POETRY

I wrote this poem as I was traveling north of Galway in an area called the Burren.  The guide that I traveled with was very unique.  His stories deep, mystical, funny, and heartfelt.  His speech rhythmic and lyrical often repeating phrases twice in succession.  It was a trip that I'll never forget!

(Dusseault)

Her Magical Irish Sweater

Irish green landscapes glide tangibly by

In whimsical, melancholy shades and tones

Casting deep knowledge

Of old magic

Throughout my heart and life

Winter wind and rain cleanse and expand the creative soul

With a Burren of bare, harsh, minutely diverse flawlessness

Sharing ages and eons

Of billions of

Possibilities unknown

And alongside this exquisite reverie

I seem to feel the eyes and soul

Of a heart and love

So fine and true

As to bond and create

A sensual being

Of mind and body

A transformation

Of us, we two

Extending tactilely, visually, lovingly

Surrounding and holding her close

Touching first the garment

The braided, luxuriant wool

That lay on her skin

Keeping us negligibly apart,

Yet not

Her Irish sweater

A magical sweater

A mother lamb's gift

Enfolding her heart and dreams

Around love

Wrapping passions and life and mind

Into a womanly luxuriant package

Of deeply entwined

Fibers of wool

Seamlessly, without pause

As the kilometers flow by

As the limestone pads

Become reality

And permeate the day,

Along with myst and legend,

She and I

Find ourselves without concern

Touching, exploring, intermingling

Amidst the soft, slick, sensual fibers

Of her magical sweater

From that small, brilliant segment of time

Birds, plants, rocks, wind, sky, and rain

No longer exist beyond us

Environment and our singular forms fuse

Enduring without separation,

Without time

Among those fibers of luscious animal fleece

Our nerves and synapse explode and fire

Cinematizing thoughts, memories, and perceptions

As actuality, solubility, and existence itself

Alter our perception and mutate us

To a new dimension

Rock hewn fields

Her hands

Drops of rain

Our lips

Castles dripping with dew

A deep embrace

Ancient caves of limestone

Pulsing sweat and pleasure

Birds ebbing and coursing in flight

Bodies moving singly in union, in rhythm

Cliffs dizzily cascading vertically to the ocean

Eyes piercing, glazing and locking passionately

The ocean's power explodes against rock with magnificent spray and foam

Bodies lock and join in creational joy and dynamic flame

And dynamic flame

Quiet

Quiet

Rest

Becalmed,

Tranquil,

Silent

Becalmed

It's evening on the Burren's edge

The sunset rests the sea

While winds and rain and light subside

A lighthouse sits with me

A curved-winged gull paints segments

And arcs from shore to sky

But nature's there and I am here again

A window shades my eyes

It's winter as it should be

The world seems properly in place

But something's missing

Something's gone

And I cannot find its face

And then without the knowing

Or comprehending why

The digits on my left hand

Seek out the reason why

I force my eyes to look there

Where hand now knows the why

The magic of my love is gone

And emptiness abides

Yet where so close

She was with me

A soft, cream sweater lay

A textured present

That I know

I chose for her this day

I gazed at it in wonder

Thoughts churned and filled my head

My life and hers

Felt real to me

But a sweater sits instead

Oh, could this Irish sweater

With magic powers perform

A miracle

Transporting her

Back from ethereal form

The burren knows the answer

The Cliffs of Moher can say

The winds along the coastline

Can guide me on my way

The gulls can trace it in the sky

The rocks can teach the art

But only this fine sweater

Has the power

To unlock her Irish heart

Copyright © Bob Stegner 2005

Image of Sweater:

Dusseault, Lisa. Aran Jumper. Digital image. Wikipedia. Wikipedia, 19 Aug. 2003 Web. 09 Dec. 2013.