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Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
THE HAPPENING

"So, what...happened?"

I was emotionally
broke

taking the boat
going back to my own folk

had had
enough of England

to last me
a lifetime.

"Yeah, and.."

A car went by
belting out Stevie's HOTTER THAN...

...JULY: the 27th
I think it was

useless with dates
that's me

wearing a kilt
reading  poem

sweltering in the heat
when...

"Yes, when. . ?"

Love...
happened to me!
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
THIS BLOSSOMING INTO BEING

the rose puts
her red armour on

goes to fight
the common enemy

time

her only weapon
an ephemeral beauty

three stars rise
above her head

this her last night
on this earth

fallen petal
by petal

was it enough
that she could say

"I am!"
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."


Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Hudersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.





"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..." is the last line of a Preface that Wilfred Owen intended for his book.

Was first going to write a sci-fi thing with the Saviour coming down at just the wrong time. But as I wrote I remembered an old man I used to look after who would tell me about his WW11 experiences and of his grand dad's tales from WW1 so that it ended up as a mixture of the real and the unreal in the surreal situation of war and all it entails.
***

"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..." is the last line of a Preface that Wilfred Owen intended for his book.

Was first going to write a sci-fi thing with the Saviour coming down at just the wrong time. But as I wrote I remembered an old man I used to look after who would tell me about his WW11 experiences and of his grand dad's tales from WW1 so that it ended up as a mixture of the real and the unreal in the surreal situation of war and all it entails.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
A WONDER TOLD SHYLY
( for Res )

He cradles it
palm to palm

like a newborn.

Talks to it
tenderly

as if his self
was talking to his soul

& the squeezebox
with a little wheeze

( that's almost
human )

talks back to him
in music

( the language
of the soul )

and we
overhear

this private
conversation

&
are still

drinking deep
of its beauty.
I wrote Res Burman this poem. A WONDER TOLD SHYLY about that wonderful moment in the concert when Liam slings the guitar to the side and recites Austin Clarke's THE PLANTER'S DAUGHTER and then asks the squeezebox about a plaintive Irish air.

Like Clarke's poem puts it...." like a bell that is rung...like a wonder told shyly...and oh she was the Sunday in every week! Here is my effort for what it's worth!

THE PLANTER'S DAUGHTER

When night stirred at sea,
An the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.

Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went --
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.

Austin Clarke

"Ar éirinn Ní n-Eósainn Cé h-í"

Aréir is mé téarnamh um' neoin
Ar an dtaobh thall den teóra 'na mbím,
Do théarnaig an spéir-bhean im' chómhair
D'fhág taomanach breóite lag sinn.
Do ghéilleas dá méin is dá cló,
Dá béal tanaí beó mhilis binn,
Do léimeas fé dhéin dul 'na cómhair,
Is ar éirinn ní n-eósainn cé h-í.

Last night as I strolled abroad
On the far side of my farm
I was approached by a comely maiden
Who left me[? 'sinn' = 'us'] distraught and weak.
I was captivated by her demeanour and shapeliness
By her sensitive and delicate mouth,
I hastened to approach her
But for Ireland I'd not tell her name.

Dá ngéilleadh an spéir-bhean dom' ghlór,
Siad ráidhte mo bheól a bheadh fíor;
Go deimhin duit go ndéanfainn a gnó
Do léirchur i gcóir is i gcrich.
Dó léighfinn go léir stair dom' stór,
'S ba mhéinn liom í thógaint dom chroí,
'S do bhearfainn an chraobh dhi ina dóid,
Is ar éirinn ní n-eósainn cé h-í.

If only this maiden heeded my words,
What I'd tell her would be true.
Indeed I'd devote myself to her
And see to her welfare.
I would regale her with my story
And I longed to take her to my heart
Where I'd grant her pride of place
But for Ireland I'd not tell her name.

Tá spéir-bhruinneal mhaordha dheas óg
Ar an taobh thall de'n teóra 'na mbím.
Tá féile 'gus daonnacht is meóin
Is deise ró mhór ins an mhnaoi,
Tá folt lei a' tuitim go feóir,
Go cocánach ómarach buí.
Tá lasadh 'na leacain mar rós,
Is ar éirinn ní n-eósainn cé h-í.

There is a beautiful young maiden
On the far side of my farm
Generosity and kindness shine in her face
With the exceeding beauty of her countenance.
Her hair reaches to the ground
Sparkling like yellow gold;
Her cheeks blush like the rose
But for Ireland I'd not tell her name.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
NON SERVIAM

Even at 7
found Catholic transubstantiation

hard to swallow.

Much preferred the Protestant
metaphor better.

The priest exposing the host
in the monstrance

the congregation bowing
in veneration.

"Corpus Domini nostri..."

Now...holy cow
Jesus is leaping

from the tip of my tongue
Christ...clinging

to my palate hanging
on for dear life

before going to pieces
slipping down my...gulp

. . .oe... soph...a...gus .

". . .In vitam eternam. Amen."

The incense from the thurible
as it sways

making me feel so
si...aghhhhh...ck!

Me a little Lucifer
a lightbringer ...my own morning star.

Afraid I am
going to throw

Him up

the second coming
as I sit in my pew and stew

transubstantiation is
the pits.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
”NON SO COME..SI PUÒ VIVERE IN QUESTO FUOCO?

After the war
we returned

ourselves
(but not)
our selves

to Our Country
right or wrong

that was like a life sized
replica of what

we had left

only alien
to us now.

We were guilty
(guilty as hell)

of surviving
this hell

that made ghosts
of so many

& we these
ghosts of flesh and blood

haunting the living
envious of them

and their ability to forget
by remembering.

We hoarded
our tears

we couldn't cry

went on living
because...because

we didn't know how
to die

each moment
a battle

we could never win.
"I do not know how it is possible. . .to live in such fire."

Dante
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO

And so, we celebrate our love
as if it were a religion to be believed in

& praise our days
& all the ways

that we discover
to love one another.

Each touch...a parable.
Each kiss...a little miracle.

You are sunlight
stained & transformed by glass.

You are a candle
kissing & caressing the dark.

You are incense
mingled with music.

You are the hymn
that ends & begins
& transcends all things.

Each kiss...a parable.
Each touch...a little miracle.
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