Showing posts from May, 2012

Cló Dubh

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.

Soicindí Idir Titim Bháistí

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.

Neart Stoirme

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.

Pictiúr de Thinneas Ghrá

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.

Ag Meabhrú

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



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.

Writer’s Block: Part Three

Seeking the capture
Of those words
That sum up in a 
Moment’s glance
The emotions and
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.

Castlegregory With...

“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.

Morning of the Disco

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.

En Attendant Killian

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.

The Goalkeeper: Part 6

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.

Sad Thoughts of Home

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...

Best Wishes

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.

After Reading

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.

Issues of Editions

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?

Performance: On The Rocks (acoustic)

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

On the Rocks

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 space that was your place
before I broke your heart,
To f…

October 31st

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.

Analyse This

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.

As You Wish

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.