AUX ANGES
Une nuit du vent et de la pluie
Elle me vint en rêve sans bruit;
Une très belle hirondelle dans l’air,
Dans la tente au bord de la mer.
Je lui lentement étendis les bras,
Doucement elle descendit sur la main;
À mon coté mon amour apparut
Et avec plaisir je lui offris l’oiseau.
Elle tendrement accepta l’hirondelle-
Le symbol de l’amour éternal:
En rêvenant à nous tous les étés
En dépit de longs voyages de l’étranger.
Et puis elle me confessa gentiment
Qu’elle s’était senti très seul également,
En pensant à la nuit à la maison-
Les aux revoirs à l’idylle et sa saison.
Mais l’orage mit fin vite au bonheur
De retrouver l’amour de mon cœur;
Je me reveillai un être aux anges
En mélangent ces mots à sa louange.
OVER THE MOON
On a night of high wind and of rain
Into my dreaming it silently came
As I lay in my tent by the sea-
A most beautiful swallow to me.
I gladly warm welcomes extended
Then on my palm gently it landed;
The swallow I gave to my love
Who came to me soft as a dove.
The look on her face was so tender
At the sign of true love that I gave her:
To Ireland it comes back with loyalty
Despite the long flight and its frailty.
She spoke to me and shyly confided
That my loneliness was not one sided,
That often she thought of the evening,
The goodbyes to romance at leaving.
Then the scene in the dream it ended-
By a storm it was sadly suspended;
Awaking, her praises I put to a tune,
Floating about- I was over the moon.
RED DEER
Red deer at dawn that come our way,
Quick and sleek and nimble, nibbling;
Drifting fog is weaving morning magic
Beyond the ruined castle by the lake.
Sensing there is someone somewhere,
On red alert their heads are raised;
Silently they fade away like daybreak,
Disappearing through the lakeside reeds.
AN EYE ON LONDON
The morning sky has a crest of a moon
Sitting up over my window’s horizon.
Tall conifers compete with chimney stacks,
Castle top turrets and white office blocks;
The trickling traffic from King’s Cross below
Meets life coming into the city.
It’s quiet out there at four in the morning,
(The calm before the storm),
While the lights of the street lamps
Grow dimmer towards dawn
From my fourth floor eye on old London.
BEFORE THE BOMBING
Crossing elegant Victoria railway station
She reaches for her ringing mobile phone:
Young and yet without an ounce of fear,
Still moving onward as it sings its signal.
She answers, smiling with sincere delight-
And who is to tell it’s not her father calling
Just to say hello and ask if she’s alright.
A strict security warning mars the morning,
Insinuating the existence of an evil enemy
Who indiscriminately maim and cruelly kill,
Like the madmen did in the city of Madrid.
BLEEDING
Sliabh Aughty, my own mountain mine,
Rhododendroned ridge ever there for me;
Fields ascending higher as I go
From Ballylee to Loughrea’s lake:
To look beyond at County Clare
Or to gaze at Galway Bay.
Beyond the vision of the valley
Is a village hard to find,
But now it’s known the world over
Since the bog has moved in Derrybrien.
Forests, farms, furze and heather-
Colour palette in the sun:
Who’ll protect them from the landslide
Slipping down the river run?
Noble men of Tobar Pheadair,
Castleboy and old Kilchreest
Won’t you worry for your brothers
Who are threatened by the beast
Now let loose on this landscape
Far beyond the mountain top?
Have you seen Abhainn dá Loilioch?
Floating Christmas trees and peat
Slowly slithering towards Lough Cutra,
Killing brown trout in the squeeze,
Up in the pub that’s warm and snug
There’s talk and tension in the air:
They’re telling tales of a fearsome gorge-
Up a thousand feet from there.
All the experts are left thinking
For they’ve failed to fight the flow:
All their barriers were upended
With a muffled mountain roar.
In Derrybrien they’re not fearing
What’s gone down but what’s to come -
Maybe further bigger landslides!
For God’s sake what’s to be done?
Bring them help,
We fought for freedom-
’Tis their land, their place, their lives!
It’s not just a piece of mountain -
Don’t be fooled, it’s far more grand;
Those who are up there isolated
Are the very salt of our native land.
When Pádraig Pearse was writing poetry
’Twas not of Golden Vales he wrote
But of the little towns of Connacht,
Of mountain fields that men have sown.
At the weekend Fleadh of Cooley-Collins
I watched a lively woman dance
In sean nós style and quiet abandon
On an afternoon in Peterswell;
While at the bar there played a fiddler,
With hat of tweed and stoic face,
His bowing was so soft and gentle
In deep respect to this great place.
Just one word about the mountain
That I grew beside secure,
Thinking mountains were forever-
They were there aloft alone;
But having been to Costa Blanca,
In a town called Guardamar,
There I saw the bulls tormented
In the ring to loud acclaim;
Such noble, haughty, well built creatures
Sent to death by lance and spear;
There they lost their way so blindly
And the blood flowed down their shanks.
Now it’s nature’s turn to suffer
As the bog slides o’er its floor-
Like the toros proud it’s blameless,
All the shame is ours alone.
Let Spanish bulls on prados prance,
Far away from the mob’s olés,
To be there to see in all their beauty
Like the backdrop of these hills.
’Twas not a bull but the Celtic Tiger
Changed your serene mountain stance:
What you’ll see is masts and turbines
Every time you upwards glance.
Throw up your head and horns on high,
You wild and fearsome toro,
While the river of mud, the mountain’s blood,
Flows from the land of Lough Atorick.
BONO AND BOB
Bono and Bob in Live Eight in Hyde Park:
Our boys are doing the business;
Heroes of rock and heralds of hope
Across the broad bands of the media.
African fa
mine could soon be just history
For the Global Eight are dropping their debt
In the hope of an end to all the corruption.
In the far fields of Africa drums will beat
At the news from our Bob and our Bono;
They’ll walk with a happier step in the heat
While their war is won simply with music.
CANNED
You can-
I’ll be damned
But
Tonight
I need
To hold
One of you
In my hand.
You can-
You are
My only man.
You can-
You w on’t
And I can’t
Be on our own.
I’ll have another
And you there
Don’t tell
My mother!
You can-
Now I can’t
Stand.
Too many
Cans-
Going to land!
My fellowman
I’m canned.
I’ll soon be
Ignominiously
Banned.
DEADLINES
The piano man plays on
And the tenors thrill
On the screen this Christmas;
Soon at dawn, it’s said,
Saddam Hussein will hang.
Is that the only strategic plan?
Will the Sunnis and the Shiites
Still kill each other if they can?
Because he laid waste to those
Who did not tow the party line
He dies. Another death-
And did he have those weapons
Of destruction after all?
All was bad in the city of Baghdad
Before Saddam went on the run.
That it’s bad again today
Is getting easier to say
As peoples lives are blown away
By waves of suicide bombers.
Washed up like flotsam
In our face from faraway
To reach our TV screens:
Dead bodies making news
For deadlines,
As regular as the tidal flow.
Fifteen more are dead;
How many more to go?
The piano plays on regardless
And the tenors raise the roof
But around that deadly gallows
In the capital of war
The only one with dignity
Is the man condemned to die-
And the hangman deals the cards.
IMAGINE IF
Oh God above forgive me
In the middle of this night;
Yet by the power of Heaven
The universe is all but mine.
I hear the silence and it means
I’m on my own. I’m here.
The mirror of this moment’s real.
What I see I also deeply feel:
The shape and size of my own cell.
The door’s the first I see so well:
It’s in my eyes, it’s always closed;
It’s never mine the space it’s in-
The prison owns that piece of light
And stores it up far out of sight.
It’s not for me but my day will come
I’ll stand there free like everyone
To take the road that starts off there;
So maybe now I’ll say a prayer.
Thank God I have this time to think
Of how I stepped back from the brink.
I’m still your friend-I hope so God.
The walls say yes to me aloud.
My bed is there behind me flat:
Dreams come seldom where I’m at.
Not too far of another day
Will slowly push the heavy stone away
That makes this place so like a tomb
And I will travel towards the light;
I’ll leave this room, I’ll leave this womb,
I’m on my painful journey down.
It’s awful dark. I’m on my own.
Now black is not that black at all-
If it fades much more I’m going to fall!
Little light of day, my eyes are open.
I’m glad my God that you have spoken:
Now I am yours and you are mine-
Daylight at last and still there’s time.
THE SILENCER
I travelled on the Luas at last:
A silent maiden voyage
Across Seán Heuston Bridge,
Its brazen tracks had taken.
By red bricked ill gotten streets,
Deserted faded and neglected.
Only a single one-way traffic lane
The silent snake has left beside it
As it steals through Jervis Street
And by The Smithfield Market
To the very heart of Dublin city-
Still without a sound-the silencer.
BY THE POND
Kookaburras came like Carmelites
Arriving reverently in twos;
Landing quietly without a coo
On the paperbark tea trees By the pond.
The silence snaps suddenly
At the Kookaburra’s laugh.
A ballet corps of blue water lilies
Ready to dance.
MONTMARTRE
By metro to the ancient Montmartre hills
Where windmills once steadily turned
To mill the grain and to crush the grape;
Artists who adorn this place with art
Will paint you there in La Place du Tertre.
Inside the dimly lit Salle de Saint Pierre
I saw an enthralling expo of ancient dolls:
Elegant ones made in La Belle Epoque
Then some primitive poupées from Peru;
Pins in old African ones to work voodoo.
The snow melts slow and so silently falls
Off a tree that’s high in the sloping green
And I take one more cup of café au lait-
Drinking to the pearl of Paris out there,
The jewel on the crown-the Sacre Coeur;
Three rising, winding Byzantine domes
All in white, this grand landmark in stone:
Basilica of all travellers and pilgrims true,
Capped by The Cross up high in the blue.
Another day over, the cafés are closing:
Candles on tables for two are blown out-
The secrets of love on faces were seen;
Banter of people now out on the streets-
Glowing from wine and of being together:
So happy and merry in twos and in fours,
Fixing of scarves and tumbling out doors.
EARLY TRAIN
Emerging from the station dimly lit,
The Dublin train confronts the dark;
Cruising comfortably out of Kerry
Before careering headlong onwards
Across the county bounds with Cork.
Then the dawn of everlasting beauty
Waves high her magic wand of light,
Revealing lines of long sensuous hills:
Their dips and curves mysterious,
Black against a deep blue low horizon.
Millstreet silhouetted there beyond,
Still lit up as if by Chinese lanterns.
Banteer bathed in the morning glory-
The far off windows splashed with gold;
Tea is served, the next stop is called,
Awaking sleeping early morning risers.
HEAD OF THE CLAN
About you Mike I could write a book
If I was worthy to put you into words;
Yourself could put it better I believe.
Death has left us at a loss without you.
Going to fairs with seasoned farmers,
To them you were the old lad’s son,
; But fully fledged you surprised them:
Dealers now bargained with a man.
You arrived on call when skill was all,
Weather fair or foul the job was done
And you freely gave of what you got-
A farmer who had loyalty to the land.
As time went on they’d take their turn,
Hardworking men came hurrying in
To meadows when the hay was down
Or cattle testing time had come again.
Agile, red haired, in faded blue shirt:
Reins a bandoleer for him in spring
Guiding plough horses by the furrow,
Seagulls following–a storm warning.
Sheep shearing time, greasy fleeces,
Bottled stout for neighbours helping;
Sharing, swearing, telling good ones,
Among friends feeling free and easy.
On a kitchen chair he’d kneel to pray
In the morning as in the old tradition;
After he’d herd the sheep and cattle
And then he tilled in fields till evening.
By night after earning his daily bread
He felt the need of some good libation
And on his high stool he so often said
‘I’m luckier than most’- in celebration.
Head of the clan, how I miss that man.
We had our nights in Lisdoonvarna;
Saved turf together on the mountain,
Mended the fence down by the river.
I write these lines for an absent brother
Buried on a hill up in Kilchreest village;
From here or from heaven overlooking
Forever the beloved land of our fathers.
LATE NIGHT TAXI
In the still night
I surface
From the dreamy depths;
There is a diesel drone
That plays upon my brain:
A taxi from the town
Bringing home
A small-time punter,
Elegant even at this hour;
Punch drunk from winning
At the races today.
In town tonight
Winners and losers were alright.