Monday, March 29, 2010

Poem: Tir na nOg

What does Oisin feel now, leaving the golden haired daughter of the sea God
Because his heart ached for the sight of his beloved Roisin,
On returning to find her magic gone, wiped out by cruel robed men
With their hatred of all of her naked glory.

There are no words to say to this warrior poet as he crumbles,
To explain away our inaction in allowing her to be raped and broken,
But we have forgotten the poems of the Fianna, and Roisins pride,
Allowing all of our stories to be named as legends.

Our dreams of Tir na nOg are lost, dug up and emptied out to make room
For another consecrated concrete block of desperation.
The Tuatha de Danann are bleeding in the back streets
Reduced to powerlessness, as are all of the old Gods.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Poor Roisin

Poor Roisin, she was a damaged child, but brave.
Gathering together her dreams, taking up arms
In the name of a brighter tomorrow, and hope,
She broke away, out alone, poor Roisin.

Poor Roisin, she had just begun to be free,
She was not ready to break those ties, see the dangers
Lurking behind the alters, lauded and robed,
She let them poison her home, poor Roisin.

Poor Roisin, she thought that green fields and luck
Would be enough, washed down with a pint of the black stuff,
She did not take care of the little ones, put her faith in God,
Allowed them to be broken and robbed, poor Roisin.

Poor Roisin, she is so confused now, so betrayed,
Brighter tomorrows blighted by bygone days.
Once again she must fight, force a change
Finally drive the monsters away, poor Roisin.

Friday, March 19, 2010


I wrote you a poem, and put it inside a Valentines card,
In some sort of out-of-character romantic offering,
You glanced but briefly, we don’t do hearts and flowers,
And asked for me on my knees, for the day that was in it.

I knelt, why not, and gave you this moment of surrender,
We both know that I am the one who calls the shots,
By virtue of the darker days, and your fear of my drowning
In sadness, where you cannot hope to reach me.

I will give to you myself, it was in the poem,
But only those parts of myself that are mine to give.
Line seventeen, I am leaving you, for your sake,
Though I know that you do not want for me to leave.

Line twenty two, it was a long poem, you got bored,
I am going to find somewhere silent, and stay there,
And you cannot come with me, you cannot come,
I packed my bags while you were sleeping.

Line forty, rambling descriptions, something about sex
And you in me, and me disappearing, it’s a mess.
Hand on heart, it beats here still, I’ve forgotten
The reasons, but I have retained the will.

Line sixty, I love you, in my way, this way,
Love and hate, all mixed up and confused in
The chemical mistakes inside my mind,
No more pills, no more lines, just goodbyes.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

This Woman

Mostly she does not think
Rocking, rocking in a haze of bliss
Bought with her body, hands, kiss.

The first time he touched her she reached up
To push his hands away but was confused
By tiny pin pricks of pleasure buried
Somewhere beneath the hurt.

Later she would lie still, every inch of her body
Bathed in his sweat and her shame
While he panted and pushed
Somewhere above her.

In time she would leave him taking with her a body
That was no longer her own, which would bear her strange
Beloved children that she cannot touch,
Fearing the unbroken innocence of them.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

This is not my Ireland.

It should be enough now.
I try to imagine two soldiers, barely more than boys
Doing something as mundane as collecting a pizza
Before the world filled up with shots around them
And left them dying on an unremarkable Saturday,
A year ago today.

It should be enough now.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

If I could

I would like to go back please,
a time before clocks began ticking away from one moment,
When I was still creating experiences, not recovering from them,
When I still measured the moments until, not the ones since
And had never wished I could stand still and stop counting.

I want to return now,
the old painted perfect tomorrow dreams, new mornings
Promising better today, wanting tomorrows and tomorrows,
Rather then this consuming continuing yesterday, it’s broken promises,
Its destruction of dreaming in showing the fallacy of wishing.

I would reclaim for myself,
moments of total expectation where the world was possibility
Wrapped in fairytale endings and happy ever afters,
Long before I was circus mirror image of myself, aching with clenched waiting,
Broken apart and drowning in the starkest expectation of this.

Best Laid Plans

You must away now, so soon?
We had just planted the first seeds, too late in the spring
Forgetting how time creeps and crawls, seeps past us.
You will not see next years Daffodils, or this years roses,
We are hoping for the new lambs, one more Easter,
Without realising I bought one egg too few, a new dress in black,
Mourning clothes and court shoes.
We used to plan for forever, it was so short,
Years to months to days, soon minutes and nothing.