all winter housed in the yard. Fed
the freshest silage, the cleanest water.
All the nuts they could eat.

But they’d hang their heads by the gate,
longed for earth between their hooves.
Hard to run giddy on concrete
between confining walls.

Eventually beaten with hurlies
and a black pipe
onto the back of a truck.

5 heifer hang from hooks.

I water the cabbages
the dog runs about mad
as I walk back and forth to the blue barrels
filling Gran’s grey watering can.
In college I learnt how to depreciate …
I wouldn’t dare do such a thing.

The caterpillars squatting on the cabbages coil
as the water rains down upon them,
followed by my thumb.
(I keep meaning to write that poem.)

19th of June; 9:45pm —
I have one more job to do
and I will do it practising a few reels.
My fingers do not need my eyes
so make myself a ****** be
in the woods where they can’t see me —
the snakes.

Years and years and years
of cleats traversing the field below
have to left pairs of ungelating snakes
slithering towards the four gates in the field.
Soon I pan to install a 5th
and this worries me,
never having hung one before; plus
what if the snakes bite me. Or worse
I succeed.

For now I fret, leering towards the bull,
I want to see him *** —
#414, she’s still not in calf.
If she repeats again, it’s goodbye for him.
But the *****’s just grazing. Swishing at flies,
periodically ****** and poops.
Is my playing distracting him?

I suppose … we’re all entitled
to a night off.

The barrel’s of water in the yard
filled by run-off rain
from corrugated sheds
washes the wellingtons,
the calving jack and
purges pests.
Otherwise, I’d have to waste
a cartridge.

Let there be life.
But Dad said that cow has mastitis.
The vet injects a liquid,
may as well be Holy Water.
Just keep an eye on her calf she says.
The calf’s still inside her he says.
Two days later she aborts
on the short scalp in a mucky field.

Smooth, not a single hair,
yet curled into the
distinctive red Limousin bull
it would have been.
No time for pity,
jobs to finish.

Toss the calf, by now
a half-eaten breakfast roll,
over the wall–
slips into a crack.
Sorry little man,
you don’t get to be born.

i

It took three of us to pull her out
onto steel-float-finished concrete —
where her mother; BNNZ-0031U
fell from GXA339605 —
a little black Limousin heifer
later to be Christened
IE18576-0426.
Shortened to Patch.

Like my nephew Jamie
he’ll never know dial-up.
Imagine … I lived 27 years B.FB.
(Before Facebook.)


ii

If a cow calves down successfully —
that’s no guarantee you’ll end up with a cheque —
they’re moved to the postnatal paddock.
Almost the furthest field back,
gives junior a peak at the future fields
they’ll someday graze.
Provided they live long enough.

One year, the tour had entered the 3rd Hill Field
which has 8 gates, the cow knew which one.
I was only here to open and close the gates.
So she checked her mirrors
then indicated left. Migratory.
Junior, on-the-other-hand
didn’t quite know what to do
so floored it; head-on
into un-suspecting gate.

It was like in the cartoons,
something would fall on someone’s head,
they’d walk away like an accordion.

I nearly died laughing
5000 times funnier than castrating lambs
I swear to God.


iii

They came into my world and leave
from the shed

I like to think that there word for the shed,
when translated would mean pain —
between being de-horned; castrated;
belted with sticks; stobbed with needles
and yucky medicine rammed down their throats.  
Then weaned: no more mommy from now on.

Let back out, having weathered their 1st winter.
Yearlings; grazing different field.
Their 2nd summer at grass — according to the book —
is where they’ll experience Compensatory Growth.
When the gate up to the Rock is closed,
that’s the end of the road for them.
We finish the cattle here.
Well used to gates by then.

That’s all it is really; a series of galvanised gates
opening and closing in conjunction
with a selected grazing rotation.
One cycle around 62.4 hectares.


iv

There’s only one reason
cows are moved in with the cattle —
well, yea there’s the other reason too,
but primarily —
to keep Romeo away from Juliet.

At this age, there elders are generally knackered,
probably mastitis in more than one ***.

In the Beef Book in college,
cull cows are referred to as ‘canners’
as that’s where most of them end up —
in tins of dog food.


v

It was 17 years ago, Patch ran into that gate.
I’ve seen her go from bullied springer to bully.
She’s taking a trip with the cattle today.

I wonder did she know
that IE18576-0851 was hers
from last year. I like to think so.
And everyone of her offspring,
all lived to be killed.
Only space for that in my notebook.

Mart starts at 10, it’s 8.30am
waiting for Lynsky.
All my years loading cattle,
it’s never once been raining.

And calves in fields over
contently ****.

Cold hydraulic hand drops her body            
onto the bloodied floor–
pigs, sheep and other cows
thrown in a pile.
Hand the driver the paperwork,
plus the cheque, the charge to remove.
Pots of glue are cheap, leather jackets are not,
and not a penny we have made
from this black cow who in eight years
had seven expensive still-borns.

In spring she watched
as the other calves found their legs.
Felt indifference when the calves started school,
where graduation is awarded in three different categories:
medium, rare and well-done.
Her first calf, all red
bar a white tuft on his head,
killed her.

A lone magpie squawks from a bare tree
as I am handed my receipt. Record of transaction
if officials from the Department inquire
as to BNNZ-00-12T.
The calf looks on,
deteriorating behind a closed grey gate.
Snow briefly falls.

In the fields the sun casts long shadows
of trees and sheep. A breeze blows.
The work continues.

Next morning
no need for the chain
that dragged his mother with the tractor
to the concrete yard.
A length of rope will do.
Not yet a number in the system,
the only record of its existence–
a drag mark through the ****.

It’s cheerful to know there’s a generation
who only know: The Men in Black as
Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones.

My mother worked on the radio
she’d give advice, answered agony letters.
But her generation lived in the time of the Dictators,
so powerless and chicken-chick was the Law to stop
the Men in Black: Roman Catholic priests to be exact.
And they told how it was to be … according
to them ******* were forbidden
so she had to hand me, her daughter Valeria
to a nurse, a nun: who’d as much contempt
for my mother, as the shame
that was waiting at home.

Then she very slowly drowned in a fire
of smoke and whiskey.
You just can’t take a child from someone
Not like that. Not because …
someone who once wrote
that someone might’ve once said
suffer the little children.

If it had been any other Corporation —
nailed to the ******* cross.

It could be any night, it just happens to be Tuesday
in the trailer outside Jerry’s
I remark — as he slices her open —
I’m missing Grey’s Anatomy.
Her guts pop out like balloons,
not as neat as the text books in college.

Long enough since her water broke,
hope’s gone home to bed.
(Where I want to be.)
Reaching her womb, he pauses …
blank expression on his face.
Then he sneezes and yanks out the lamb.
Silent, but weak.

The kettle in my kitchen boils,
stream that episode of Grey’s as I,
the Pyrex jug and bottle head down to the shed.
Place the lamb on my lap, kissing his forehead —
C’mon little man, don’t deny me the satisfaction
of taking your testicles.  

He’s slow at first, but soon finds second gear
and discover he’s the stomach to back it up.
Eyes loud. Tiny tongue accelerating …
*****, pucks the *** write off the bottle.

Delays in delivery deprive oxygen.
Sometimes you get away with it.
I’ve seen this before. There’s jelly
in his legs that will never set;
despite all his attempts he’ll never stand.
Whenever I can bring myself
I’ll have to get the sledge.

You can’t even imagine the mess
the first time, now
I use a length of plastic
from the silage pit.
Wrap. Whack.

Amen little man.

1

The Clowns in Brussels Sprouts
have sent me a notebook. Tossers.
The latest thrilling instalment from ******* Creek.

The Animal Events Recording Notebook —
fits in your pocket,
if it happens to be a school bag.
A little picture on the cover
Jack, the farmer, a cow and her calf.
Equally gay as it is oxymoronically inaccurate.

No sign of a tag on either the cow or calf.
The cow has a pair of horns
that would **** any animal, never mind the farmer,
statistically dead. Plus,
the calf’s a bit too healthy looking
and the cow ain’t trying to **** the farmer either.

Between the covers coloured-coded sections
chronicling the animal’s progress
from Foetus to Fork.


2

Though, I do thoroughly enjoy filling out those
additional comment columns.


De-horning

Next to castrating lambs,
I love this job —
all-the-more if there’s a gang.
The first has no idea what coming
and the last wishes they weren’t.
But seriously, I’d say it hurts.
A lot.


Castration

See Revival, issue 6 P.14 —
revised in Inheritance P.26


Weaning

Always good for poem.
I laugh from the comfort of my bed.
Ye’re only halfway lads

And how far along are you?
They inquire back.


3

Ok, I get it. Seriously.
Stop depleting the rainforests please …  
I have my own notebook thanks.

I understand their dilemma.  
They fear mindsets will be inherited
form the old flock, the old stock —
the canners and brass tags —
who never converted.

It’s like auld women and the church
engrained since birth
and no amount of jibber-jabber will sway.
So they concentrate, groom us
weanling growing up
in the Age of A.I.M
on BETTER Farms


4

Regardless, the second you tag a calf,
the ****’ll croak. So wink, wink:
so not to jinx yourself
and have to write a cheque;
adjust your Balance Sheet,
invariably affecting your Gross Margin.

I know … I know
S.M.R 6, 7 and all that $*@#
But it’s so cold the frost is complaining.
Plus, they said on the radio: be kind
leave food out for the birds.
I’m just thinking of the foxes.
And, if anyone asks —
she never came in calf

When I am not with you
I stand in the rain, alone by the lake.
Waiting for any swan to come into land
and bang — pellets penetrate plumage.

In my cave the swan is gutted,
everything, bar bone, is taken out,
piled in bowls, eaten raw.
I save the blood.

I use the blood
to write poetry books.
When I fail, crawl into a ball
and cry.

Leaving the swan, the maggots
make for my eyes, for my tears.
On their way, they whisper in my ear —
One day we will eat you too.

Like the swan, I suffer
when I am not with you.

'Anyone sitting here?'

5 minutes ago
we were thrusting in the toilets.

Our clothes take the stance
of opposing forces. Our alibi.
Tongues become txts.
I always have credit when in character.

I would **** half the people here,  
friends and colleagues alike.
Beat them to death.
Cave in their heads with my fists,
stop when punching carpet —
just so the remaining half could see
how tender I would hold you.

Our eyes transfixed, unwilling
to focus on anything else —
the place cold be burning down
and all the love letters wouldn’t change the fact
that I can not read and you can not write.

Squish! … Squish! ... Squish! ... Squish!
Despite their many legs
caterpillars can not move
very fast.

I found a ewe today,
stiff as a stone.
Her maturing lamb, just lying there.
Massey Ferguson Undertakers remove,
as the lamb; busy, jumping around with the rest.

The flock is rotated between OBGYN,
buttercup-ed fields, the barber to your dinner plate.
Still, on cold nights and wet days,
underneath the ash, the lamb looks out —
heavy, like the leaves — sort of
still hoping;

Extending my sleeves past my frozen fingers,
it is -3 and handles of anything
get extremely bitter this time of year.
I fork in splinters of silage
#235 pokes her head out through the feeder.
I have plans for you Missy Moo —
well: our progeny.

Provided you’re in calf;
provided you stay in calf;
provided you calf down successfully;
provided it lives long enough to be killed.
If not, I’ll probably sell you
and buy an in-calf heifer instead.
No pressure.

The field at the back of the house:
last years’ lambs graze
on freshly topped thistles;
an old enamel bath
has replaced mother’s ***;
the tiny hamlet of trees gives shade,
as the blowfly lays eggs in their wool
and the butterflies on the cabbage.

My crunching across this frozen field
wakes sleeping sheep, due to lamb.
The nearby turlough ripples brush across
Moon’s fragmented image,
a lone swan pirouettes–
half a Claddagh Ring.

I welcome the fog
though it snuffs out the moon.
It is still so bright.
No sign of any lamb.

Days later I walk the same field
with a squelch. Incessant rain
has drowned the moon.
Still no lamb.
My watch flashes:
midnight.

Opening sentence comma
semicolon full stop.
Next few lines lost to editing.
Sentence fragmented dot dot dot
exclamation mark.
Vague obscure reference
to personal experience.
Quotation marks hyphen
colon question mark.

New paragraph.
Assonance with dissident dissonance.
More lines lost.
Closing line
end of poem.

A Galway and Suffock ram.
Both employed on our farm
to ****.

When the midwife is due
Larry and Barry are left to themselves
and 2 in to Alpha doesn’t go.

Over the years, I noticed,
every business blow
reduced blood
from torrent to trickle.

When Larry developed meningitis
he was taken into care,
Barry had a look
that struck me dumb.

I can never be able to tell Barry
I was there
when life left his body.

A mountain crumbling into nothing.

She stands up, grabbing my attention
takes her handbag from off the chair
I follow her out for a cigarette
I didn’t smoke  
but started then.

Back between the noisy bottles and empty glasses
she causally informs me
what she did
in-front of the mirror
as a teenager. Regardless,
I’ll abort another potential child
onto the sheets tonight.

I tell her how I try
to right poetry,
she laughs; complains of the weather
then asks: would you like me to come with you home.
She adds with wink pun intended.

Yes, oh God yes.

When the morning came
she had vanished.
With the passing of a moon
an envelope arrived containing
a positive stick. And an ode —
Thanks for the passport,
Mr poet man.

In this sunny meadow sheep bleat.
Today is my birthday.
The evening breeze
blows out my candles.
The sheep still bleat.

Before I go,
each guest will get some cake–
rude not to share.
Five pieces I will cut:
the sun, the wind, the sheep
and me.
The last piece I will keep
for the moon.

In this room where I grew up
calves’ roars creep in the open window.
Day dream on the bed,
mirror reflects in Autumn:
the time my notebook fills,
floods like the land.

As I check my email from my phone,
two daddy long legs mate
on the discoloured floorboards–
no business of mine
enter my password–
no business of theirs.

The dog suddenly barks, the front door opens,
two old babes shuffle in to visit Gran
in the same spot she’s been parked
for the last two years,
watching the seasons change
through the kitchen’s lace scene.

All as deaf as the dead; simultaneous
yet different conversations–
I interpret and translate. In unison
they sing my praises:
He’s good boy, oh yes a good boy indeed–
like I was the dog.

Outside Dad chops timber,
I make tea for three.
Cut some cake Gran worries.
What will they think?

Barn brack with ring,
memories of Halloween
play in my head,
welcomed like the moon, always.

Evening: after I have the sheep counted,
I watch the stag in the next field–
they rut this time of year,
call for a mate.

Tomorrow is Friday,
the first of the month.
The priest will call to the sick and elderly–
I will hear the dog announce
his red Toyota Starlett
over the fields.
Thank God Gran doesn’t know. I
can do without that worry
anytime of year.

'Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?' — William Blake

On this night
black as innocence lost
buses, taxis, aeroplanes
plough with broken furrows
the fields of Castleknock, Dublin 15
after which the wind from a bottomless bag
disperses the tears
of every parent, shed
to fall on disturbed tarmac.

Before the rays of the sun
make pale the moon
and extinguish street light:
with ******’s needle
and rotting reed, blot
in moon black blood
this balcony where I make myself scarecrow
keeping a watchful eye
for all the children taken.

Valentines Day — 349,440 hours
I’ll have been with you then.  
Since that first second
I became a fisherman.
A hungry fisherman.
Casting my nets into the empty sea.
Nets full of holes

that I get stuck in.
Too hungry to express
how full you make me.
But I promise you this —
I will learn how to write poetry
so I can.

From the kitchen window
between branches void of leaves–
a light. Out, over the wall
through the wood,
into the field, I stand.
Bright-faced moon.
I long to touch,
to caress.
But my hand cannot reach
even with my pen.

As dusk creeps in,
wind and rain fight for space
painting a poem.

I gaze up at the stars, so many
endless possibilities...paper-trails,
hypothesising on variables handed down by butterflies.
Personally I think the stars  
are holes in the jam-jar
so we don’t suffocate.

The year I would turn nine
Charlie Kelly threw his pint over Paul Brennan
in the opening scenes of a new Irish drama
called Fair City. The 25th Dáil was dissolved.
Ireland got its 1st lotto millionaire.
There was talk of mining for gold in Mayo
and Christy O’Connor Jnr
won the Ryder Cup for Europe.

(Years later playing Trivial Pursuit
one of the questions wanted to know:
what profession gets the Ryder Cup? —
a cousin from Carlow answered; prostitutes.)

I was growing through 3rd class
St. Brendan’s National School; Loughrea —
on the other side of Tiananmen Square
another student stood up
as the Guildford Four walked free
after 14 years innocently incarcerated.

While in Germany, a wall
that had been built to divide: separate, fell.
Pushed over by people. While Hungry, Poland
and Czechoslovakia: all said: enough.
The Russians left Afghanistan and in South Africa
Apartheid began to crumble. Pity
it was allowed to even begin.
Iran was ******* about some book
and on Christmas Day in Romania
Mr and Mrs Ceausescu were executed.

In 1989, the Church of Ireland allowed female priests.
96 people died at Hillsborough.
Haughey was Taoiseach,
Mr. Heaney was conferred
as Professor of Poetry at Oxford
and we qualified for Italia 90.

I was 9 and the only thing I remember
about that year; I fell out of a tree
and broke my arm.

Asleep in her bed
Gran's waiting for a kiss;
not from Prince Charming.

1

I wasn’t suppose to go this far,
my stop was Cavan but I fell asleep
now I’m in Belfast. ****,
next bus tomorrow.
Lucky I never leave home without it.
A room in the Europa —
watching a P.C version of Family Guy
for ****-sake, it’s 2am.

Halfway late to the station
Clint Eastwood grabs me outside H.M.V
tells me: Gran Tournio is out on DVD.
As the machine gargles my receipt,
the newest member claiming
to be the true voice of Northern Ireland’s people
spoke at the station. I felt so lucky,

because I would, later, find you.


2

It's half past eight. In this housing estate,
Dooradoyle, Limerick cars are stirring, going to work.
God I'm so ******. Spent the night watching
9/11 conspiracies, South Park and Family Guy.
I sent you a txt at five past one.
Wish I could have whispered it into your ear.
I know it will be hours before you wake.

The thing with having small arms —
it drives you to reach the top shelf.
The moment you were born, Charlie Lennon
composed The Dawn Chorus
to signal a day; glorious,
still far from over.  

When I stay over, you’re 9ft away —
alone in another room. May as well
be a mile past the edge of the universe.
You give me your jumper to take to bed,
to touch, to smell. And again,
as I am leaving home; as now —
sober, on a bus back to Galway. It's raining,
but I'm in love with you.


3

Anyone sitting here?

5 minutes ago
we were thrusting in the toilets.

Our clothes take the stance
of opposing forces. Our alibi.
Tongues become txts.
I always have credit when in character.

With you beside me
I would **** half the people here,  
friends and colleagues alike.
Beat them to death.
Cave in their heads with my fists,
stop when punching carpet —
just so the remaining half could see
how tender I can hold you.

Our eyes transfixed, unwilling
to focus on anything else —
the place could be burning down
and all the love letters wouldn’t change the fact
that I can not read and you can not write.


4

It’s something truly fantastic,
secretly held love —
pure ****** in ****** veins.

We came out
in McDonagh’s Fish and Chip shop.
Held hands above the table.
And lips. Some of the dinners
couldn’t care. Others said Uh …
and finished off their Haggis.


5

Having spent the past 3 hours
in this 1950’s spider-infested
green and white Telecom Eireann phone-box,
I have concluded that
you were a miserable ***** towards the end.
The passing headlights, blinkered by the rain
decrease the potential of my thumb:
I have 2 more hours to wait —
giving me time to reflect.

Furthermore, if I'd my entire life to live over,
despite the 2 restraining orders
and my car being crushed into a cube,
the only thing I'd change:
has not changed since I first told you;
then we held each other asleep
as one breath.
I still cry at night.
Nine years I had that car.


6

Back with Bús Éireann
trying not to fall asleep.
Again.

Reality dawns beneath
the drawn purple drapes.
Day creeps along the carpet.
Cruel light divides us equally.
Vampires — the night is ours

I still have time —
it’s not yet now.
Watching you sleep,
I start a new collection of poetry
called Pi.

Next week, I’ll be 61 years  
working the same 93 acres.  
The furthest field back  
and the 2 joining Peter Burke’s
always been meadows.  
Since before my time —
today it takes just 4 hours  
to cut, bale and wrap.

Dad and the men wouldn’t’ve  
half the first headland cut in that length.
I’d go back with Mom,  
with tea and sandwiches;  
brown bread and something  sweet.  
No more higher than the handle of the scythe —
I would try to swing.  
Nearly took my leg off the first time.  

When it was done, all saved
that was my favourite bit.
There’d be a gathering in the house.
Food, porter … the craic.  
Someone would pull out a fiddle  
or a tin whistle, the women would dance  
it was beautiful — meaningful.  
Friends, neighbours. Thankful.  
The closest thing to expressing our feelings.  
And us kids allowed to stay up late,  
what a treat; a very rich treat.

I never did grow tall enough  
to wield the scythe.  
When it was my turn,  
machines had been invented.  
Lucky I was told I was.
They lightened the work  
and lessened the men.  
Horse followed horsepower.
Bigger, heavier.
But there was time for tea,  
there’s always time for tea.  

The scythes rotted;  
the horses rotted;  
kids flown into the city;
neighbours dead, don’t care or are foreign.
It’s just one man now doing all the work.  
One man called John Deere
who has no time for tea.

It's half past eight. In this housing estate,
Dooradoyle, Limerick cars are stirring, going to work.
God I'm so ******. Spent the night watching
9/11 conspiracies, South Park and Family Guy.
I sent you a txt at five past one.
Wish I could have whispered it into your ear.
I know it will be hours before you wake.

The thing with having small arms —
it drives you to reach the top shelf.
The moment you were born, Charlie Lennon
composed The Dawn Chorus
to signal a day; glorious,
still far from over.  

When I stay over, you’re 9ft away —
alone in another room. May as well
be a mile past the edge of the universe.
You give me your jumper to take to bed,
to touch, to smell. And again,
as I am leaving home; as now —
sober, on a bus back to Galway. It's raining,
but I'm in love with you.

Taking to the bed. Lingering.
Until a box carried you out.

I always hoped it would be quick;
a car crash, a stroke, the bull —

to spare you.

In a creepy cold attic
laughing and joking with Santa
lies the Red King.
Time is there too
and they play with the Moon
on creaky old floorboards —
the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny
even the Bogyman makes an appearance.  

For the length of the night
each share the others loss
in a support group for the bereaved.
When alarm clocks below wake the world,
they all vanish, leaving only Time
alone. Taking a shard
from the window pain
bleeds out into day.

I’ve got an axe to grind, so am sharpening it
on the wheel of my wit — hey;
blunt-force-trauma’s enough to a **** a man.

Who, by right, should’ve been an abortion.
I’d unflinchingly watch dogs
rip him to pieces.

In-fact I’d whistle
and call more dogs. But I
wouldn’t be the only one doing this.

If we were in space
I’d smash his visor
then ****** when he pops.

If this were to happen
it would, just mean that
I got there first.

If he were dangling off a cliff
to the bottom I would race
inflate a mattress to safely catch.

But I’d fill it with rocks and knives  
just to be sure.
To be sure, to be sure!

I shoot dead dogs
who savage my flock.
250 pellets rip open
**** this little kids pet.
Sometimes, I have to use
another cartridge
to finish what Fluffy started.