A POEM COMES INTO BEING AND JUST AS QUICKLY DISINTEGRATES  INTO A MERE NOTHING AT ALL!

the letters crowded around me
demanding to be words
in an excellent poem

"I'll... see what I can do?"
I half promise them
they glow with pride

"Is...is this it?" they demand
"Well....it was the best
I could come up with!"

the words slink off
grumbling that they
won't pick me again

A POET'S WORK

"Oh my God is...that the time!

12 o'clock and not
a poem in the house written!

Quick! Wash those adjectives!
Quick! Bathe those verbs!

Feed those nouns!
Have you adverbs gone back to bed?

Come on 'Smile!'
Like a simile!

Noooo! Don't
wear the same metaphors

you wore yesterday
aghhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And so with a little playful
smack on its btm

the poem is sent
out into the world.

'See ya...be good'

A poet's work is
never done!"

A POET'S WORK

"Oh my God is...that the time!
12 o'clock and not
a poem in the house written!


quick! wash those adjectives!
quick! bathe those verbs!
feed those nouns!


have you adverbs gone back to bed?
come on 'Smile!'
like a simile!


noooo! don't
wear the same metaphors
you wore yesterday


aghhhhhhhhhhhhh!
and so with a little playful
smack on its btm


the poem is sent
out into the world.
'See ya...be good'


a poet's work
is never  ever
done!"

A POET'S WORK

"Oh my God is...that the time!
12 o'clock and not
a poem in the house written!

quick! wash those adjectives!
quick! bathe those verbs!
feed those nouns!

have you adverbs gone back to bed?
come on 'Smile!'
like a simile!

noooo! don't
wear the same metaphors
you wore yesterday

aghhhhhhhhhhhhh!
and so with a little playful
smack on its btm

the poem is sent
out into the world.
'See ya...be good'

a poet's work
is never  ever
done!"


*


As a child I was sick and poorly and often missed school so that I found myself at home with me Ma and doing all the Ma things that she had to do....I followed her about the house helping out and seeing what an amazing myriad of things she had to do in order to make our life run like effortless clockwork only I found out it wasn't so effortless.

"Dónall son....!" she'd yell from the bedroom amidst sweeping and bed changing and making....will you cut the potatoes for the chips love!" And from bedroom to kitchen we would sing all the Ray Charles we knew.

She would always say the same thing like a little work mantra...
"Jaysus...oh Holy Jaysus....12 o'clock and not a child in the house washed!" And a whole litany of things yet to do. These were like well worn beautiful pebbles being rounded and smoothed in a stream of language....I loved hearing them even for the thousand time! So I cross pollinated all her mad cap hell for leather sayings into this making of poems poem to get the same urgency for tidying up my brain and getting the words washed and up and out making signs upon a page so that other brains could decipher my thoughts.

On one of these being my mother days I was watching "Telefís Scoile" RTE's educational prog. when up popped poet Brendan Kennelly. Now despite only starting my secondary education I was reading all around me so I was reading the Leaving Cert. poems as well. I was having a hard time with Hopkins but then Brendan started to recite The Windhover in his lovely Kerry accent and I at once understood it as the music of his mouth brought the words to life in glorious sound that I at once fell in love with and it splashed against my mind like a wave breaking over the headland that was my tiny mind. It was an epiphany.
Years years later I met Brendan in a pub having a quiet pint by himself at the bar and I went up to him to tell him of this moment made glorious for me by him and Hopkins. So he started to recite it for me again after all this time.

"I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin,"
And I said the next bit.....
"dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding;
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! "
And then he...
"then off, off forth on swing,"
And we traded lines until we had completed the Hopkins.
And then he said: "Well wil ya...have a pint?"
And I said: "I will...so I will!"

And then he said he loved my CRAZY LONELINESS HIJACKS MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. And I said: "What! Ya still remember that!" And he said:" 'deed I do!" And so I recited it for him. It was so I felt I had come into my poethood!

A POSEY OF SHEEP

She a butterfly
in her little blue dress

chasing butterflies
blowing bubbles after them.

Butterflies and bubbles
skitter here and there.

Her "flying flowers"
as she names them.

One b one by one she
picks wildflowers.

They blossom in her fist
losing more than she collects.

I take the ribbon from her hair
tie them tightly in place.

"I have a garden
in my hand!"

She runs and runs and runs
as only a little girl can

joy and speed
fused together in her.

And when she returns
her petals have all gone.

She holds only stalks
in her hand

flowerless flowers.

"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing.
"Look what you have found!"

And I let perspective
take a hand/

On each stalk now
a sheep replaces petals.

The sheep unaware that they
have become surreal flowers

only existing
at a certain angle.

Who cares if they are not real.
It's the seeing that matters.

She holds a posey
of sheep.

I tell her they are
flowers made of magic.

On the far away hillside
sheep still safely graze.

And when she moves and
finds them "GONE!"

I reposition her and
there they are.

"Hold  still!" I tell her
and pick each sheep

pocket them
mind them for her.

Happy once again she
runs and runs and runs

clutching her precious stalks
in a tiny hand.

All her imaginary sheep
tucked up in her mind

possibly for ever
if not

longer.

A POSEY OF SHEEP

She a butterfly
in her little blue dress

chasing butterflies
blowing bubbles after them.

Butterflies and bubbles
skitter here and there.

Her "flying flowers"
as she names them.

One b one by one she
picks wildflowers.

They blossom in her fist
losing more than she collects.

I take the ribbon from her hair
tie them tightly in place.

"I have a garden
in my hand!"

She runs and runs and runs
as only a little girl can

joy and speed
fused together in her.

And when she returns
her petals have all gone.

She holds only stalks
in her hand

flowerless flowers.

"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing.
"Look what you have found!"

And I let perspective
take a hand/

On each stalk now
a sheep replaces petals.

The sheep unaware that they
have become surreal flowers

only existing
at a certain angle.

Who cares if they are not real.
It's the seeing that matters.

She holds a posey
of sheep.

I tell her they are
flowers made of magic.

On the far away hillside
sheep still safely graze.

And when she moves and
finds them "GONE!"

I reposition her and
there they are.

"Hold  still!" I tell her
and pick each sheep

pocket them
mind them for her.

Happy once again she
runs and runs and runs

clutching her precious stalks
in a tiny hand.

All her imaginary sheep
tucked up in her mind

possibly for ever
if not

longer.

*

We had made our way down to Derrible Bay on the island of Sark and I ventured briefly into the coldness that was the sea. I had left my watch on some rocks and this was returned to me by a very nice lady whose husband was swimming back and forth across the bay( I had only gone for ye gentle swim and splash-about )and when this picture of health emerged from mastering the sea he came towards us for yea he was the watch-returning lady's husband who it turned out was vastly interested in poetry and so we talked for two hours about the wonders of words. I told him the poem I had in my head to write which was as yet unwritten but now weeks later it has emerged from its underwatery world and stepped into its very own words.

A POSEY OF SHEEP

She a butterfly
in her little blue dress

chasing butterflies
blowing bubbles after them.

Butterflies and bubbles
skitter here and there.

Her "flying flowers"
as she names them.

One b one by one she
picks wildflowers.

They blossom in her fist
losing more than she collects.

I take the ribbon from her hair
tie them tightly in place.

"I have a garden
in my hand!"

She runs and runs and runs
as only a little girl can

joy and speed
fused together in her.

And when she returns
her petals have all gone.

She holds only stalks
in her hand

flowerless flowers.

"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing.
"Look what you have found!"

And I let perspective
take a hand/

On each stalk now
a sheep replaces petals.

The sheep unaware that they
have become surreal flowers

only existing
at a certain angle.

Who cares if they are not real.
It's the seeing that matters.

She holds a posey
of sheep.

I tell her they are
flowers made of magic.

On the far away hillside
sheep still safely graze.

And when she moves and
finds them "GONE!"

I reposition her and
there they are.

"Hold  still!" I tell her
and pick each sheep

pocket them
mind them for her.

Happy once again she
runs and runs and runs

clutching her precious stalks
in a tiny hand.

All her imaginary sheep
tucked up in her mind

possibly for ever
if not

longer.

Although I loved you
more & more

you were rotten
to the core.

I don't love you
...anymore.

A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

the river stood up
its head in the clouds
marched off to find the sea

it took the river time
to find its feet but when it did
it ran & ran & ran

tired now the river
took the bus
spilling some of itself goin' 'round a bend

the river
kicked off the bus
for not having a proper ticket

the river
trying to hitch a ride
no luck

mini skirted blonde
tells the trucker
"This here river's with me!"

river weary now
just wants to lay it self down
and meander

at last the sea dawned
the river plunged in
losing itself in its joy

A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

the river stood up
its head in the clouds
marched off to find the sea

it took the river time
to find its feet but when it did
it ran & ran & ran

tired now the river
took the bus
spilling some of itself goin' 'round a bend

the river
kicked off the bus
for not having a proper ticket

the river
trying to hitch a ride
no luck

mini skirted blonde
tells the trucker
"This here river's with me!"

river weary now
just wants to lay it self down
and meander

at last the sea dawned
the river plunged in
losing itself in its joy

A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

the river stood up
its head in the clouds
marched off to find the sea

it took the river time
to find its feet but when it did
it ran & ran & ran

tired now the river
took the bus
spilling some of itself goin' 'round a bend

the river
kicked off the bus
for not having a proper ticket

the river
trying to hitch a ride
no luck

mini skirted blonde
tells the trucker
"This here river's with me!"

river weary now
just wants to lay it self down
and meander

at last the sea dawned
the river plunged in
losing itself in its joy

A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

the river stood up
its head in the clouds
marched off to find the sea

it took the river time
to find its feet but when it did
it ran & ran & ran

tired now the river
took the bus
spilling some of itself goin' 'round a bend

the river
kicked off the bus
for not having a proper ticket

the river
trying to hitch a ride
no luck

mini skirted blonde
tells the trucker
"This here river's with me!"

river weary now
just wants to lay it self down
and meander

at last the sea dawned
the river plunged in
losing itself in its joy

A ROMANTIC AULD EJEIT

Nat King Cole sings Autumn Leaves
on the radio - in Japanese.

My mother falls
in love with it.

I fail to find it for her
this being pre-Internet days.

So, I sing it for her
making up the Japanese words.

I sing different words
every day.

Sing she says...
"My...Donie's knee!"

Which is what we call it
after hearing it only the once.

"Share it with Yuku!"
I sing whatever comes to mind.

"Oh more each day!"
the words have a life of their own.

Now when I have grown
to be this man I am

I learn the proper Japanese
but she still thinks I'm making it up.

Now here in her dying
she says sing me

"My  Donie's knee!"

So I sing in my broken
Japanese.

She squeezes my hand
whispers softly...

"You were always
a romantic auld eejit!"

**

Phonetically speaking it goes something like this....

Ma doe bay knee
She re e yuku
Ha me kay no
Ha ray hi yo
Oh mo e day
Ha na a she ku
Wat su ra ray
Naf su no he
Key me ga oh day
Yat sa she cu
Wa tashi o
key da key tay
suki say nu ko e no
coo may o
ka tar esh she
an no hee

A ROMANTIC AULD EJEIT

Nat King Cole sings
Autumn Leaves
on the radio - in Japanese

My mother
falls in love
with it

I fail to find it for her
this being
pre-Internet days

so I sing it for her
making up
the Japanese words

I sing
different words
every day

sing she says...
"My...Donie's knee!"
'cos that how it sounds

which is what
we call it
after hearing it only the once

"Share it with Yuku!"
I sing whatever
comes to mind

"Oh more each day!"
the words have a life
of their own

when I have grown
to be this
man I am

I learn the proper Japanese
but she still thinks
I'm making it up

now here in her dying
she says sing me
"My  Donie's knee!"

so I sing
in my broken
Japanese

she squeezes my hand
whispers
softly...

"You were always
a romantic
auld eejit!"

"Ma doe day knee
Shari e yuku
Ha me kay no

Haré hi yo
Oh
mo e day...."

ARRIVALS & DEPARTURES

Never to be
met by you again.

You at the airport
with a hastily scribbled sign:

"WAITING FOR GOD...
KNOWS WHO!"

Or telling me you were
expecting the Cat in the Hat.

One year a tip-top topper...
...the next a battered bowler.

Always. . .

your smile
my gold coin

your laughter
my treasure.

"Ahhhh Jaysus, Bud...tears?"
cries the ghost of you.

"It's all I get these days!
Dying is so...annoying!"

"Oh, before I go. . !"
the ghost of you smirks

before fading away
into an EXIT sign.

"I love the purple
fedora!"

ARRIVALS & DEPARTURES

( for Bud on his birthday that was never to be )

Never to be
met by you again

at the airport
with a hastily scribbled sign:

"WAITING FOR GOD...
KNOWS WHO!"

Or telling me you were
expecting the Cat in the Hat.

One year a tip-top topper...
...the next a battered bowler.

Always. . .
your smile

my gold coin

your laughter
my treasure.

"Ahhhh Jaysus, Bud...tears?"
cries the ghost of you.

"It's all I get these days!
Dying is so...annoying!"

"Oh, before I go. . !"
the ghost of you smirks

before fading away
into an EXIT sign.

"I love the purple
fedora!"

ARRIVALS & DEPARTURES

( for Bud on his birthday that was never to be )

Never to be
met by you again

at the airport
with a hastily scribbled sign:

"WAITING FOR GOD...
KNOWS WHO!"

Or telling me you were
expecting the Cat in the Hat.

One year a tip-top topper...
...the next a battered bowler.

Always. . .
your smile

my gold coin

your laughter
my treasure.

"Ahhhh Jaysus, Bud...tears?"
cries the ghost of you.

"It's all I get these days!
Dying is so...annoying!"

"Oh, before I go. . !"
the ghost of you smirks

before fading away
into an EXIT sign.

"I love the purple
fedora!"

ARRIVALS & DEPARTURES

( for Bud on his birthday that was never to be )

Never to be
met by you again

at the airport
with a hastily scribbled sign:

"WAITING FOR GOD...
KNOWS WHO!"

Or telling me you were
expecting the Cat in the Hat.

One year a tip-top topper...
...the next a battered bowler.

Always. . .
your smile

my gold coin

your laughter
my treasure.

"Ahhhh Jaysus, Bud...tears?"
cries the ghost of you.

"It's all I get these days!
Dying is so...annoying!"

"Oh, before I go. . !"
the ghost of you smirks

before fading away
into an EXIT sign.

"I love the purple
fedora!"

ARRIVALS & DEPARTURES

( for Bud on his birthday that was never to be )

Never to be
met by you again

at the airport
with a hastily scribbled sign:

"WAITING FOR GOD...
KNOWS WHO!"

Or telling me you were
expecting the Cat in the Hat.

One year a tip-top topper...
...the next a battered bowler.

Always. . .
your smile

my gold coin

your laughter
my treasure.

"Ahhhh Jaysus, Bud...tears?"
cries the ghost of you.

"It's all I get these days!
Dying is so...annoying!"

"Oh, before I go. . !"
the ghost of you smirks

before fading away
into an EXIT sign.

"I love the purple
fedora!"

ARTIST AT WORK

I trace
with trembling fingertip

the naked calligraphy
of your body

my hands
creating you

out of this darkness

so that dawn
finds you

drawn with such
exquisite passion

that it tells
the sun

to look:
‘Look!‘

And the sun
reaching in the window

can not help but touch
to see if you are real.

‘Hands off!‘
I warn.
‘She’s mine!‘

And the sun
sulks

as I cover you up
my masterpiece

and finally exhausted I
... fall asleep.

AS ABOVE SO BELOW

Death manifests itself:

'Are you my death? '

Cleopatra asks.

'Ask the asp! '

Death laughs.

'Are you my death? '

Cleopatra asks.

'Don't ask! '
whispers the asp

as the candle flame flickers

and silences kisses the dark.

AS ABOVE SO BELOW

Death manifests itself:
'Are you my death? '

Cleopatra asks.

'Ask the asp! '
Death laughs.

'Are you my death? '
Cleopatra asks.

'Don't ask! '
whispers the asp

as the candle flame flickers

and silence kisses the dark.

Death manifests itself:
'Are you my death? '

Cleopatra asks.

'Ask the asp! '
Death laughs.

'Are you my death? '
Cleopatra asks.

'Don't ask! '
whispers the asp

as the candle flame flickers

and silence kisses the dark.

A SCREAM OF SPLASHES

old pond
a scream of splashes
grandchildren scare the frogs

AS DEW IN APRYLLE

It is as if
he has fallen

from the end of
the 15th century

into this
present day.

A Friday as it
happens.

And falling from
century to century

he has lost weight
the flesh fallen from him

so that
Simon Sadd

(“Sadd by name…sadd by nature!”)

arrives at this
particular now

nothing but
a bag of bones

with a skin
that no longer fits him.

As if…as if
he had once been a fat man

and Time had
thinned him…tamed him.

And so it is
I bathe him

sing songs for him
recite for him

carols, poems, hymns
anything

that lets him escape
even for a moment

this nursing home.

My voice carries him
back to his Norfolk childhood

where his mother
bathes him

on some forgotten Friday
in the once upon a time.

Soap stings his eyes
then and now.

“Moder ‘ud give us
such a ding on the lug.”

He laughs as if
she were there.

“Cor blarst me...stop yer blarin!
Such a sharmin’!”

he scolds himself
with her voice.

Then she’d hush me with…
“I SYNG OF A MAYDEN”

“I syng of a mayden
þat is makeles,
kyng of alle kynges
to here sone che ches.”

I finish it for him.

“My heart alive…how does
a yung feller like you…no dat!”

  
“He came also stylle
þer his moder was
as dew in aprylle,
þat fallyt on þe gras.”

“You must have high learnin’
bor!”

He, for his part,
creates a world of words.

I enter entranced
into his voice

where a ladybird
transforms itself into

a bishy barneybee!

A woodlouse
becomes a Charley pig.

A jasper
is a wasp.

“Ahhh look a King Harry
by the Lady’s smock!”

And when I look
the goldfinch has

already flown away
into the lost years.

The Canterberry Bells
still…so still

“…as dew in Aprylle.”

His mind a “bishy bishy
barneybee…”

“When will yer weddin’ be?
he says softly to himself

“If it be a ‘marra day..."
I towel him dry.

“Tairk yer wings an’
floi away!”

A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING

( for Onelia)

The cellist's hand
waits outside the music

pauses
beside his instrument

like an exotic fish

steadying itself
in the flow of the music

before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral

eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by.

At Nazzareno's head
his cello bobs

like a seahorse
questioning

all that is
happening

as he tries to enter
the same stream

(despite Heraclitus's advice)


~ ~ ~ t/w/i/c/e/.

A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING

( for Onelia )

The cellist's hand
waits outside time

pauses
beside his instrument

like an exotic fish

steadying itself
in the flow of the music

before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral

eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by

at his head
his cello bobs

like a seahorse
questioning

all that is
happening

as he tries to enter
the same stream

(despite Heraclitus's advice)

.. twice.

A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING

( for Onelia )

The cellist's hand
waits outside time

pauses
beside his instrument

like an exotic fish

steadying itself
in the flow of the music

before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral

eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by

at his head
his cello bobs

like a seahorse
questioning

all that is
happening

as he tries to enter
the same stream

(despite Heraclitus's advice)  

.. twice.

A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING

( for Onelia)

The cellist's hand
waits outside the music

pauses
beside his instrument

like an exotic fish

steadying itself
in the flow of the music

before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral

eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by.

At Nazzareno's head
his cello bobs

like a seahorse
questioning

all that is
happening

as he tries to enter
the same stream

(despite Heraclitus's advice)

~ ~ ~ t/w/i/c/e/.

AS GAEILGE
( In Irish )

Dún do shúile
(Close your eyes)                

Codail go lá...mo ghrá séimh.
(Sleep until day...my gentle love) .

Codail go sámh go sámh.
(Sleep peacefully...peacefully) .

Éirdeoidh an ghealach seo...
...is rachaidh an ghrian seo faoi

(This moon will rise...
...this sun will set)                

aire 'gus grá
i gconaí
(care and love always)                

gach oíche 's gach lá
gach lá 's gach oíche.
(every night every day
every day ever night) .

Mo phlúirín!
Mo stóirín!
Mo mhuirnín!
(My little flower!
My little treasure!
My little darling!)                

Ach anois...
(But now...)                

codail go sámh go séimh
(sleep peacefully...gently)                

go fáinne an lae
(until the break of day)                

le mise
ar do taobh.
(with me
by your side) .

Losing our baby
late into the night

holding this    little thing
that only attempted to be human

unable to let go

I clasped the foetus
tightly in my hand

& buried it in the dawn
of our local park

under a recently planted
red rose bush.

In my grief
flower & baby
became one

and night after night I climbed
over high railings & even higher stars

to talk to her in the dark      in Irish.

Or sing: My Love is like a Red Red Rose.

Or cry...or...cry.

Almost got arrested one night
by an Irish cop
drawn to the sound
of Irish emerging from darkness.

Guess he let me go because -  it wouldn’t look good
on a charge sheet:

“The defendant was talking
& crying to...a flower.”

- in Irish.

Eist...eist
(listen...listen)      

duinne eagin ag caoineadh
(someone is crying)      

in a dorchasan
(in his darkness) .

Fill...fill...a run o!

Fill a run o is  na imigh uaim.

Fill orm a chuisle a stor

agus chifeadh tu an gloire... ma fhillean tu!

AS GAEILGE
(In Irish)

Dún do súile
(Close your eyes)

Codail go lá...mo ghrá séimh.
(Sleep until day...my gentle love) .

Codail go sámh go sámh.
(Sleep peacefully...peacefully) .

Éirdeoidh an ghealach seo...
...is rachaidh an ghrian seo faoi

(This moon will rise...
...this sun will set)

aire 'gus grá
i gconaí
(care and love always)

gach oíche 's gach lá
gach lá 's gach oíche.
(every night every day
every day ever night) .

Mo phlúirín!
Mo stóirín!
Mo mhuirnín!
(My little flower!
My little treasure!
My little darling!)

Ach anois...
(But now...)

codail go sámh go séimh
(sleep peacefully...gently)

go fáinne an lae
(until the break of day)

le mise
ar do taobh.
(with me
by your side) .

Losing our baby
late into the night

holding this little thing
that only attempted to be human

unable to let go

I clasped the foetus
tightly in my hand

& buried it in the dawn
of our local park

under a recently planted
red rose bush.

In my grief
flower & baby
became one

and night after night I climbed
over high railings & even higher stars

to talk to her in the dark in Irish.

Or sing: My Love is like a Red Red Rose.

Or cry...or...cry.

Almost got arrested one night
by an Irish cop
drawn to the sound
of Irish emerging from darkness.

Guess he let me go because - it wouldn’t look good
on a charge sheet:

“The defendant was talking
& crying to...a flower.”

- in Irish.

Eist...eist
(listen...listen)

duinne eagin ag caoineadh
(someone is crying)

in a dorchasan
(in his darkness) .

Fill...fill...a run o!

Fill a run o is na imigh uaim.

Fill orm a chuisle a stor

agus chifeadh tu an gloire... ma fhillean tu!

AS GAEILGE
(In Irish)

Dún do súile
(Close your eyes)

Codail go lá...mo ghrá séimh.
(Sleep until day...my gentle love) .

Codail go sámh go sámh.
(Sleep peacefully...peacefully) .

Éirdeoidh an ghealach seo...
...is rachaidh an ghrian seo faoi

(This moon will rise...
...this sun will set)

aire 'gus grá
i gconaí
(care and love always)

gach oíche 's gach lá
gach lá 's gach oíche.
(every night every day
every day ever night) .

Mo phlúirín!
Mo stóirín!
Mo mhuirnín!
(My little flower!
My little treasure!
My little darling!)

Ach anois...
(But now...)

codail go sámh go séimh
(sleep peacefully...gently)

go fáinne an lae
(until the break of day)

le mise
ar do taobh.
(with me
by your side) .

Losing our baby
late into the night

holding this little thing
that only attempted to be human

unable to let go

I clasped the foetus
tightly in my hand

& buried it in the dawn
of our local park

under a recently planted
red rose bush.

In my grief
flower & baby
became one

and night after night I climbed
over high railings & even higher stars

to talk to her in the dark in Irish.

Or sing: My Love is like a Red Red Rose.

Or cry...or...cry.

Almost got arrested one night
by an Irish cop
drawn to the sound
of Irish emerging from darkness.

Guess he let me go because - it wouldn’t look good
on a charge sheet:

“The defendant was talking
& crying to...a flower.”

- in Irish.

Eist...eist
(listen...listen)

duinne eagin ag caoineadh
(someone is crying)

in a dorchasan
(in his darkness) .

Fill...fill...a run o!

Fill a run o is na imigh uaim.

Fill orm a chuisle a stor

agus chifeadh tu an gloire... ma fhillean tu!

AS GAELIGE( IN IRISH )

Dún do súile
(Close your eyes)

Codail go lá...mo ghrá séimh.
(Sleep until day...my gentle love) .

Codail go sámh go sámh.
(Sleep peacefully...peacefully) .

Éirdeoidh an ghealach seo...
...is rachaidh an ghrian seo faoi

(This moon will rise...
...this sun will set)

aire 'gus grá
i gconaí
(care and love always)

gach oíche 's gach lá
gach lá 's gach oíche.
(every night every day
every day ever night) .

Mo phlúirín!
Mo stóirín!
Mo mhuirnín!
(My little flower!
My little treasure!
My little darling!)

Ach anois...
(But now...)

codail go sámh go séimh
(sleep peacefully...gently)

go fáinne an lae
(until the break of day)

le mise
ar do taobh.
(with me
by your side) .

Losing our baby
late into the night

holding this little thing
that only attempted to be human

unable to let go

I clasped the foetus
tightly in my hand

& buried it in the dawn
of our local park

under a recently planted
red rose bush.

In my grief
flower & baby
became one

and night after night I climbed
over high railings & even higher stars

to talk to her in the dark in Irish.

Or sing: My Love is like a Red Red Rose.

Or cry...or...cry.

Almost got arrested one night
by an Irish cop

drawn to the sound
of Irish emerging from darkness.

Guess he let me go because - it wouldn’t look good
on a charge sheet:

“The defendant was talking
& crying to...a flower.”

- in Irish.

Eist...eist
(listen...listen)

duinne eagin ag caoineadh
(someone is crying)

in a dorchasan
(in his darkness) .

Fill...fill...a run o!

Fill a run o is na imigh uaim.

Fill orm a chuisle a stor

agus chifeadh tu an gloire... ma fhillean tu!

Part of this was quoted in THE TIMES-LONDON: SAT 31.04.07 with the tiniest bit of an interview.

AS GAELIGE( IN IRISH )

Dún do súile
(Close your eyes)

Codail go lá...mo ghrá séimh.
(Sleep until day...my gentle love) .

Codail go sámh go sámh.
(Sleep peacefully...peacefully) .

Éirdeoidh an ghealach seo...
...is rachaidh an ghrian seo faoi

(This moon will rise...
...this sun will set)

aire 'gus grá
i gconaí
(care and love always)

gach oíche 's gach lá
gach lá 's gach oíche.
(every night every day
every day ever night) .

Mo phlúirín!
Mo stóirín!
Mo mhuirnín!
(My little flower!
My little treasure!
My little darling!)

Ach anois...
(But now...)

codail go sámh go séimh
(sleep peacefully...gently)

go fáinne an lae
(until the break of day)

le mise
ar do taobh.
(with me
by your side) .

Losing our baby
late into the night

holding this little thing
that only attempted to be human

unable to let go

I clasped the foetus
tightly in my hand

& buried it in the dawn
of our local park

under a recently planted
red rose bush.

In my grief
flower & baby
became one

and night after night I climbed
over high railings & even higher stars

to talk to her in the dark in Irish.

Or sing: My Love is like a Red Red Rose.

Or cry...or...cry.

Almost got arrested one night
by an Irish cop

drawn to the sound
of Irish emerging from darkness.

Guess he let me go because - it wouldn’t look good
on a charge sheet:

“The defendant was talking
& crying to...a flower.”

- in Irish.

Eist...eist
(listen...listen)

duinne eagin ag caoineadh
(someone is crying)

in a dorchasan
(in his darkness) .

Fill...fill...a run o!

Fill a run o is na imigh uaim.

Fill orm a chuisle a stor

agus chifeadh tu an gloire... ma fhillean tu!

(THE TIMES-LONDON: SAT 31.04.07)

AS IF NOTHING HAD HAPPENED

We lose our baby.
A world ceases to exist
...summer still persists.

A SILENCE TOO LOUD

the wheeze
of the sea
breathing in and out

a wall
crumbling back
to its beginning

as the wisteria
with all its gentle strength
has crushed it to the ground

a town
bleached
by the sun

as if it were a faded
photograph of
its long ago self

a silence
too loud
for the human ear to hear

A SILENCE TOO LOUD

the wheeze of the sea
breathing in and out

a wall crumbling back
to its beginning

as the wisteria
with all its gentle strength

has crushed it
to the ground

a town bleached
by the sun

as if it were a faded
photograph of its long ago self

a silence too loud
for the human ear to hear

A SILKEN CHAIN

The wolf
they call Death

has taken you
to its lair

in the far far away
of long long ago.

Like those Norse craftsmen
from the Nowhere of Time

I am called upon
to fashion

a silken chain
to bind you...to me.

I unwilling
to let you go.

I search for the firstly
secondly and thirdly.

The fourthly and fifthly
and the sixthly and lastly.

Not knowing the what
and wherefore of it all.

I find the footsteps
of a cat.

The breath
of a chicken.

The spittle
of a bird.

The roots of a mountain.

Unable now to think
of the last two.

So, Death holds you
but - so do I.

You are tied
to us both.

The silken chain of
love and memory.

A SINGLE GREEN LIGHT

Time slows down
so that your funeral

and the funeral of your character
become as one.

The same unremitting rain
...hardly anyone came.

Dorothy Parker echoes
the end of your book

"The poor *******!"
This The Great Fitzgerald.

The Episcopalian rector declaims
that the only reason he gave the service

"..was to get the body
in the ground."

He speaks of you as
"a no-good, drunken ***

the world was well rid
of him."

As if the faded eyes
of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg

gazed down mercilessly
upon your soul

What was it Scott
the Good Book said?

Corinthians something something
or other:

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen,
but on what is unseen...

since what is seen is temporary,
but what is unseen is eternal."

You the great writer of
the eternal unseen.

Now you walk about
in the wonder of all your words.


*

The burial of F. Scott Fitzgerald crossed with the burial of Gatsby...fiction and reality mingling....Jay Gatsby and F. Scott Fitzgerald now merged into one,

A SINGLE GREEN LIGHT

Time slows down
so that your funeral

and the funeral of your character
become as one.

The same unremitting rain
...hardly anyone came.

Dorothy Parker echoes
the end of your book

"The poor *******!"
This The Great Fitzgearld.

The Episcopalian rector declaims
that the only reason he gave the service

"..was to get the body
in the ground."

He speaks of you as
"a no-good, drunken ***

the world was well rid
of him."

As if the faded eyes
of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg

gazed down mercilessly
upon your soul

What was it Scott
the Good Book said?

Corinthians something something
or other:

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen,
but on what is unseen...

since what is seen is temporary,
but what is unseen is eternal."

You the great writer of
the eternal unseen.

Now you walk about
in the wonder of all your words.

AS IS

mountain tired
of its human name
throws off the words

like so much
tattered clothes
walks naked

into a sunset
becoming its own
"I am"

rain too
pays no attention to
the human sounds

reinvents  itself
every time it falls
"I the ever becoming!"

the sky laughs
as words stuck upon it
fall off

"I the great un-nameable!"
pinned down
by a puny words

the moon disdains
all attempts to trap
her in human language

she
"the great she
who is"

who do these
humans
think they are

humans gasp
as the map
unfolds

the mountain has left
of its own accord
the rain falls no more

and the sky
doesn't even
want to know

the map now
a blank
piece pf paper

AS IS

mountain tired
of its human name
throws off the words

like so much
tattered clothes
walks naked

into a sunset
becoming its own
"I am"

rain too
pays no attention to
the human sounds

reinvents  itself
every time it falls
"I the ever becoming!"

the sky laughs
as words stuck upon it
fall off

"I the great un-nameable!"
pinned down
by a puny words

the moon disdains
all attempts to trap
her in human language

she
"the great she
who is"

who do these
humans
think they are

humans gasp
as the map
unfolds

the mountain has left
of its own accord
the rain falls no more

and the sky
doesn't even
want to know

the map now
a blank
piece of paper

AS IS

mountain tired
of its human name
throws off the words

like so much
tattered clothes
walks naked

into a sunset
becoming its own
"I am"

rain too
pays no attention to
the human sounds

reinvents  itself
every time it falls
"I the ever becoming!"

the sky laughs
as words stuck upon it
fall off

"I the great un-nameable!"
pinned down
by a puny words

the moon disdains
all attempts to trap
her in human language

she
"the great she
who is"

who do these
humans
think they are

humans gasp
as the map
unfolds

the mountain has left
of its own accord
the rain falls no more

and the sky
doesn't even
want to know

the map now
a blank
piece pf paper

ASK THE WIND...ASK EVERYTHING THAT FLEES

I drink about you
all night long

pouring my self yet
another think

until I am
empty as a bottle

smashed
upon the floor.

Seems someone
doesn't love someone

any more. . .

ASK THE WIND...ASK EVERYTHING THAT FLEES

I drink about you
all night long

pouring my self yet
another think

until I am
empty as a bottle

smashed
upon the floor.

Seems someone
doesn't love someone

any more. . .

ASK THE WIND...ASK EVERYTHING THAT FLEES




I drink about you

all night long




pouring my self yet

another think




until I am

empty as a bottle




smashed

upon the floor.




Seems someone

doesn't love someone




any more. . .

ASK THE WIND...ASK EVERYTHING THAT FLEES

I drink about you
all night long

pouring my self yet
another think

until I am
empty as a bottle

smashed
upon the floor.

Seems someone
doesn't love someone

any more. . .

A SMALL YARD IN THE CENTRE OF IRELAND
( For Jeremy Loynes )

every morning
the small yard
stole some sunlight

just enough
to cover itself
in gold

before the shadows
stole it
back again

it was only
a small yard
in the centre of Ireland

hosting a coal bunker
a mangle
and an outside loo

the visiting cat
and the small child
knew exactly when

to dash out
and soak up
the precious glow

the yard gloried
in the gift
of such sunlight

and the child
who grew and grew
to become the man

who never told anyone
of the stolen
sunshine

until the words
gave the secret away
whispered it to the page

*

The small yard used to belong to the house that was called No. 31 O'Higgins Road in the county of Kildare. It no longer exists and has vanished into the air losing all the time it was. This was the small universe of both child and cat so much beloved by both of them. Only I can travel back there...find my way there...following the trail of memory and be there whenever my mind needs a place to hide as the man becomes the child he was once upon a long long time ago.

A SMALL YARD IN THE CENTRE OF IRELAND
( For Jeremy Loynes )

every morning
the small yard
stole some sunlight

just enough
to cover itself
in gold

before the shadows
stole it
back again

it was only
a small yard
in the centre of Ireland

hosting a coal bunker
a mangle
and an outside loo

the visiting cat
and the small child
knew exactly when

to dash out
and soak up
the precious glow

the yard gloried
in the gift
of such sunlight

and the child
who grew and grew
to become the man

who never told anyone
of the stolen
sunshine

until the words
gave the secret away
whispered it to the page

*

The small yard used to belong to the house that was called No. 31 O'Higgins Road in the county of Kildare. It no longer exists and has vanished into the air losing all the time it was. This was the small universe of both child and cat so much beloved by both of them. Only I can travel back there...find my way there...following the trail of memory and be there whenever my mind needs a place to hide as the man becomes the child he was once upon a long long time ago.

AS ME


I leapt from my fever
climbing upward

into time
rung by rung

blinded by
the light of ages

falling back
into my reality.

Death chuckling.
"So, my little escapee

I hope that
thought you a lesson!"

I decided to carry on
with my life

and my role
as me.

AS MONDAYS GO IT WAS THE BEST OF MONDAYS

it was
a state of the art
day

perfect
in every
way

as if God
had created it
then thought about it

and made it
even better
this time round

the light
pristine
immaculate

like God
sent a postcard
saying wish you were here

and I
delighted
to be