The Surrogates' Tale

Old Abraham was eventually led

to fatherhood, by Hagar's bed.

The surrogate begets the heir,

then Isaac sets him back to spare.

Mithra, Constantine

replaced with Christianity,

but kept the details of the Persian god:

Shepherds at the birthing scene,

Magi there for visiting.

Tradition covers up the fraud.

There's Jacob, his harem steading,

his wives' younger sisters bedding.

Wedded wombs and concubines

bring forth the heads of the twelve tribes.

Mithra, Constantine

replaced with Christianity,

but kept the details of the Persian god:

Shepherds at the birthing scene,

Magi there for visiting.

Tradition covers up the fraud.

Mary, handmaid of all handmaids,

when virgin birth was all the rage.

Rhea raped for Rome's first brothers,

Raised not by Mars, but Faustulus.

Mithra, Constantine

replaced with Christianity,

but kept the details of the Persian god:

Shepherds at the birthing scene,

Magi there for visiting.

Tradition covers up the fraud.

('A child is a gift': Pope Francis calls for a ban on surrogacy, calls it 'deplorable')

Burn

Maybe, just to be safe,
they should burn right down

every single dwelling place

in every single town.

It would reassure these tyrants

that the housing list

is as much for migrants

as for arsonists.

If we could exchange

these criminals for refugees,

it would save time on statements

from the dogs in the streets.

A Different Woman

As a one-remaining-grandparent child 

I was absolutely fascinated by
the idea of other children going to
their nana's after school.
As a treat.

A far-fetched notion to me
whose grandmother seemed

at the very best, removed.

But, Anna's set of photos prove
all her happy years.

Cursory Rhyme

All the different spiders
went up the water spouts,
down came the rain
and left the spiders in no doubt
that there isn't enough sunshine
to dry up all the rain,
and that flood prevention measures

must be put in place.

Even little spiders

can work the problem out,

floods must be contained

and kept away from every house.

The spiders think that hosepipe

bans could be prevented if we drained

away the excess water

and stored it for sunny days.

Unfair Trade

The British Mandate's broken promise,

an unfair trade, never honoured.

Oranges and lemons, say the bells of South Yemen,

You got a good bargain on the African carving,

When will you pay us?, say subcontinent natives.

You became rich, say the bells of Serendib.

Now boxing clever, with ringside neighbour:

May the odds be ever in your favour.

(Rishi Sunak, the UK prime minister, met with Benjamin Netanyahu in Israel, on 19th October, to declare the UK's support for the Israel prime minister and his country. He said, "we want you to win."

Win? The Hamas attacks on 7th October were not the beginning of animosity between Palestine and Israel. Israel has not suddenly become aware of Hamas as an enemy. I don't understand why the UK, and the US for that matter, seem to think that the Hamas atrocities of 7th October mark the start of a war that came out of nowhere.

To me, the people on the Gaza strip are like those in the arena in The Hunger Games).

Are You Right There, Marty?

You may talk of the pros of going railing
up, down, and across this country,
and all of the petrol fumes saving

by transporting yourself publicly.

You'd run for the train in the morning,

but you'd have to be there before eight.

And why bother with all of that jogging

when Renault's got wheels at your gate?

And as you're driving all terrains,

you hear yourself sing this refrain:

Are you right there, Marty, are you right?

As you travel free by morning, noon, and night.

RTÉ pays you for runnin'

a car that Renault's fundin',

it's the life, now, Marty,

it's the life.

Different Worlds

I did not know her,

but only a little time threw
us to different worlds.
Her power lay not where it might strike you;
in her shining eyes, her lithe legs, her lack of hair,
or her jaw that cut the air ahead of her open
arms that dashed all before them as her figure moved like a blade.
Her power lay in her focus.

The same country, but mine allows.

An accident of time gives me grace.

But, she had to dig her heels in, hold her ground,

a side-effect of living in her space.

I did not know her,
but her relief feels like mine.
Women's shapes reshape the place they stirred,
a perfect silhouette as in her life.

(RIP Sinéad O'Connor.)

Shell Haiku

Vacant sculpture
One careful owner
Feeds the birds.

Siskin

And, the last straw; 
a glowing, bright-yellow, siskin
pounces and walks
the peanut feeders, in

luminous streaks,

showing off his abundant health.

His nuclear energy 

pokes my pinpoint pupils, pelts

my patience, and strips 

my nerves of resistance.

I bring a photo of this annoyance

to my daughter, her illness

pauses while she smiles

at the image of my torturer.

We will soon be fine,

and will tolerate the brightness.

(We got Covid. After all this time of avoiding it, we got it. Just having the virus was upsetting, but, being sick made a lot of very small things seem annoying. We had beautiful weather for our quarantine, and I spent as much time as I could sitting outside. That siskin really wore away at my last nerve, but my eldest enjoyed my story.)

Save

Non vascular, slow-moving,
creeping coloniser, brooding
before taking action,
ever changing, ever fractal.

Save the water, save the sower;
let the moss come, take us over.

All Of the Days

Dressing up, dancing, drawing,

or maybe none of those things.

She might have loved picking daisies,

and making chains of bracelets and rings.

Was there something particular she liked to wear,

would she sometimes get terrible knots in her hair.

How was she with homework and projects,

and did her teachers ever despair.

Was she in drama class, did she play chess,

did she insist on her dad checking under her bed.

Maybe she knew every garden bird's name,

and could tell them just by silhouette.

Were carrots a favourite, did she drink juice,

did she have a preference for one type of fruit.

Could she have been a bit of a rogue,

always trying on Mam's high-heel shoes.

All of the wonder, all of the fun,

all of the ice-creams out in the sun,

all of the days when nothing went right,

all of those days and all of those nights.

All of those years now stopped in their tracks,

all those ahead to spend looking back.

All of the promise, all not to occur,

we should all be so lucky to have parents like hers.

(R.I.P. Vivienne Murphy, an 11-year-old girl from Cork, who, considering where and when she lived, should still be alive today. Her parents spoke to Joe Duffy, on RTÉ Radio1, and her mother mentioned that Vivienne means 'life'. What they've been through is so sad, and yet they were campaigning for improvements in the health service in the hope that no other child will suffer and die like their little Vivienne. Link to an Irish Examiner article here).

The Dead Fish

Mrs. Twomey chalked on the board,

a crude fish with a frowny face,

and little lines for the water flow.

She taught geography, often replaced

by this particular advisory:

"Now, girls, don't be the dead fish 

that flows with the stream."

"Which fish should we be, Miss?"

We'd delight in distracting her,

in a place where a nun would often

tell the class that she knew there were

two in the room intended for the convent.

Chilling

I saw a chilling photo:
Bashar al-Assad
at the bedside
of an earthquake survivor;

maybe also of gas,

and/or air strikes.

I can't help but wonder

if it makes him mad

that so many have died

without deploying sarin,

or an attack craft,

from the skies.

I saw a chilling photo:

Bashar al-Assad.

(RIP the 40,000 people, and counting, in Syria and Turkey. On 06/02/2023 the Kahramanmaras earthquake - that reached a massive magnitude of 7.8 on the Richter scale - and thousands of aftershocks, levelled the region. 

I am so sorry for all the suffering, and I am so sorry that the people of Syria had been suffering for so long already before this natural disaster).

Lost In Kilmac

There were two of us on Main Street
(a misleading name,
that might be more appropriately
called Only Thoroughfare).

She walked a little ahead.
She stopped in her tracks,
looked right and left.
Then up and back.
She laughed, and shook her head,
"Isn't it a fright to be lost in Kilmac."

We are so safe here, and

this village is an easy mark.

Over in Mashhad,

it's no joke to be lost.

Law shifts like sand,

injustice at its beating heart.

Our own Bernard Phelan 

is being forcibly detained

for being a touring European,

and, when not in jail,

promotes Iran as a destination.

Seemingly the only dual citizen

to ever use a passport,

he was the one-in-a-million

to take photos,

see the sights,

send postcards.

And now he is on hunger strike.

(Update: Bernard Phelan was freed in May 2023).

(Explanation: FREE BERNARD PHELAN.

When I was writing this poem, Bernard Phelan was on hunger strike. I am relieved to hear that his sister persuaded him to return to eating, but I am so sorry that Bernard Phelan has not been released yet.

Here is a summary, and update on his situation.)

The Geographer

To find Ireland
the globe was turned.
She sounded out Russia,
and expressed how it upset her
about it invading Ukraine,
and how it has so much land.
She looked then for Italy, Spain,
Germany, and France.

Countries and continents moved,
oceans and hemispheres twirled.
She is six, our Ruth,
and a woman of the world.

Growth Rings

That romantic notion of planting our own garden

became so Trojan and arduous

that we lost heart.

I wonder now what daily chores kept us from seeing

when the wind stopped forcing the trees

to bend right over and arch.

Those minutes of life 

spin around this hub;

growth rings of our time

banked in those tree trunks.

Under-14s

In Creeslough, on a Friday,
time stopped forever
for ten people who had things to do.

Leona Harper had been raised

like all our children;

to see and live through adulthood.
The under-14s rugby player
was just like my daughters,
who wear under-14s soccer boots.

We often stop at Applegreen
after training,
so they can get Slushees.
In Lemybrien, on Fridays.

Chiffchaff

Staring from a golden eye-ring,

checking whether you can fly.

You just stand and get your bearings,

silent when not set up high.

Then the assurance in the wings,

back to where you are not shy

to chiff and chaff and trill and sing,

for audiences far and wide.

In comfort you are trumpeting,

outside of it you only hide.

When you feel at home you bring

your special notes that fill the sky.

Library Pictures

I can see myself seeing him,
Gorbachev on the TV screen.
I recall the library pictures,

and the ever-present figure 

of Dr. John Harbison,

the State Pathologist.

I thought President Hillery 

was a woman, known only

by her first name,

and associated

Bosnia Herzegovnia

with the Eurovision.

Boutros Boutros-Ghali 

were just words I'd repeat.

Beirut seemed both made up,

and the only place on earth .

In all that I did not understand

I felt he was a decent man:

Glasnost, perestroika, and that birthmark,

Here's to you, Mr. Gorbachev.

Unyielding

My kingdom for a sausage
that can be removed.

Not bound by other hostages;

chained, and stuck, and glued.

Give me the option,

drama free,

to choose to take just one,

without performing surgery

to solve the riddle of the bunch.

What I wouldn't give

for a yielding pack of rashers.

with an actual pull-back lid

not the Fort Knox standard.

The worst is when it says

peel back and reseal

when, in fact, you need a blade

and brute ferocity.

Restored

Let her walk the tides,
delighting in her tiny feet

gifted by the otherside,

where all is wine and cheese,

and freedom for the ones who died,

no responsibilities.

Mint sauce, chops, potato sides,

no dogs as far as can be seen,

no need for intravenous lines,

where all is toast and tea,

and faculties restored to mind,

paired earrings for eternity.