Saturday, November 19, 2011

Irish Poem Of The Month

Dr Flynn not quite pulling off the Flashdance look
The Floppy Disk
Prince among misnomers, the floppy disk
lies stranded, in drifts of dust, in the top desk drawer.
A castaway on shingly paper clips
or under an old bank statement – the small withdrawals
dwindling to little, then less, then nothing at all.
How young it is to be so obsolete.
The stainless-steel clip shines.  The neat black case
still sleek as a woman’s suit or evening purse.
I will take it between my finger and my thumb
and post it with a click through the squarish slot
Of the oh-so-recent, stunningly useless past;
the moment before the moment before now
whose code is lost.  The words that tapped and flashed
like a frantic bird against a window pane,
translate back to the gesture of the hand
stalled on the keys, like the spirit on the water.
Like the shouts and groans that issue from the mine
after the prop has snapped, the floppy disk
is the love-note still sealed in its envelope.
It’s the marker – blank – above its own strange grave.