SINGING THE RIVER

Walking with my uncle was never
the ordinary process of perambulation.

in order to get from pt. A to
pt. Z.

We would sing our way west into
the field as if to

tame it
soothe it with sound.

"On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown..."
we'd sing to it

"...the clouds are dark o'er Ard-na-Lee."

The grass listening with its thousand ears.

And the field would swoon
and fall down

to the river at its border
( which as it happened )

was the real life river
of the song

"...to kiss the slumbering Own na Buidhe."

As if we had sung it
into existence.

And we would roll ourselves down
over and over until

we arrived at its dizzy waters
dangling our toes

in pure song.

And now( with a quick uncle wink )
"Let's walk home....backwards!"

And backwards home we'd go
just for the laugh of it.

The yes of it!

Confusing cows
and a few scattered clouds.

Trees and hedges tiptoeing
away from us.

The five-bar gate with
the sweetest wildest strawberries at its feet

proclaiming: "Is it mad...
...y'are or....wot?"

And the next day off we'd go walking eyes closed
in a darkness of our own making

to sing its song
to the river

the river chuckling
over stones to itself.

And the next next day would be
backwards with eyes closed

led along by our own laughter
and the odd mystified moo.

"Farewell..." we'd tell
the sleepy river "...farewell!"

leaving it dreaming
in a sunset.

"Shhhhhh..." shushed our footsteps
shhhhhhs walking backwards,

"When Donal swore, aye o'er and o'er,
We'd part no more a stór mo chroidhe."

"shhhhhhhhhhhh.....shhhhhhhhhhhh!"
"shhhhhhhhhhhh....­.shhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"....shhhhhhhhhhhh!"

TO THE LIFE

Every morning at so & so
( oh I don't know )

time goes so
slow...ly

quickly now
the rugby scrum begins.

"Smile!" I tell myself "Smile!"
"Oh shut up..!" I tell myself "...just, shut up!"

Eaten by a 1000&1 eyes
greedy for my Gioconda smile.

I could **** that Da Vinci chap
trapping me in time...thus!

I am merely one
of their "Touristy Things to Do!"

They jostle and elbow
as if my smile were in a sale.

Take 'selfies"( is that a word? )
looking over their shoulder

more them
than me.

But, oh
there...there

at the very back of
the back

she stands
gazes at me.

She, my very self
in flesh & blood

a lovely lady
wearing my smile.

She, could be me.
I, her.

Ok, ok so...she's a natural blonde &
I'm - not!

Everything else is the exact
same.

Alright, except for the clothes.

All is ha ha
yellow!

Yellow top
top thee buttons undone

a shy hint of cleavage.

How cute...how cute!

Yellow plastic mini skirt
lol...how...droll!

Yellow plastic mac & hat
how chic...how...cheeky!

Only a poet
( an Irish poet )

ses as I
see.

Turns his gaze
upon her.

His eyes seizes her.

His eyes stealing her
for his poem.

"Write me...write me!"
I shout

across the centuries
the silences - thereof.

But both he & she
have turned away

vanished into the crush
of faceless humanity.

This real life flesh & blood
Mona Lisa

( her name is
Samantha )

even her laughter
is much as mine

...was.

Let me live a second
another and another

through you!

Gone...gone!

I scowl.

I frown.

I...I...smile.

A GHAOTH ANEAS!
( O SOUTH WIND! )

my six year old father
stares from
a photograph

splendid
in his sailor suit
standing outside time

he will
not survive
Ypres

there is no photograph
to show
him as a soldier

mother couldn't
bear them
burned them

she forever talking to
him in her head loving
loving his Devonshire accent

a thrush is singing
from behind
enemy lines

Spring can't understand
humans and their ways
dresses the trees

in their freshest green.
"Jack...Jack Jack!" she cries
to the wind from the south.

A Ghaoth Aneas!
( O South Wind )
"Sin chugaibh mo phóg

ar rith ins an ród
Leigim
le seol gaoithe í" *

"here goes my kiss to you
to you rushing along the road
I send it on the wings of the wind"

THE LANGUAGE OF WATER

you wait
by the lake
alone

except for your self
&
your reflected self

as if
the landscape
dreamt you up

your thoughts
a flock of birds
scattered across the failing light

clouds laugh
run along the ground
on tiny unseen feet

trees stand on their heads
wriggling their toes
in the air

& you
become as two
both real & unreal

as if a living
dream
you hum

Pachabel's Canon
as sun & horizon
listen

not bad
for a human
they both agree.

it's as if
I need a key
to enter this magical

dimension
as if I have to
invent one

...a magical one.
I take a little stone
whisper to it

the secrets
of flight
and teach it

how to say:
"Splash! "
in the language of water

the little stone
transformed with i
ts new knowledge

does as it is told
shatters
this mirror world

opens
the dream
and I enter

bewitched
as any fairytale
Prince

my voice
calling your sweet name
with longing

you turn
& we embrace
kiss

& look upon ourselves
as the dream
remakes itself

stitching itself
together
with silence

an old artist
(unknown to us then)
places us the lovers

at the centre
of his composition
adds this final brushstroke

and pleased
with his efforts
folds up his chair

packs up
his paints & easel
smiles at ourkisses

wishes
us a goodnight
and is gone
eaten by the twilight

our laughter
frail & fragile
lingering on the night air

playing
peek-a-boo
with the moonlight

TIME PASSES

the tick tick of the bike
a dog barks
letter on a Welcome mat

the midnight tick of time
the house sighs
Dad's whistle

ambushed by the smell
of honeysuckle
I fall into the Past

red barn
blue sky
a summer to last forever

Caruso 78
I listen to the scratches
like Time trying to sing along

I kiss the whorl
of a fingertip then
the all of you

your body
drifting away from me
on a tide of hurt

"I don't like the way
your eyes
touch me!"

starlings fly up
I walk upon close bitten grass
a sheep laughs

a car rusts on the beach
the roofless house
looks out to sea

the sea is sleeping
I watch it breathing
wonder what it's dreaming

the house hunkers down
its window eyes
gaze upon the coming storm

crouching under a cloud
a mountain
frightened by the storm

walking upon
the meniscus of sleep
unable to dive in

& here you are
years later looking like
an out of focus photo of your self

THE COAL OF IRON UPON THE ICE( for Ann B)

Nuns  shepherd
their flock

of prepubescents
(high on hormones)

that deadly cocktail
of adolescence

into  a school
production of the Shakespearean

play
they are

studying.

Now, Coriolanus
ain’t

ROMEO AND JULIET  or
HAMLET even

but somehow
it holds

their riveted
attention.

The nuns look pleased
with themselves &

their girls

not realising
their young ladies

are struck
dumb

not by the blankness
of the verse but

that they are seeing
so

many
men

in such short
skirts

strong iron-cast legs
that run

all the way up to their
bums.

“Yum! ”
gloat the girls

"Yum yum
...YUM!"

*

Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the sun.

CORIOLANUS  ACT 1 SCENE I  LINE 167 - 170

WHAT THE BARBER THINKS...
(for that lovely little devil of a barber Anthony Kelly in the town of Fermoy)

Snip...snip. . .snip
goes his mind

cutting through thought
with the voice of the scissors

his hands
two sparrows

dancing with Time

each head
a changing field

now flowing wheat
now bare stubble

his mind
taking flight

taking off
the too much there

dealing with
the not enough here

the making beautiful
the altering appearances

the human touch
the kindest cut

but where
( you want to know )

where does the barber's mind go
& what are his thinkings?

Ahhhh my friends
sure that would be

telling you. .