Image by Eelco Böhtlingk

ROOTS

the madrigal, volume ii

Radar (an ode to a traveler I loved)

by tomás clancy

Hold still a tentative breath,

for that great surveyor.

They who soar, wild in the wide azure on high.

A procession over the Sunkissed land ribboned by the Garonne

I remember, I remember,

I felt venerable approaching.

Oh, Falcon of this Savannah.

Now low and laborious, dormant

Shielded in the desolate umber.

earth made fallow in the blinding heat.

 

Even here flittering pests dance about like satellites,

Wings clipped wait to beat once more.

It was there I met the wild,

set behind the amber eyes of the valley Paragon.

 

You are a general commanding the winds

that hung over vines creeping on the hill tops.

At this confluence, we were travellers, bound

in fear to begin labouring again.

I remember, the road wound on like a murky shot

Into the indiscernible distance. And I was so small.

But we sat the day long waiting for you to rise again.

In exaltation.

tomas clancy is more than a man or an idea, more an ancient rock formation. it is true that tomas realised poetry was the life for him having already spent so long as a lad wandering around looking longingly out windows and enjoying black polonecks before adopting the snazzy garment as a uniform for the exploration of angst. everything here is incredibly high brow satire and unbelievably literal at the same time, far from ground-breaking. one could only hope that an extensive catalogue of work will at least make for an interesting read at the eventual autopsy. he is one half of the editors here at The Madrigal, and will be until he eventually flees away to a church in Romania.