Poem for WB Yeats: by Hugh McCormack

The thoor of which
there are real possibilities
looming to known bounds
-so many have gotten
de-stabilised due to harrying
as duress caught by
defect – confessed guilt in
reckoning by making tally
of every mark made –
its reward will stretch
the imagination those able
Upwards that singular movement
for many a different
experience – to grasp objects
Producing often those non-essentials
favouring affordable premise inlay

Tall thoor with skylark
no worries quiet still
for similar signs of
panic in human form –
there is none balancing
beauty and neatness cute
Why God did not give
all wings to brush
with the sky merrily
A touch of artistry –
though we are in
for a bumpy ride-
feat feign will happen
Now we continue admiration
appreciating the pending doom
old curiosity with age

Menacing spirit engulfs thoor
liking it to containment
Threaten it often mistakenly
in a towering rage –
engaged in pursuit of
someone or something spar
Square imposing high tower
reaching pitch forked cloud
as if the captor-
locked in pensive mood –
was holding one captive
-a monument in symbol
of heraldry and descend
Beauty imprisoned by shape
refined to slender suitor –
engaged in ardent holdings
Roam within the thoor
-the space a vacant
heart – warming tall house
ivy crawling home lush
Beetled juts the insect
on floor under bed
A city of many
buildings destroys the knowledge
gained from lonely tower
Contemplation when alone hush
-silent temple under skirt
up between the rafters
bushy pleasure of love
God grant the grace –
of true tenement privacy
between skylark and dove

Old grey silent thoor
making sound when appropriate
-when entered by nature
the song of grove
Walking slowly she bends
for excitement and pleasure
Torrents of rain penetrate
the cracks on wall
The house a place
of secure inculcate drawn
-as the towering witness
that pulls through melee
The power of the
eternal presence in sense –
a feeling of ending
inspiring certainty over ruins

Pore this empty thoor
-a forward on rush
such a portentous task
Taut that ragged within
taunt on sweep approach
and enter as sway
Ponder my lovely devourer-
you’re light in darkness
while walking the buttress
Red headed lady outside
-ready to fulfil a role
looking down upon her
-a work of meaning
Lower than thought hasten
all time there rabble
with nothing but titter

Thoor a pent lighthouse
-house of much wisdom
an affirmative of belief
as red haired lady
sings on roof-top skies
Down below brilliantly argued-
fine old sake sake’s
You’re light what matter-
if nothing is understood
Every thought an epiphany
mystery is what counts
making core of it
Centering one-self before so –
her long legs drawing
pleasures of such gasp
will hap frequently figure

Rare beauty is thoor
as try to possess
-she known as soft-spoken
She shaped at pelvis
going into the house
intimate enticing the grandeur –
the splendour of grand
grasping the side around
She speaks as authoritatively
about the autumn prelude
Fixing defects which loom
upwards erect and proud
no more contained within
Free to wander hence –
presence of mind acts
out the drama bleakness

a more ancient thoor
-even the weather bad
Sheltered by its droopy
branches ever more carried
by wind and rain
The droning tone winding
over the drumlin breast
Grand mounds of beauty
held by those hands
exhaling towering above her
What counts is managed
favourably by sack haw-
for words do explain
How you will rue
with all that frightfulness
loathing age and life

It seems that thoor
-her eyes like tapers
closing her feeble light
falling to ruin lack-
of something being defined
Walls constraint by threat –
notches in a game
of chess move parapet
The sound of distance
calling home an event-
in which a conclusion
An aged expression efficiently
creating a strong impression
to indicate in advance
The tinkling of gentle
hands as such design

By Hugh McCormack