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Showing posts from July, 2012

The Charmer

Working in the same vein as a magician, with hope To deceive and delight with the same stroke, To entrance and to invite into a new dimension Whomsoever finds themselves distracted By the intricacies and the trickeries in the craft, To conjure images and evoke emotions, To hide what's sitting right before the eyes Behind patterns of words, flicks of the wrist, Telling whole stories while sending subtle hints, Convincing one of truth in a false reality and Another that what they see may yet become Much more than how it first seems, Balancing the weight of wisdom with the Passionate unpredictability of unknown possibility, Baring all to an audience that is almost blind, To those who find it easier to question the art Than to meditate on the meaning in its works, Maintaining the illusion of control and confidence While struggling to sate a torn, confused conscience.

Prism Don tSolas

A bhláith tar chugam Is múin dom do rúin, Tóg ó shuaimneas Is ó shíocháin mé Arís is go minic Is taispeán dom An spleodar agus An spraoi atá le fáil Sa neamhghnách, San ildaite 's Sa choimhthíoch, Sa chathair seo Atá úrnua dom shúile, Las ionam an splanc Nár dhóigh le tamall Agus cuir tús le ré Rómansúil gheal chorraitheach Agus aontas breá taitneamhach.

An Trua Is Mó

N'fheadar cén trua is mó, a stór, Is muid ag dul ár mbealaí éagsúla, An tuiscint go mbeidh mé brónach I do dhiaidh fad is atáimid scartha Nó an tost pianmhar seo, aineolas, An cosc atá orm a choimeádann dúnta Mo bhéal is nach ligeann dom Mo scéal a insint duit i gceart, An mearbhall searbhmhilis, masc sonais Fad is a bhreathnaíonn tú orm Agus súile chuig na flaithis nuair A shiúlaim uait sa dorchadas.

Music Night In The Curragower

Sitting in a front row seat,  Probably the best table in the house, Trying to smile and sing along To the band who stand so close, And safely surrounded by friends, Black velvet refreshment in a cool glass Stains the wood by my right hand, I watch the foam on the water pass As it drifts over the falls and beyond, But still not quite contented as  I ponder the poetry of the music, Wonder at the wisdom of the lyrics, Long to stand at the centre of the song. I day-dream of leading the chorus, Stepping from the safety of my seat And taking to front of the stage... For that is where I want to be.

Dancing Eyes

One of these days I'll look you in the eye And hold your gaze And stop searching The walls and floor For words that will not come, For the words that have Evaded us for far too long. For those are words That we don't really need, Not right away at least, Just more distractions, Just second thoughts And barriers to actions, The food for doubts That make me look away... One of these days I'll step to close this space, To meet your eyes and smile, And bring your lips to mine.

Grá Rúnda

Ba bhreá liom gan 'bheith Chomh aineolach is atáim Ar scéalta ársa eipicí Na laochra is a naimhde A deirtear go mhaireadar Sa tír seo fadó, Go mbeadh tuiscint agam Ar na n-aibhneacha 's na sléibhte, Ar na n-oileáin 's na lochanna, Ar turasanna thar na dtonnta, Ar chogaí idir fórsaí De bharr ghrá idir beirt nó triúir, Ar an ngrá rúnda féin Is ar chonas gurb fhéidir É a rá is a scaoileadh Nó é chrá is a éalú.

Delicate Fox

There is a simple kind of joy In driving late at night When all the roads are quiet And the peace is rarely broken And the darkness offers cover For the wandering and prowling Of the slight and delicate fox. I see them sometimes Gently pawing at the grass banks Along the otherwise deserted tar Or hunching low and slender And rushing from the avenue To hide in shadows around the estate, But it pains me all too often When I find in harsh daylight The broken, dust-stained pieces Of their once bright, fiery coats Battered and abandoned on the roadside.

The Pigeons

As the resident musician Plays to the regular crowd That fills the courtyard, My companion's pointing finger Draws my attention above To a spot in the shadows Where two pigeons sit, staring, Trapped after the canopy Was drawn to keep out the rain, Perched on the speakers And all the while observing The unsuspecting dancers, And after a few drinks I let my mind wander, Wondering if a similar vision Inspired Poe or Hitchcock, The power and horror Of something so small, The mundane put out of place And into the darkness above.

Extras: Part 3

The simple wonders Of artificial moustaches, Powdered hair In icing-sugar tubs, A box of gels and razors And a rainbow display of Combs and scissors, Brushes and sprays, Brightly lit mirrors And flowing dark aprons, All the tools of transformation At the hands of artists, Experts in the preparation Of groups raggle and eclectic For careful placement Side by side on screens For education and entertainment.

Extras: Part 2

The fine young man Was not impressed To have his curls Dark and a-tress All cut away, Severely dress To suit the costume And the set, But those who saw Him had to smile For even though Now ranked and filed, His hair scattered Along the tiles, Comparing himself to A Communion child, He stood there then A man of style After his best cut In a long, long while.

Extras: Part 1

The button-holes are worn And the seem inside the leg Is frayed and splayed out Like the bobble of a woolly hat, With a little safety pin hidden In the waist-band just in hope That it will look like it still fits, On these old costume trousers That by now, I'm sure, have seen Too many scenes and rails and hangers, Too many extras and actors In period costumes under Old-fashioned hair-styles and spot-lights, But yet look perfect put together With the right old shirt and jacket in Weather typical of Ireland in any era.

A Poem For C&H (teen discussion forum)

To C and H I make with haste to read of all and sundry, This wondrous forum being home to great minds of the country, In knowledge safe that here I'll find the widest range of discourse Of quality that's praise-worthy and deserving of sweet verse. A noble tale it is to tell of this fine forum's naissance, Its seed the posts of dazzling folk, its water months of patience. No text-speak blight could quell the roots, nor cynics wielding axes; They scoffed that we, being but teens, could not produce strong branches. And yet a garden grew and grew, being tended most ably By three young mods who, from the sods, pruned weeds away most gayly. To Piste, to JC and Squigloo, I bid thee raise thy glasses And cheer in toast that we could boast such crafts-folk in our masses. But hark! there is much more to say, there are more names and fables, For here we see community beyond keyboards on tables, Computer screens, laptops on knees, D4RK ONION may deem portals , These l

Aubrieta

I see bright purple flowers Growing through the cracks Of the wall along the river By the road towards the bridge, On that side of the water Opposite this city centre Underneath the hanging branches Of the chestnuts near the benches Where I used go to sit and think, To pause and try to breathe in peace While out for walks in fading evening On the wall's safe side, behind the flowers.

To Tea!

A careful first sip, Gentle pursing of my lip, Tasting the sweetness On my tongue But not taking Too much too soon, The hot cup held up Just close enough To wet the tip Of my nose, Exhalations steaming Up from the surface, I dry the drips And let out a Satisfied and smiling sigh As soothing warmth Spreads down my throat And through my chest, I sit back and Slip deeper into the cushions, Breathing slowly As I drink.

A Strange Reunion

It was certainly not what one Would call a typical reunion, Embracing in the dark outside The hotel, hours after midnight, Before strolling in to the residents bar. You insisted on buying me a drink. We thought of how long it had been. Too long, we agreed through smiles, You after an evening celebrating And me after beer for one at home. Blame absolved and inhibitions already Bypassed with our conversation barely started, Talk of all of our mistakes and old, yet Still remembered desires to the fore, No fear at all of bringing up The way things were with us before, I listened and let you tell me Everything, all the details I had not known. All was for sharing, every Minor confession and every big deal, Every part of you and me As was practical in such strange And coldly public circumstances, Even allowing for the darkness and the hour. What more is there to say about it now? We each have plans in places far apart, Each different dreams and ideas, Though neither of us knows for sure, of

Move On

It would be So much easier To move on and To forget the things That happened Between us If your latest lover Did not bring up Your name In conversation And ask for My opinion Of you. I still remember The words I spoke, The highs and lows In those few Short sentences, The suggestion that There may be wisdom In avoiding one Most beautiful But who'd only Break his heart. It is too late now To ask that I keep My honesty To myself, Though now at least You have My side To balance out The story. But I'd rather not Think at all About you Any more.

Críoch An Chiúnais

D'fhanthas im' thost go ró-fhada, Osnaí á ligeant uaim Nuair a bhuaileadh smaointí mé Seachas dánta a scríobh Nó óráid a rá, An teannas ag méadú Sna ghualainne orm Seachas mo chorp a chur Ag croitheadh nó mo Chroí ag buaileadh le gliondar, Leathannaigh folmha bánna Snug idir a gclúdaigh Seachas marcanna phinn Scaipthe ina scrapanna Ar urlár an tseomra, Ar eagla gurb i laige A thit mo ghuth, Go dtí gur sháraigh mé An t-uaigneas i m'intinn Is thógas ón scabbard mo chlaíomh.

A Note To S. (A Friend)

I thought of you this afternoon, Memories triggered by a song That used to be your favourite And one of several that I'm sure I heard for the first time In your kitchen or bedroom, Part of the soundtrack to our Adventures and experience, From sleeping over with the lads And watching films we didn't understand, Sharing plates of sausages In the morning before a match, To cycling around the estates Figuring out how to talk to girls, Asking the DJ for goth metal And the pop and soda local disco, Or weekend afternoons at the Internet café in town and Hours wasted on teen chat-rooms, To forums and the friends miles away Planning parties and eventually Travelling half-way up the country To spend time with those strange And beautiful people you introduced to me, From gigs and that one festival With cider and sour apple liqueur, To nights we stayed up talking late And drinking silly measures of Jager, The hook-ups and the breaks-ups With all the drama and secrets Of a badly written tee

Ag Staidéir San Oigheann

Cúis ioróine is ea é domsa, Fear gan creideamh is mé Anseo trí lá i ndiaidh Domhnach Cásca, Go mothaim go bhfuilim faoi ghlas In Ifreann éigin ar domhan Sa leabharlann seo gan tost, Na diabhail go léir im thimpeall Ag spalpadh bladhmanna cainte Is ag ligint pléascanna uathu Gach aon uair a bhogtar leathannach Is pé ama a osclaítear mála, Is gan aon aingeal coimhdeachta Chun suaimhneas a chothú.

Just Coffee And A Chat

Ah, Café On The Row. It's been a while. I've been here only once In two years, Twice if sitting outside With a smoking friend Counts as a visit. Today's too wet and grey For taking chairs outside, And neither of us smokes, So sitting in the warmth And colour inside suits us. It hasn't changed at all, Our old favourite place, Parisian aspirations in the décor More than in the menu, Although the brie goes well With Limerick ham and Red onion marmalade, And a garnish of Bitter-sweet memories.

Pub Poetry

This pen and note-book combo Is about as out of place In here tonight as any Artist's tools could ever be, The order of these lines and Careful placing of this ink At odds with groups hap-hazard Between tables and the bar, And yet as I sit writing, Avoiding parties, dance and smiles, These words come to me through the noise And pen meets paper easily.

Basking In the Madness

Basking in the madness Of a bar at midnight, Band in full swing for the Four hen parties in the one place, A camera flashing every moment In one corner or another, Everyone a star aglow, Posing for the local paper, Table reservations for the VIPs, Shots and cocktails over-flowing, Shouting orders though the din, Singing along with the favourites, They shuffle and sway off the beat, Basking in the madness.

Your Brilliance

I can't write proper poems to you yet. I do not have the words, The years, the wisdom, The grim experience. This absolute finality Is such that I have not Within my mind or heart The reason nor the wish To accept that you are gone. Years ago your smile was my delight And I kept a picture of Your stunning eyes. Such eyes will never smile again, And only memories and pictures Hold your brilliance within.

Cast Yourself Adrift

I keep trying to shut you out, dear girl, And yet you try again to slink back in With softly spoken words and messages And hints of thoughts of times best left behind. I feel stronger when I don't reminisce About the nights when we first danced and kissed, Sleep better when you are not on my mind. What might have been I'd rather not imagine. I'd sooner tell you let your sails unfurl So you might drift away and not be missed. But, such a thing to say would be unkind, And so the dark and winding passages Are still haunted by pictures of your face And bitter memories of your embrace.