Tommy Collins Poetry

Feicim m’ainm i gcló dubh na hirise agus saothar simplí os a cionn agus is beag nach n-aithním é mar mo scríbhneoireacht féin. Tá sé chomh fada sin ón lá ar a scríobhadh iad go bhfuil siad ina seasamh romham ina n-íomhánna scamallacha ar nós scátháin bhréagaigh nó griangraf gan flash. Mé féin atá iontu, tá a fhios agam, sa tslí chéanna go bhfuil píosaí díom sna pictiúir a thógas agus mé im gharsún; an duine céanna, ach roimh fhorbairt phearsan. Ach, ah, táim ródháiríre! Táim bródúil astu, déanta na fírinne.

Im shuí i seomra ciúin dorcha, le peann im lámh, is fón im phóca, agus brón laistigh i ndiaidh mo ghrá. Lasmuigh, tá balla liath le duilleoga glasa, ag rince trí na poill, agus bláthanna beaga de chuile dhath. Sa seomra, níl faic chun m’aird a thógáil, seachas leathanach folamh bán a chuireann i m’aigne íomhá dem chailín féin is í cois trá, ag baint taitnimh as an ngrian chéanna a bhfeicim go hannamh, ach i rith cuairte nuair a éiríonn an bháisteach róthuirseach chun titim is imíonn na scamaill ar shosanna beaga. Coimeádaim im cheann a súile gorma, chomh geal is soiléir leis an bhfarraige faoin spéir, sna soicindí idir titim bháistí.

Ba mhaith liom an tintreach a thógáil ón spéir is a chur ar pháipéar leis an bpeann im lámh. A fuinneamh ag rith trí mo chorp is trí mo chroí, is an toirneach dorcha a scread óm bhéal le neart na stoirme seo i lár an tsamhraidh.

Feicim aghaidheanna dathúla, Radharcanna áille i súile, Cósúil le réaltaí ós mo chomhair Nó le daifidil i nDeireadh Fomhair. Ní féidir liom casadh timpeall gan titim glan i ngrá, Mé cósúil le beach ag eitilt i ngáirdín lán le bláth’ Faoi draíocht na háilleachta, mar i mbrionglóid le spéirmhná, Mo chroí ag bualadh níos taipiúla, gan trácht ar bhrón nó ar chrá.

Súile dúnta ar feadh tamaill, Ciúnas beagnach iomlán timpeall, Mise suite i lár teampaill, Fadhbanna seolta lasmuigh den imeall. Faoiseamh. Suaimhneas…

Ní raibh sé chomh héasca le dubh agus bán; Sna pictiúir a chruthaigh siad ba dhian an dúshlán, Cé go raibh samplaí foirfe ar scáileán Chun iad a spreagadh, mar Muse ag tús dáin. Do bhí orthu dreapadh thar bhalla an leadráin, Billeoga folamha a líonadh le dath amháin, Éalú ón mbogha báistí gan aon ghearán; Ní raibh sé chomh héasca le dubh agus bán.

Seeking the capture Of those words That sum up in a  Moment’s glance The emotions and Sensations Of just one instant Can pose a Challenge the equal Of scaling The sheerest face  of A mountain. To find them is to Stand atop A summit and gaze In awe at One’s own achievement, And tremble At the thought of the  Steep descent.

“The mist on the hills is so pretty!” She smiled as she exclaimed, While I controlled the car out of Tralee To Castlegregory for what would Prove to be our first and Only night away together. I could only glance a moment Through the rain-obscured window At the veil that softly fell From sun-kissed clouds and caressed The rocks and grass along the hills About the road. Sixty seconds later, another mile Behind us, we sang along to music And I put on sunglasses to pose For a picture as she played games With a camera. Thoughts turned to dinner As evening approached. * * * At ten o’clock we stood and watched As the sun seemed to melt Into the cliffs over the sea, An orb of golden peach. It faded as the night drew in, The end of something beautiful.

The simplicity of an empty hall, Music sounding sweetly from two speakers, Two friends with books and one with the paper And nothing but poetry pressing me Combine for peaceful relaxation and A moment more calm than the blue June sky. And then it’s lost. Gone, perhaps forever. The music drowned out, paper rustled shut. Authority’s footsteps pound to the door, Pause... then pace around the hall, echoing The message of jobs to be completed. I rise to seek scissors and tape-measure. We cut black sheets to cover the windows. Blue skies are lost to a hall of shadows.

It’s funny how a mind can work At quarter past one, after midnight, When the only things To busy the eyes are a silent guitar, A pile of unsorted underwear, Two poorly-hung shirts And a companion whose mysterious writing Keeps light streaming from a lofty bulb To seizure-bind the occasional Furious moth at our black window. I summon a pen from the floor To dirty a blank page with blue scribbles, Trying to take the whole room in; The pink walls and brown door, The bed-clothes a mix of sea colours, The three different patterns in the carpets, My empty water-bottle and half-full bag of biscuits. And then my friend’s feet touch the floor. He stands to quench the light, And the wait for slumber ceases.

I told that bold story again. I tried my best to tell it well, Although I’m sure by now I must be Leaving out some of the details. The names and places were still there, As were the most important points From this story-teller’s unique And, doubtless, biased point of view. I kept no secrets from the tale, No tear too insignificant Nor act of selfishness beyond The boundaries of shame, regret. * * * I rarely ponder the idea Of whether others tell it too, From very different points of view, And what they might say now, and how.

I haven’t seen much of the Goalkeeper In recent weeks. He showed up for a while In August, promising to be the one On whom the team could rely for success. He got the usual mixed reactions From the gang, at first, but slowly trust and Greater expectation became rewards For proof that he still had gifts to offer. His face became more rare a sight after Mid-September, and now he treads neither Grass nor astro-turf, keeping clean his gloves And boots. I wish they were not so spotless.

It’s not so far from Shannonside to this Hotel off Princess Street in Manchester That memories of People’s Park (first kiss!) Or Bedford Row and lunchtime shared with her Cannot slip into mind unheralded And like clouds above the river shadows spread. And though in Dooradoyle we walked through mist, And countless strolls down Henry Street now blur, I cannot help but pause to reminisce Of feeding swans at Howley’s Quay, full sure That many such bright days still lay ahead. Alas, that proved a fortune poorly read. On O’Connell Street we’ll rendezvous no more. I pine and gaze at the hotel-room floor...

If one, by chance, should come to read Some sample of my poetry, I wish that there-in they will find The work of a creative mind. I wish to them that it be known, Whether through image, sound or tone, That I have always sought out new Vehicles for my point of view. I do not seek celebrity; Just that these scribbles may be seen And valued by a friendly eye That finds wherein these words truths lie.

What thoughts are these That come to me In my first tongue After so long A wait without? It must now be Two months times three Since, right or wrong, For poem or song, My pen I’ve sought. I’ll not complain. Words come again!

Force of habit turns my face  To look towards your house  Each and every time I pass  Along this avenue.  Today I can surmise from here  That you're not home  On this occasion,  But other days I see  An open doorway and  Remember silly childhood games  And even later summer days  Of chatting till the stars came out  And we had to go indoors,  Back to different homes, of course.  Our last real conversation  Seven four summers ago now,  But still we always smile  Or say hello or wave from cars,  Then look away again  And journey on.  I shyly bow my head  And think of how I used to be,  Wonder if there was ever a moment  When you felt the same as me...  Then I feel habit's hold relinquish.  I smile at the thought of someone new.  I've grown out of that dream-like wish,  Those naive visions of me and you.

There is no evil in simple lyric, Nor laziness nor cheating short-cut, When there-in may be found A moment’s sudden glimpse Of something special That might evade a mind or hand More tasked with frill or fancy. And, but for the saving chance Of right fist clasping And a leading on a dance a nearby pen, Scraps of empty paper would So, barren, remain And for time uncountable Exist devoid of art.

Hours wasted watching football, At least from the view of a Worrying mother’s eyes; The chance to pass copious Minutes on virtual games Or to ignore the salty Smell of a fried lunch Dad cooked For ten more minutes in bed; Nights spent drinking in bars or, Closer, the house of a friend, Or even sleeping early For a Sunday morning match, Or romantically sipping Shared mugs of hot chocolate with Someone special and a hug, Or shivering in the early hours, Chasing the words to capture a day.

Esoteric ramblings and The in-jokes of strangers. Treatises on life. Comments on holidays Shared by two or three. Is this how we present Our craft, risking the danger That verbose lines might Cause readers’ eyes to stray? Is this how poems should be?

As promised, a performance of the poem posted last night.

Sitting here, sitting right here where you left me On the rocks, and staring out to sea, And I’m lying, I’m lying through my teeth, And hoping that you’ll come back and  take that seat next to me, . .I close my eyes and no surprise . .I’m still a lonely sight when I look again. And there’s the beach, stretching out beside me And the wind chopping up the waves And it’s blowing, it’s blowing in my face, The grains of sand stick to the tears that run along my cheeks, . .I close my eyes and no surprise . .I’m still a lonely sight when I look again. Oh and it’s stinging, and like mud the rumours fly, Like catapults the mouths around us work in overdrive, And these words stick close to both our hearts But cannot hurt as much as time together come to pass, . .I close my eyes and no surprise . .I’m still a lonely sight when I look again. Because I’m sitting, sitting right here On the rocks, and staring out to sea With my knees tucked between my arms To fill the spa

Explosions of noise and light disturb this Cold and foggy October night when all Should be peaceful and quiet, under shawl Of soft and gently falling winter mist. The sudden bursts of sparks and smoke, then howls Of laughter, echo round the mist-soaked road As hooded figures abide by the code To strike, slither away and slyly prowl Round shadowed corners on this special date, This hallowed meeting of all things pagan And marketed modern public playpen For youths routinely loitering, out late. This is the night where ancient rituals Are usurped by lesser pack animals.

Different and distinct speak voices three: The first seems a dark prophet of despair, The next foretells of brighter, things more fair, Third philosophises on what it sees. And yet it’s in one mind that dwell the three, Just as countless others abide in there, It being both a warm and shadowed lair, Like birds and worms atop or ’neath a tree. It’s from a single fountain that these three Have sprung with misty rainbows in the air, Have trickled dirt and such malignance where A strong new river makes its way to sea. An entity of complex composition Brings both bloom and weeds into fruition.

I send you words, my love, I send you lists Of flattery and charm, little messages Of the kind that, were they weapons, would sit In pride at the centre of the arsenal And strike with awe a common musketeer. And yet they do not suffice. No list would,  Or could, do justice, braced even with a  Phalanx of superlatives in any Attempt to capture your beauty’s description. This mighty pen has long been short of words, And I feared a fall upon a lesser sword, So please accept this page of simple print For love, not fancy words, created it.