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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477972" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Milkweed and Monarch</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The rain comes flapping through the yard<br>like a tablecloth that she hand-embroidered.<br>My mother has left it on the line.<br>It is sodden with rain.<br>The mushroom shed is windowless, wide, <br>its high-stacked wooden trays<br>hosed down with formaldehyde.<br>And my father has opened the gates of Troy<br>to that first load of horse manure.<br>Barley straw. Gypsum. Dried blood. Ammonia.<br>Wagon after wagon<br>blusters in, a self-renewing gold-black dragon<br>we push to the back of the mind.<br>We have taken our pitchforks to the wind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All brought back to me that September evening<br>fifteen years on. The pair of us<br>tripping through Barnett's fair demesne<br>like girls in long dresses<br>after a hail-storm.<br>We might have been thinking of the fire-bomb<br>that sent Malone House sky-high<br>and its priceless collection of linen<br>sky-high.<br>We might have wept with Elizabeth McCrum.<br>We were thinking only of psilocybin.<br>You sang of the maid you met on the dewy grass-<br>And she stooped so low gave me to know<br>it was mushrooms she was gathering O.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He'll be wearing that same old donkey-jacket<br>and the sawn-off waders.<br>He carries a knife, two punnets, a bucket.<br>He reaches far into his own shadow.<br>We'll have taken him unawares<br>and stand behind him, slightly to one side.<br>He is one of those ancient warriors<br>before the rising tide.<br>He'll glance back from under his peaked cap<br>without breaking rhythm: <br>his coaxing a mushroom-a flat or a cup-<br>the nick against his right thumb; <br>the bucket then, the punnet left or right, <br>and so on and so forth till kingdom come.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We followed the overgrown tow-path by the Lagan.<br>The sunset would deepen through cinnamon<br>to aubergine, <br>the wood-pigeon's concerto for oboe and strings, <br>allegro, blowing your mind.<br>And you were suddenly out my ken, hurtling<br>towards the ever-receding ground, <br>into the maw<br>of a shimmering green-gold dragon.<br>You discovered yourself in some outbuilding<br>with your long-lost companion, me, <br>though my head had grown into the head of a horse<br>and shook its dirty-fair mane<br>and spoke this verse: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come back to us. However cold and raw, your feet<br>were always meant <br>to negotiate terms with bare cement.<br>Beyond this concrete wall is a wall of concrete<br>and barbed wire. Your only hope<br>is to come back. If sing you must, let your song<br>tell of treading your own dung, <br>let straw and dung give a spring to your step.<br>If we never live to see the day we leap<br>into our true domain, <br>lie down with us now and wrap<br>yourself in the soiled grey blanket of Irish rain<br>that will, one day, bleach itself white.<br>Lie down with us and wait.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1983</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Paul+Muldoon">Paul Muldoon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477972" data-title="Milkweed and Monarch de Paul Muldoon" data-description="The rain comes flapping through the yard
like a tablecloth that she hand-embroidered.
My mother has left it on the line.
It is sodden with rain.
The mushroom shed is windowless, wide, 
its high-stacked wooden trays
hosed down with formaldehyde.
An..."></div>
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