Lockdown Borders

by Terry McDonagh

The borders in me are the ones
I share with myself —
myself alone in Lockdown
but back then hitch–hiking
on the Mayo Galway border
in Ballindine — even in rain —
didn’t phase me nor did
I wallow in political romance
with my dog–eared copy
of The Communist Manifesto
hidden away in my head
crossing frontiers to Poland,
Belarus, Russia and Ukraine.
I was lord of never say die,
a Walkman–sleeping–bag–loner
in sweat–stained t–shirt, dreaming
of an emblematic someone
I would never know. Of course
there were currencies, customs,
tongue–twisting words and
borders thou shalt not cross
to be taken in my stride. I smiled
for a keepsake before crossing
into East Berlin at Friedrichstrasse
and paid up when called upon.

Dylan Thomas:
Oh, easy for Leonardo.

And most of the time, there was
two–and–four–stroke–splutter,
market–racket, purr and siren
to help me flaunt the mayhem
of ordinary stuff but it was

the mazy silence without borders
between dusk and dawn that had me
hyperventilating and coming up for air.

I’m sitting inside my window
trying to connect then with now.
I have spent nights
drinking wine with monks,
bought new runners and
tinkered with my mobile.
I talk. I talk about the limits
of speech in day and dark
but the borders in me
are the ones I share with myself —
myself alone in Lockdown.