By Paul Muldoon

When I put my finger to the hole they’ve cut for a dimmer switch   
in a wall of plaster stiffened with horsehair   
it seems I’ve scratched a two-hundred-year-old itch   

with a pink and a pink and a pinkie-pick.

When I put my ear to the hole I’m suddenly aware   
of spades and shovels turning up the gain   
all the way from Raritan to the Delaware   

with a clink and a clink and a clinky-click.

When I put my nose to the hole I smell the floodplain   
of the canal after a hurricane   
and the spots of green grass where thousands of Irish have lain

with a stink and a stink and a stinky-stick.

When I put my eye to the hole I see one holding horse dung to the rain   
in the hope, indeed, indeed,   
of washing out a few whole ears of grain

with a wink and a wink and a winkie-wick.

And when I do at last succeed   
in putting my mouth to the horsehair-fringed niche   
I can taste the small loaf of bread he baked from that whole seed

with a link and a link and a linky-lick.

Poet Bio

Considered by some the most important English-language poet born since WWII, Paul Muldoon writes an ingenious, allusive and musical verse that is extremely playful yet also capable of high seriousness. Born in Northern Ireland, he worked in Belfast as a radio and television producer for the BBC from 1973 until 1986; since then he has lived in the United States, where he teaches at Princeton University. In 2003 he won the Pulitzer Prize for his ninth collection, Moy Sand and Gravel.  See More By This Poet

More By This Poet