stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17855
    [post_author] => 18
    [post_date] => 2017-03-29 19:17:02
    [post_date_gmt] => 2017-03-29 19:17:02
    [post_content] => The radicals sprung the locks that night, hurrah!
and their lovely collarbones were almost moonly.

Rhinos shrieked and bellowed, elephants tromboned
and the animals nosed into town.

Sunrise to sunrise and sunrise we kept indoors.
If you can’t count your onions, what can you count

my grandfather used to say. He said a lot of things.
Among the other miners he was legendary:

when no more than the thought of the pink crumple
of his infant daughter’s body came to mind

a glow would swell in the pit, the men
would mayhem bauxite by the light

his tenderness emitted.
Some of me lived inside her even then.

The memorial fountain says nothing
of the weeks before the rescue failed

but mentions God which, as my grandfather
used to say, is just the name of the plateau

you view the consequences of your living from.
Or something like that. He said a lot of things.

He grew wise and weary as an albatross
and left for that great kingdom of nevertheless.

It would have pleased his handsome shoulders
to watch this grizzly scoop for salmon

in the fountain of his friends, or the Bengals,
or the shakedown squad of chimpanzees

who bang and bang on the grocery window.
One by one eleven miners starved to death.

In the streets they collar or tranquillise
the ocelots and run a spike of ketamine

through the plumbing in the fountain.
Dromedaries blue-mood around the pub

aloof under their reservoirs of fat.
I don’t sleep, but oh plateau! these days

of violence have been my happiest.
Even a cabbage is not without desire

my grandfather said one day, and now
among the animals, I feel under my wings

the words for things I thought I knew
departing, and I understand him.
    [post_title] => The Curfew
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => the-curfew
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2017-07-10 16:00:29
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2017-07-10 16:00:29
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=17855
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2016
            [wpcf-summary-description] => 'The Curfew' was the winner of the 2016 National Poetry Competition. 

From the judges: "‘The Curfew’ rose to its number one position, as a completely unexpected poem, a tour de force, dreamlike in its shifts, wide-ranging and deeply felt. With magic-realist leaps, it moves fluidly between a zoo’s escaping animals and memories of a “legendary” miner grandfather, a very unusual man, to which the poem is, in part, an unusual tribute. The language is alive, very much the poet’s own, and impressively adventurous. Take, for instance, the beauty and resonance of “the men / would mayhem bauxite by the light // his tenderness emitted.” Exuberant in its energies, ‘The Curfew’, while scarcely pausing, admits the contemplative. It’s a poem to read and reread, to ponder and to experience. Its conclusion tenders that which goes beyond accustomed language, beyond any language: “I feel under my wings // the words for things I thought I knew / departing, and I understand him.” " - Moniza Alvi [wpcf-rights-information] => [wpcf-poem-award] => 1st Prize, National Poetry Competition 2016 [wpcf_pr_belongs] => ) [poet_data] => stdClass Object ( [ID] => 17872 [forename] => [surname] => [title] => Stephen Sexton [slug] => stephen-sexton [content] => Stephen Sexton lives in Belfast where he is studying at the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry. Poems have appeared in Granta, Poetry Ireland, Poetry London, and Best British Poetry 2015. His pamphlet, Oils, published by The Emma Press in 2014 was the Poetry Book Society’s Winter Pamphlet Choice. He was the recipient of an ACES award from the Arts Council of Northern Ireland in 2016. ) )
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17872
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Stephen Sexton
    [slug] => stephen-sexton
    [content] => Stephen Sexton lives in Belfast where he is studying at the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry. Poems have appeared in Granta, Poetry Ireland, Poetry London, and Best British Poetry 2015. His pamphlet, Oils, published by The Emma Press in 2014 was the Poetry Book Society’s Winter Pamphlet Choice. He was the recipient of an ACES award from the Arts Council of Northern Ireland in 2016.
)

The Curfew

Stephen Sexton

The radicals sprung the locks that night, hurrah!
and their lovely collarbones were almost moonly.

Rhinos shrieked and bellowed, elephants tromboned
and the animals nosed into town.

Sunrise to sunrise and sunrise we kept indoors.
If you can’t count your onions, what can you count

my grandfather used to say. He said a lot of things.
Among the other miners he was legendary:

when no more than the thought of the pink crumple
of his infant daughter’s body came to mind

a glow would swell in the pit, the men
would mayhem bauxite by the light

his tenderness emitted.
Some of me lived inside her even then.

The memorial fountain says nothing
of the weeks before the rescue failed

but mentions God which, as my grandfather
used to say, is just the name of the plateau

you view the consequences of your living from.
Or something like that. He said a lot of things.

He grew wise and weary as an albatross
and left for that great kingdom of nevertheless.

It would have pleased his handsome shoulders
to watch this grizzly scoop for salmon

in the fountain of his friends, or the Bengals,
or the shakedown squad of chimpanzees

who bang and bang on the grocery window.
One by one eleven miners starved to death.

In the streets they collar or tranquillise
the ocelots and run a spike of ketamine

through the plumbing in the fountain.
Dromedaries blue-mood around the pub

aloof under their reservoirs of fat.
I don’t sleep, but oh plateau! these days

of violence have been my happiest.
Even a cabbage is not without desire

my grandfather said one day, and now
among the animals, I feel under my wings

the words for things I thought I knew
departing, and I understand him.