Ireland, (b. 1936)
The Pig Killer
- On the scoured table, the pig lies
- On its back, its legs held down
- By Ned Gorman and Joe Dineen.
- Over its throat, knife in hand, towers
- Fitzmaurice, coatless, his face and hands
- Brown as wet hay. He has travelled
- Seven miles for this kill and now,
- Eager to do a good job, examines
- The prone bulk. Tenderly his fingers move
- On the flabby neck, seeking the right spot
- For the knife. Finding it, he leans
- Nearer and nearer the waiting throat,
- Expert fingers fondling flesh. Nodding then
- To Gorman and Dineen, he raises the knife,
- Begins to trace a line along the throat.
- Slowly the line turns red, the first sign
- Of blood appears, spreads shyly over the skin. The pig
- Begins to scream. Fitzmaurice halts his blade
- In the middle of the red line, lifts it slightly,
- Plunges it eight inches deep
- Into the pig. In a flash, the brown hands
- Are red, and the pig’s screams
- Rise and fall with the leaping blood. The great heaving
- Body relaxes for Gorman and Dineen.
- Fitzmaurice stands back, lays his knife on
- A window-sill, asks for hot water and soap.
- Blade and hands he vigorously purges, then
- Slipping on his battered coat,
- Eyeing the pig, says with authority—
- ‘Dead as a doornail! Still as a mouse!
- There’s a good winter’s feedin’ in that baishte!’
- Fitzmaurice turns and strides into the house.
Brendan Kennelly. A Time for Voices: selected poems 1960-1990. Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books (1990).
The Pig
- You, Heavenly Muse, how will you justify
- The pig’s ways to men?
- How will you sing
- Of the pig’s origin?
- What thighs opened wide
- To let out that snout
- Rammed on a carcase of timeless slime?
- When the old sly juices went to work
- What womb
- Sheltered our little darling?
- What breasts
- Gave it suck?
- Suck, suck.
- And on our treacherous planet
- What hearts worry for its welfare?
- The pig is everywhere.
- He grunts between the lovers in their bed
- His hot sperm flooding the girl
- His dungeon breath rutting into her skin
- Where a man’s fingers move in what he thinks
- Are patterns of enchantment.
- The pig’s eyes smile in the dark.
- The pig’s eyes glow with ambition.
- He knows that where his head won’t go
- His tail will enter,
- His little corkscrew tail.
- The pig sits on committees,
- Hums and haws, grunts yes and no,
- Is patient, wise, attentive,
- Wary of decision (alternatives are many).
- When he hefts his bottom from the chair
- The seat is hot.
- His head is dull
- But, maybe, he’s just a little stronger now.
- The pig knows how to apologise.
- He would hurt nobody.
- If he did, he didn’t mean it.
- His small eyes redden with conviction.
- Remorse falls like saliva from his jaws.
- The pig is bored
- But doesn’t know it.
- The pig gobbles time
- And loves the weekend.
- The pig is important
- And always says ‘It seems to me’ and ‘Yes, let’s face it’.
- The pig chews borrowed words,
- Munching conscientiously.
- Sometimes he thinks he’s a prophet, a seer so elegant
- That we should bow before him.
- He is more remote from a sense of the unutterable
- Than any words could begin to suggest.
- The pig knows he has made the world.
- Mention the possibility of something beyond it –
- He farts in your face.
- The pig’s deepest sty is under his skin.
- His skin is elegantly clad.
- The pig knows might is right.
- The pig is polite.
- The pig is responsible and subtle.
- How can this be so?
- I don’t know, but I have seen the pig at work
- And know the truth of what I see.
- The pig has lived in me
- And gone his way, snouting the muck
- In the wide sty of the world.
- His appetite for filth is monstrous
- And he knows
- There is more sustenance in filth
- Than in the sweet feast at the white table
- Where friends gather for a night
- Talk and laugh
- In a room with warm light.
- The pig might enter that room
- And swallow everything in sight.
- But the pig’s sense of timing
- Is flawless.
- His own throat is fat, ready to cut,
- But no one will do that.
- Instead, the pig will slit
- Some other throat.
- There will be no blood but a death,
- The pig will hump into the future
- Huge
- Hot
- Effective
- His eyes darting like blackbirds for the worm
- Waiting to be stabbed, plucked, gulped,
- Forgotten.
- And still our darling lives
- As though there were no
- Oblivion.
Brendan Kennelly. A Time for Voices: selected poems 1960-1990. Newcastle upon Tyne: Bloodaxe Books (1990).
About the Poet:
Brendan Kennelly, Ireland, (b. 1936) is a poet and educator. Kennelly is one of Ireland’s most distinguished and best-loved poets, as well as a renowned teacher and cultural commentator.
He was Professor of Modern Literature at Trinity College, Dublin for over 30 years, and retired from teaching in 2005. Kennelly is the prolific author of over 30 books of poetry as well as plays, novels and criticism. He is best known for two controversial poetry books, Cromwell (1983), and his epic poem The Book of Judas (1991).
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