Silent Garden

A pale blue night
in the silent garden
brings my eye to heights
before silhouettes descend
to underscore eerie paths
back at ground level.
Dark corners reveal
what the daylight hides.
I act like I don't see
the cat at the far end,
we both decide
just to pretend
so as not to lose the way
of hard won time
at the end of the day.

For A Dime

The Child Of Pragues are staving off
the rain for the fêting of
the man who wants to build walls.
There are freshly stained benches
matching freshly stained fences,
and a stars-and-stripes merchandise stall.

Boards prepared for treading,
with the cast all at the ready
for the open air performance of all time.
But the theatre's so grand it blocks
the town's natural beauty spots
and all that could impress the cultured mind.
In one character's aside
he pompously denies
the threats to biodiversity.
In his sililoquy he notes
how easy 'tis for him to quote
that there simply is no emergency.
There's no hint of any sentiment
about the plight of emigrants,
our own on so many foreign shores.
And it seems that the decisions
rowing back on rights of women
are met with flags from a discount store.

At the interval a choir trills
of loving sinners not their sins,
of the land of the free and of the straight.
They sing of white supremacy
and strict religiosity;
the most important banners to yet wave.

The babies that were ripped
from their parents' breasts and hips
are scripted but as parasitic pests.
And above the stage fire
there's a gun that's been hired
to give the desired effect.
Above that again
are props that represent
trophy heads so cruelly obtained.
The backdrop seems to promote
entitled men who kill for sport
and entitled laws of an entitled reign.
In this scene there's a priest
with a set of heaven seats,
an indulgence he can grant for a dime.
No such guarantees
for his local parishees,
they'll have to serve their time.

The drinks and the wool
are being not expertly pulled
by the wolves decked out in sheep's robes.
The controlling of the strings
and the understudying
is by the emperor with no clothes.

(Explanation: Early in June 2019, Donald Trump, and members of his family, paid a visit to Doonbeg in Co. Clare, Ireland. Having followed the coverage I can only say I felt embarrassed to be Irish when I saw how the people of Doonbeg turned into Trump sycophants. 
When interviewed the locals seemed unanimous that Donald Trump's hotel in Doonbeg brought so much employment to the area that they owed him the worship.
There are other businesses in Ireland that are foreign-owned. I know of one in particular in a village in Co. Waterford, which has regular visits from its French owners. And I know firsthand those visits don't send the whole village into hysterics.
I can understand the people of Doonbeg choosing not to stage protests, but I think they could have just gone about their business as usual.
And don't get me started on Fr. Joe Haugh promising the Trumps their places in heaven. In my opinion, this behaviour just cements Doonbeg in the Middle Ages.)

(Update: Mike Pence is due to spread more of the Trump infection by visiting Ireland next week, on 2nd September. The most polite thing I can say about that is, "yuck.")

(Another poem I wrote about Trump: Three Rings.)

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).