May my eyes have vision in them tonight
and may my hand have sensitivity.
May my lines lie close to the truth.
The storm beaten faces of students
blossom in the brightness of this upper room.
Easels creak, words flow
till the model walks to the altar.
May one consecrated inspiration
last three hours tonight.
May I put a contour,
to the best of my ability,
around humanity.
My pencil pulls like a diviner’s hazel,
ready for the first incision.
Cut him in seven head lengths.
Pubic hair line halves him.
Leave his neck as residue on the paper
after outlining the emptiness
either side of him.
The model shuts his eyes in concentration.
His black lashes close, continue to close,
his white eyelids keep falling
blinding the irises
till I see that they are your eyes
closing on me again,
shutting,
retreating.
I raise my pencil
to measure his head,
to leap over the memory of you
as I leaped over your death
by writing a death song.
The light on the line of his clavicle
expands till the room blurs with brightness.
All I have measured is my own lapse from humanity.
I stuff the gear into my bag
and stumble from the room
to pay the tears I owe you
to the streaming rain
with no restraint
with no artistry.
translated by Alex Osborne Gaelic original
