of sand
The color of rust, of desiccated hearts
Rub it into our skin, an unctuous remedy
Kneeling, as it swirls and eddies around us
I fill my mouth with this delicious dust
Laughing, a heyoka on the great plains
As the sun does seize
My eyes for his own
Sean Condron was born in Queens, New York to Irish immigrant parents from whom he inherited his unquenchable wanderlust, humor, and artistic ability. For his rebellious nature and anti-authoritarian stance, as well as his his penchant for drink and drugs, he blames the Catholic Church. An accomplished musician and expert in traditional American music, Sean has been on four tours for the U.S. State Department, in Central America, Kuwait, Turkmenistan, and Oman with his group The Hoppin’ John String Band. Sean is recently returned from performing at the Acoustik Festival Bamako in Mali, Africa.
