Poetry by Sean Cunningham
Perception
I can see the same moon
that many saw before,
but none saw it blood red
and through this glass of wine.
This is naught but a dream –
I know it is many
thousands of miles away
and shining, ivorine.
Caligula saw moon,
Caligula went mad.
Sat on a starry wire,
its imperfections touch
our souls and hollow eyes,
just like a blissful kiss –
or the hot branding iron.
This wine is gone and goes,
but moon is shining still:
whiter than whiter than
white.
The Crows
Can you hear the crows, my love?
O, can you hear them crow?
They want to watch me die, my love,
I'm close, how do they know?
Can you hear the crows, my love?
O, can you hear them so?
They want to eat my eyes, my love,
watch weeds from sockets grow.
Can you hear the crows, my love?
O, can you hear them low?
They want to dig inside, my love,
put on a gory show.
Can you hear the crows, my love?
O, can you hear them now?
They're pecking at my heart, my love,
it shouldn't be long now.
Orpheus to Eurydice
I sing to you as darkness fails
and disapproving purple hue
of dawn too soon our tryst curtails,
and though our night was done I knew
your sunbeam eyes I'd see again
as my rough heart felt one as two
and swelled in size to love as ten –
proof that our love far, far exceeds
the realms and minds of mortal men.
Up from Hades it's I who leads –
your silent steps, I hope, in tow –
as fear and paranoia breeds
and, in my head, their seeds they sow.
And now my heart not wants, but needs
to see—
just as you're dragged below.
I can see the same moon
that many saw before,
but none saw it blood red
and through this glass of wine.
This is naught but a dream –
I know it is many
thousands of miles away
and shining, ivorine.
Caligula saw moon,
Caligula went mad.
Sat on a starry wire,
its imperfections touch
our souls and hollow eyes,
just like a blissful kiss –
or the hot branding iron.
This wine is gone and goes,
but moon is shining still:
whiter than whiter than
white.
The Crows
Can you hear the crows, my love?
O, can you hear them crow?
They want to watch me die, my love,
I'm close, how do they know?
Can you hear the crows, my love?
O, can you hear them so?
They want to eat my eyes, my love,
watch weeds from sockets grow.
Can you hear the crows, my love?
O, can you hear them low?
They want to dig inside, my love,
put on a gory show.
Can you hear the crows, my love?
O, can you hear them now?
They're pecking at my heart, my love,
it shouldn't be long now.
Orpheus to Eurydice
I sing to you as darkness fails
and disapproving purple hue
of dawn too soon our tryst curtails,
and though our night was done I knew
your sunbeam eyes I'd see again
as my rough heart felt one as two
and swelled in size to love as ten –
proof that our love far, far exceeds
the realms and minds of mortal men.
Up from Hades it's I who leads –
your silent steps, I hope, in tow –
as fear and paranoia breeds
and, in my head, their seeds they sow.
And now my heart not wants, but needs
to see—
just as you're dragged below.
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Sean Cunningham is twenty-three and from Liverpool, where he is studying for a BA in English Literature at Liverpool Hope University. His fiction can be found, online, at the Eastern Iowa Review – this is his first poetry publication.
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