A Life's Work

Hopes and fears
summed up
in a calcium
spiral cup.
A life's work
left to us
who inherit the earth.

Just one story
left by the snail,
that leaves only
beauty in its wake.
Slow and steady
from growth to empty,
life is art, art is plenty.

The Derry Air

So many sets
of many songs
of life and death
and rights and wrongs.
So many contests,
none so rare
as where commenced
The Derry Air.

How much has been
of much regret
of what they've seen
and can't forget?
So many people
not to be spared
to live and breathe
The Derry Air.

All that's done,
keeping time,
all that's sung
and made to rhyme.
So many dreams
like Creggan hares
still run free in
The Derry Air

(Explanation: Journalist and author, Lyra McKee, was murdered in Creggan, Derry, Northern Ireland, on 18th April 2019, she was 29 years old. I had never heard of her before hearing of her murder and now I know she stood for everything that could be good about Ireland and Northern Ireland, freedom and equality.
The Derry Air is a tune used by a number of songs, for example 'Danny Boy'. Its origin is unclear but it is an internationally recognised tune. It is used as a sport's anthem by Northern Ireland when victorious at the Commonwealth Games.
The Creggan White Hare is a song about a hare that eludes hunters.)

R.I.P. Lyra McKee.

Dearest Uri Gellar

Dearest Uri Gellar,
in the stainless steel dimension,
I submit my open letter
to implore your intervention.
My husband talks all year
about the cutting of our grass,
and though that is extreme
the worst is yet to pass:
Sunny days will dawn,
and that means he will go
to his beloved lawn
to mow and mow and mow.

I've marked out the perimeter
with shiny polished ladles,
I've caged that bloody lawnmower
in a slotted spatula cradle,
I wait patiently every night
for my husband to sleep sound,
then I put teaspoons on his eyes...
So I've prepared the ground.
I've become a nervous wreck,
so please send me a sign
that you'll keep the grass in check
or control my husband's mind.

While you're at it can I have
a new car and clearer skin,
a conservatory, a ball of cash
and a marble-counter kitchen.
My daughters said to ask you
for a pony and a pool,
they've spent their pocket money
on a set of silver spoons.
Theresa May is not receiving,
so why not focus on my plea?
Or my husband will be leaving
every Summer for Tel Aviv.

(Explanation: Just when I thought Brexit couldn't get any stranger, Uri Gellar published this open letter to Theresa May. Uri, they are beyond help, focus on me instead!)

A Like Task

The birds fly left and then back right,
Catfiáin is mesmerised.
He crouches low and hides his legs,
peering just above the ledge.

His instincts keep his focus keen,
he's ready for some winged cuisine.
Though still and silent he must fail;
elation waves his wilful tail.

And anyway, against the grass
his dusty white's no camouflage.
The birds see him, he's in denial,
he's held in place by something primal.

He's watching and I'm watching too,
I'm fixed on every tiny move.
I, and Catfiáin, my cat,
'tis a like task we are at.

(Explanation: One of my favourite poems is this translation of Pangur Bán, (original Old Irish text here) scribbled by an unidentified scribing monk at the side of his manuscript, around the 9th century. It is one of Early Ireland's most famous pieces of writing, written in or near Reicheneau Abbey in Germany. When my daughters got their kitten in October last year I wanted to call him Pangur Bán, but my daughters insisted he wasn't white enough to merit that name. They settled on Catfiáin, which means wildcat. I was pleasantly surprised with their choice as Catfiáin easily subsititutes for Pangur Bán in the above-linked translation by Robin Flower).

Let Us Stand

Here they come, our tiniest unnursed,
without a single cry.
Not like the moments when at first
their lives met with the light.

Denied by church and family names
on initial newborn breaths,
their mothers smeared in sin and shame
ensured their graveless deaths.
The living marked by illrepute,
in servitude kept hidden;
a purgatory of hobnailed boots,
suffer little children.

Damned for trespass, stuff of nonsense,
by those who had committed worse,
branded fit or not for auction
and stamped firmly with a curse.
How could they know the order,
they were born without being versed.
And now they rise, here they come,
our tiniest unnursed.

Solemnity must them surround,
and the mothers who still mourn,
a ceremony wrong way round
as bones are upward borne.
We'll all be waiting, bated breath,
but for those who heard the cries
it's been a kind of living death,
though they made it out alive.

Let us stand, in guard of honour,
to indignity reverse,
that we all may be the stronger
for our tiniest to nurse.

(Explanation: A hero of our time, Catherine Corless, a historian from Co. Galway in Ireland, brought information into the public domain about the cover-up of the burial of nearly 800 children in a disused septic tank in Tuam. The former site of one of Ireland's shameful Mother And Baby homes run by the Bon Secours nuns will be formally examined this year, 2019.

Click here for an article about how it was Catherine Corless who discovered there were 796 children's remains at the site. 
Click here for another article.)

The Double-Cross

We could put the world to rights
while the children swim.
Neither split the darks and lights
nor changed our loyal spin.
There were significant discussions
about ground spikes, pegs and space,
and the expected repercussions
of a sand-filled parasol base.
And what of Irish weather,
of its quirks and irks and blame,
of its making us feel clever
when we'd played it at its game.
The key hot press minutiae,
the heavy towels that goad,
the rule of washing every day
regardless of the load.
Radiators for heat only;
wet windows a disaster,
but such noble ideology
did not make the clothes dry faster.

The children went on mid-term,
and while we've been apart
I've double-crossed my laundry partner
by following my heart.
I was led by lust and not by love,
a slave to my desire.
I am now a daily user of
a condenser tumble-dryer.

(Explanation: This poem is about me and my friend, René Murray, a fellow homeschooler. We honestly did talk a lot about the washing! And I was just a little bit afraid that the acquisition of the tumble dryer would result in us having nothing to talk about;). I am happy to report that there is still plenty of chat. Now my fears are about the next electricity bill).

Hide And Seek

The kitten seeks.
Warmth, play and feeding
fulfil his dreams.
He paws the page the child is reading
and prepares to pounce
on his own elusive shadow.
I am constantly putting him out.
Somehow the children know
and let him back in.
He is the star of his own show
as he flips, crouches, vaults.
But the terms are his;
he will not play ball...
unless the ball jingles.

He rests in the slimmest shaft of sunlight
or on a cosy lap.
On waking he stretches, wrestles and bites
and may curl into another nap.
This does not always suit the two girls.
I am reminded of another
three who just loved
waking their sleeping baby brother.
The irony, not lost on me;
the frustrations of a weary mother.

He purrs as if he houses
a tiny motor under his fleece
and a single mew rouses
actions to meet his every need.
Never doubt that this creature
is in charge;
He is your trainer and teacher,
you are just a pawn.
For all your adoration
you cannot reach the levels
befitting his station
so he simply worships himself.

He is only a pet to his own ends,
he cannot be bought;
he will eat and drink to his hearts content
then go without a grateful thought.
He will climb up high,
regardless of your rules,
and perch where he likes.
Small eyes are watching you
when the kitten hides.

Michael Walsh's Shoes

His first child was new,
he saw his feet go
to his father's shoes,
and his baby's toes
into his.

His father now stepped
to the pair from the time
the grandfather had left,
took his place in the line,
for now his.

I saw the pairs in my mind;
the ones not yet seen
and the ones that had died.

Pairs still to come and pairs that have been.

Tiny and shiny, knitted and fleece,
tattered and battered, slip-on and heeled,
leather and weathered, polished and laced,
safety and weighty, office and suede.

If a baby could choose
at the event of being born,
they could do worse than safe shoes
and a path that's well worn.

(Explanation: In April 2017, I met my cousin, Michael Walsh, at another cousin's house. We weren't chatting about anything profound when Michael mentioned how he had felt when his first child was born; that he had seen himself moving into his father's shoes and leaving his free for the baby. I was in bits, I left with my eyes welling up. What a beautiful sentiment and such poetry, not from me!!!, in what was otherwise a normal chat.

Michael Walsh is the twin of Cath Walsh, one of two cousins who worked on the family tree with me. My poem, Rita's Silver Box, was written after all that work).

A Bucket Of Apples

Our bells the only sound
we passed the farmyard
and stopped at the house.
One dog on guard
and one with three legs,
the combination
of the cattle grid and dogs
at their destination
made the young cyclists' day.
The long black cat indoors
was the icing on the cake.
We stayed while it poured.

The man in socks held court
on spiders, weather, cattle.

We received so much more
than a bucket of apples.

(Explanation: In August 2018, as around the same time in 2017, we opened our front door to find a bucket of apples. They were deliciously sweet. We stewed them and made tarts. Last year we didn't know who had left them at our door. This year we cycled to our neighbours' to say thanks. I felt my children were a little disappointed at not having the mystery of the year before; the wondering about who had left the apples fascinated them! But, certainly the visit to our neighbours' house more than made up for any disappointment there might have been).

Meteor Shower

A wish sent high,
a wish sent far.
A cloudy night,
a single star.

And then the scare;
no hope of prosper:
The wish set square
on a helicopter.

(Explanation: In August 2018, there were a couple of days when meteor showers could be seen in the sky. We were unfortunate in that we told the children there were going to be meteor showers only to have them staring at cloudy skies. Convinced they had wished on what they thought to be a shooting star they were devastated when their dad told them that it looked more like a helicopter than a star).

Backseat Cook

Ten years of your drooling at Darina's results,
printing instructions for future consults.
And yet, what you ate before you met me,
was pies en Bentos and Findus Pancakes á la crispy.
And yet you're an expect, a connoisseur true
as long as you're not the one making the food.
Why don't you cook your dream dinner spreads
instead of hoarding those recipes up on that shelf?
I can't fully gauge what gets me more enraged;
the elastic bands, the dust, or the yellowing pages,
but, I can tell you, truly, the worst of this scene
is how you make speeches about this cuisine;
your plans for fine dining are beyond compare,
you're always refining your ideal menu's fair.
And, oh, how you verbalise, oh, the wild zeal,
when you've set your sights on the day's perfect meal.

I've something to say, the joke's wearing thinner,
I've put in a decade and you've never made dinner.
You've eaten every repast that I've made,
but not one day has passed when you haven't raised
one of your sheets stored up on that shelf
and proceeded to lecture us all how to chef.

(Explanation: This is about my husband, and it's all true. Well, to be fair, he always makes Christmas dinner......but that's once a year so let's not be too fair. I absolutely hate hate hate cooking so I'd be happy for my husband to put his money where his mouth (and recipe collection) is, so don't let me get in your way, Martin!!!)

Nicola's Children

Then all the women felt like skittles;
lined up in rows.
And though they were strong it wasn't long
before the bowlers bowled.
As hard as it was to believe
it was worse to have been deceived
by a First World, modern state.
And bad as that was
it was worse to have gone
without knowing you could have been saved.

All of the Nicolas, denied proper care,
will never bend their heads again
for a child to pull back their hair,
to share a secret only meant for them.

(Explanation: In relation to this article, on 2nd May 2018, I heard a man called David speak on Liveline, Joe Duffy's RTÉ radio1 show, about the death of his wife, Nicola, in relation to the Cervical Check scandal in Ireland. It was heartbreaking to listen to David, but he spoke very well and gave the timeline and details of his late wife's suffering. His children have a great father, but it is tragic that they are, needlessly, without their mother.

Update on 14/11/2022: RIP Vicky Phelan)

The Oyster Farmer

The egret is settled
and the toddling brent goose
eyes the laden-down trestles
and oilskins and boots.
At one with the elements
he works with the tides,
through weather inclement
he's always strandside.
Wild winds and great lulls,
stinks of wet sand and seaweed,
he watches herons and gulls,
and pulls crabs from his sleeves.
The common sandpiper
sees the turning occurring,
and the oystercatcher
tests for any poor work done.
For all the weekends
and the middles of night
he's on the world's edge
for the dawning of light.

Two Reasons

The eighth amendment is giving me cause for concern,
I'm worried for my children when they're women in the world.

They're into Cats, the musical. For the vegetarian, our youngest,
a sausage sandwich is not unusual. She wears her lucky bracelet on her wrist.
She makes pop-up cards and reads to me every morning.
I watch her lips mouth out the words and her nose pull and fill the soundings.
The other works on secret projects and deftly crafts clay creature forms.
She knows all the wild bird sound effects and her default setting is ever calm.
She takes excellent photos and wears her pyjamas late on weekends.
They spend hours on Lego and enjoy going to the cinema with friends.
They shoot baskets, sew and knit. They often think they have invented things,
they try to feed the wild rabbits. They swim, play football, swing on swings.
They have found a number of dead shrews and keep trinkets in their pockets,
they are experts at temporary tattoos and launching vinegar rockets.
They find themselves hilarious when they say 'portaloo' instead of 'Pórt Láirge',
they like flamingos and manatees, sloths and bobcats and sparrowhawks.
They love carousels and ferris wheels, otters, walruses and seals.
They are my two reasons to repeal.

(Explanation: On May 25th, in Ireland, we will vote in a referendum to retain or repeal the Eighth Amendment of our constitution. There are many reasons to repeal. For me, my daughters are two of those reasons.)

Robin Piper

The glass replaced by curtains sewn of snow,
a small triangle the only peering space.
And there he looked up bright from down below,
a demanding look on his beady mini face.
He held his wings in a silent show of might
and took a square, no-nonsense, solid stance;
a coalman's shoulders sported by a sprite,
there was no doubt he had the upper hand.

Soon the sheep will flood the fields again
and green will free what white has blanketed.
And then this little redbreast will retake
his wild ways and shun our every bid.

A maverick dancing to his unique tune,
the only bird to sing our year of days,
he's a dawn-chorister still singing with the moon,
the robin piper tells you when to pay.

(Explanation: In Ireland in 2018, we had snow in early February and thought that was it for the year, until we were visited by what became known as The Beast From The East or The Big Snow from 28th February to 4th March. Even after it stopped snowing it would be another two weeks before we would be snow free. Here in Co. Waterford we were snowed in. 
This incident with the robin happened on 1st March and again on the 2nd and 3rd. Once the thaw set in he took himself back off our step. He's "our" robin, a regular presence in our garden. He was peeping through the gap in the snow on our kitchen sliding door when I got up that first morning. We had put out plenty of bird food but, of course, it had been snowed over. That robin didn't move until I put out some more. We have tried many times to get him to eat a bit of cheese from our hands, but, while he likes following us around, he never comes that close. The reason we tried is that my dad has a little robin in his garden who does eat from his hand and who often follows him into the kitchen and perches on the back of a chair until he gets a bit of cheese or a piece of rasher.)

Monkey See

Monkey See, monkey do,
holy monkeys throwing poo.
Ignore them or abhor them,
they know well what they do.
They're impossible to civilise,
though they dwell in marble rooms,
with no connections to real life
but plenty to baboons.
They don't pretend to make good sense,
they hide behind things creedal.
And you know their own tale of wealth
and a camel and a needle.
Monkey See, monkey do,
holy monkeys throwing poo.

(Explanation: This is my reaction to our former President, Mary McAleese, being barred from speaking at a conference at The Vatican.)

Still Life

February changes everything,
the old routine makes way,
the sounds of Thursdays no more sing
the end of our busiest day.
Our Tuesday afternoons repaid,
though I still don't have the time.
I have always hated Tuesdays
and been often justified.
I watch a glassy night sky,
crissed and crossed with streams,
growing white and fading light,
it's like a string-art piece
worked through nails on a board.

I think of Rita Rembrandt
and how she was so calm and quiet,
I remember her quoting Ingres,
"draw lines, young man, draw lines"
to Delacroix, a man after our own hearts.
She worked in ramshackle rooms,
few of the buildings were not falling apart
(Sr. Martin's foot had once gone through
the ceiling of the class below).

Spring is up and I'm still in bed,
my thoughts are back in 1994,
I can see my life-drawing sketch,
double-checking the head-to-body ratios,
though it is too late to change anything.

(Explanation: I was lying on my bed one evening and saw a number of plane streams in the sky, it was absolutely beautiful.
My Leaving Cert. art teacher was Rita O'Connell. Obviously, we called her Miss O'Connell to her face, but we called her Rita Rembrandt behind her back, not a bad nickname at all if you knew what we called other teachers. What a lady! I don't know how she put up with us.
I have been waiting for 2018 to properly start at our house, we did two rounds with the 'flu, one person at a time out of me and my two daughters. My husband got away with it, not one sniffle. So, good riddance January and please let us be back to normal from today.)

Just A Game

It all begins with a connection,
and cannot be completed without same,
it may be that you do it in small sections
or you may see only the endgame.
You may suffer the severest of frustrations
when someone else sees how it all should fit,
indeed, you might reach a point of desperation
as others finish while you're stuck on the same bit.
Sometimes you'll be sure you know the answer
until you make your move to bind the parts,
and then the join requires a strike by hammer,
but you know you cannot force a work of art.
The last piece of the puzzle can seem obvious
until you place it and you need a different aim,
the picture you want cannot exist without the edges
and you can break it if you want a change.
You can consider every option, every angle,
you can look and look until it's ineffective,
but, mostly, the best view is not a gamble,
a simple standing-back brings new perspective.
It's just a game of interlocking plots,
a pile of jumble seeking to be shaped,
it's mixed up and quite safe within its box,
but working on it will enhance your days.

Secret Weapons

We TDs on mission afar to a North behind barbed wire,
bearing gifts we follow the star or maybe it's missile fire.
We're bringing cheer across the miles, our group of wee folk three,

decked out in our very own green style, britches patched at knee.

Tin whistles in our holsters, bodhráns on our backs,

the disdain of Irish voters as our personal soundtrack.

Diddley-idles learned by heart, we've prepared a little medley,

worldy wisdom for to impart, we've the cúpla focal ready.

We're boldly travelling back in time, to the year one-zero-six,

to seek a godman born on high, as mad as it gets in politics .

We're bringing four leaf clover to the head honcho of the lads.

he'll surely be won over by the successes that we've had:

We'll regale him plainly and he'll be beguiled, we feel,

we're proof you can insanely follow your wildest, raving dreams.

We come from an enchanted realm where happiness abounds;

food and shelter, health and wealth lie thick there on the ground.

The waters round our island make crystal look like muck,

our people always smiling and polluted with good luck.

Magic floating vehicles, convey our citizens with ease,
each journey's like a miracle wrapped in glitter and world peace.
Rival gangs of well-wishers run our safest, cleanest turf

and often it's a bystander who receives an ill-aimed hug.
Our budgets are received with joy, ours is a land of plenty,
everyone is gainfully employed, no bank account is empty.

You can't but hear us coming and not just the ballads that we tune,

there's the constant rhythmic drumming of our sean-nós dancing shoes.

To no avail resistance, you've never seen our like,

we're a kind of slick pied-piper band when we're doing a hornpipe.

Our secret weapons are the bones, played mesmerisingly:

We've led dictators and supremos to embrace democracy.

We're just simple ambassadors compelled to rove and roam,

(ironically we have a North much, much closer to home).

Watch out world, for us wee men, in waistcoats and caipíns,

we're decommissioning warheads at international céilís.

(Explanation: This is my comment on the planned mission of three of Ireland's TDs to North Korea.)

Shapes

Could Hallowe'en be better suited to any time than this?
The nightness so foreboding and the morningness of mists;
the darkness clinging though the day comes riding through,
betraying short-lived shapes and glistenings on paths of shiny dew.

A newness hangs in waiting, there's closure in the air
and community communes in ways it seldom ever dares.
Lights shine, there's a settling, a temporary hold,
a path for nods and greetings before Winter takes control.

Two women shout and gesture at each other across the road:
The younger one looks busy, the older one looks old.
Plans shared, routes discussed, though they stay on their own sides,
maybe they'll meet later, maybe another night.

A window offers moments for exchanges rare and slight
and just as soon it closes, pulls the curtains, dims the lights.
The spell drains and reveals that all is as it was,
bittersweet and then relief that magic's life is short.

The children carve the days, the months and years come through,
to be betrayed by shapes and glistenings new;
the nightness so foreboding and the morningness of mists,
could any time be better suited to Hallowe'en than this?

Fine Framing

I planted that corner so I could see from my bed
an iota of order in a garden of dread,
now these early mornings when I sit there and stare,
I've a pang of regret for what I sat where;
It's growing, all growing, just like I schemed,
but now it's obstructing the faraway scene:
It's a two-storey, two-chimney house of all white,
surrounded by green and moody by night.
It would look right at home in very fine framing
and could pass for a genuine Rainsford Ryan painting.
It's a dream in the fog, blurred all around
and dazzling in sun, almost over pronounced.
It's skin deep, of course, I can't judge the depth,
but it's no hardship to see a breathtaking breadth.
It's the first thing I look for every day
but the plants that I sat are growing in the way.
We're soon to be parted , no longer connected,
when I reap the result of a narrow perspective.

(Explanation: I have never even noticed the house when we pass it on the main road, but, from my bed, it has looked like a picture for a long time. I can't see it anymore and I miss it. It is stunning, surrounded by green fields with the backdrop of Croughaun Hill. Obviously, I'm not going to take a photo of someone else's house but Emily Rainsford Ryan is an Irish artist, and if you look at this post of hers you might get an idea of what I'm referring to in the poem.

I wrote this back in April and I am very happy to report we regained control of the garden over the Summer. I mightn't be waking up to the view of the house I love but at least our garden is no longer dreadful).

Sparkly Ribbon

She stashed minutes away in jars and boxes
and hid hours in secret places for conjuring notions.
Like all magical stuff, no different to her offspring,
she knew they must fly off to soar and sing,
dreams to fruition and girls to women, so she permitted it,
fixing the faintest sparkly ribbon to the children's wrists,
and, with less regard, to the visions' endmost wisps.
Those were only bonus cards.
She counted her lucky stars when she watched the news,
and, notably, when sighing over crayoned walls and mucky shoes.
She would pull those strings sometimes
and at others forget they existed, though she held on tight.
Occasionally, she let them go, to rest her hand,
but, always, quickly snapped back the strands.
She knew that she might not see the outcome
but that at least a few of those visions could be passed on.
They may, she supposed, be useful for the next generation
to acquire unworked ideas on the faintest sparkly ribbon,
the beauty of the perk being in trying to solve the riddle
or, indeed, letting it go.