Mark Granier was born in London but moved to Dublin in 1960, where he has been living ever since. He has published two collections with Salmon Poetry, Airborne (2001) and The Sky Road (2007). He was awarded the Vincent Buckley Poetry Prize in 2004 and has received two Arts Council bursaries, in 2002 and 2008.
“In Mark Granier’s new book, Fade Street, he continues to demonstrate the artist’s eye for the nuances of light that made his earlier work so luminously successful. A determined craftsman, he nevertheless collects the delicate and fleeting moment as surely as history’s long views. He shows the development of a true poet with the promise of more wonders to come, his is a talent to enjoy now and keep watching.”
– Ian Duhig
The lowest branch a bar to help you climb
into the V, then heave through the square hole
in the floor: a nest of plywood, forgotten doors
my cousin banged together one day, for years
cradled in our tallest apple tree. That’s me
on the roof’s warped sheet of corrugated iron,
standing under the sun, staring away
over neighboring trees, roofs, fields, to make out
Howth Head’s cagy embrace, and just below it,
a stubborn flake of ultramarine. I grip
bendy branches: knuckly, sap-green cookers
(too bitter to sink your teeth in, too many to harvest)
and throw my weight from one foot to the other
till the whole shapeless vessel creaks and sways.
At The Butcher’s In Colmenar
A framed, blown-up photograph hangs on the wall:
the t-shirted butcher’s son and his wife, on their honeymoon
in Manhattan, the towers in the background, the date:
September 10, 2001.
Behind the counter, a steel door opens: a glimpse
of pale waxy carcasses, smell so thick I could colour it
black-red: the colour of history. Outside, I breathe
warm streets, damp from a recent shower.
An old man swings past on crutches. What do I know
about history? Dawdling under a nearby orange tree –
its perfect glimmering system – I think
of reaching to pluck one.
On An Empty Can
Rolling In The Night
A Week After Your Death
i.m. Anthony Glavin
Something scratches and scrapes
a hole in my dreamscape,
like one of your once-in-a-black-moon
distress calls to summon
a human voice. What wakes me now
is a mouthful of wind, a hollow
with nothing to tell, old friend,
unless your ghost can bend
its will, rewire the silence,
kick some kind of sense
(hard love that had no use
for the easeful half-truths)
into a can’s life-in-death rattle
that cannot, should not, be still.
Remember the hour
when a real foot stands on real earth – it leaves the print
of a centaur,
a whiff of horse-sweat and wild mint.
You might start there.
from Fade Street (Salt Publishing, 2010)
Visit Mark’s Salt author page.
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Visit Mark’s blog, The Lightbox.