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It would tie your brain up in a knot,
the clink of glasses on the barman's grate,
and the tones of creaky Dublin croaking,
In darkness, mourning the death, of the daytime light.  

It would I say, to grasp the slender neck,
and to lift it, smiling, glancing beyond the glass,
at winking eyes and clinking pints of plain,
My brain is in a knot, when I think of you.  

I held you on the banks, of the  royal canal,
knew then what all the bards and lovers mean,
say it was the light reflected in their eye,
I never did hear tell, of eyes to rival glass

Yet confound revealing daytime light,
you are liquid of the night, stout and dark,
rebuke me not, till your own brain too,
Has been left in knots, by the dark slender boy.
In me line of work you could get in trouble for publishing this saart of thing.  It's a kind of extended meta(what)phor?  I understand that is a popular and devilish class of device.
C H Watson Dec 2014
Oh, Hibernian Honey Child

How my hand yearns to brush your cheek

To feel the warmth of your hair, to rest on your shoulder

    An itinerary of joy, how I would delight in my travels

    To arrive in your arms as my frail heart unravels



Oh, Little Face

How your wry little smile delights my senses

The sweep of your gait, your delicate aroma

    Your impertinent laughter; it's nectar to me

    Like a clear crystal fountain 'neath sacred oak tree



Oh, Emerald Daughter

Lustrous princess of the realm of Beauty

Silkier than a mouthful of fresh cream

    How thrilling it would be to pull off both your socks

    Little Feet, oh Little Feet, human music box
Dedicated to a beautiful stranger.

© Copyright 2014 C. H. Watson. All rights reserved.
Francie Lynch Dec 2014
In Wexford
I saw Superstar;
An Irish Jesus
That well pleased us,
But you may think that dross.
In retrospect,
We might agree,
They hung long
On that cross.
Carrying that cross.
Mark Ball Nov 2014
Ag an mbuaicphointe
na coimhlinte
Ní raibh siad cinnte.
An chéad dán trí ghaeilge.
Bridget Allyson Sep 2014
Eyes of new and old,
As deep as the sea,
Golden eyes as cold,
As eyes that watch over me.


Meet me there.
Run across the track.
I never watch you leave,
Please, come back.
Brigitte's poem about Aiden. This is the first poem in my book Eternal.
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2014
Ruddy and worn,
Dusted by turf and salt,
Sun rose cheeked and blue
Clouded eye spurt in a gait
Ended by mute journeys and toil.
He breaks the long day with a shove
As the old pocked door is waiting to be
Opened.  At the crowning stand of the bar
He orders his Craic, some froth of tar, his black
Medicinal and when the tales of tall pints grow, sinking,
Live, flickering light slows and smoulders, shoulders with moist
Embers of smoke trailing by with an impromptu céilí and all is brilliant,
Blind, awful and right, cast in the sprite, spirited dance of the verbal swirlings.
"Craic", or "crack", is a term for news, gossip, fun, entertainment, and enjoyable conversation, particularly prominent in Ireland.  It is often used with the definite article – the craic. The word has an unusual history; the English crack was borrowed into Irish as craic in the mid-20th century and the Irish spelling was then reborrowed into English.  Under either spelling, the term has great cultural currency and significance in Ireland.

In modern usage, a céilidh or ceilidh ( pronounced: kay-lee ) is a traditional Gaelic social gathering, which usually involves playing Gaelic folk music and dancing. It originated in Ireland and Scotland, but is now common throughout the Irish and Scottish diasporas. In Irish it is spelt céilí.
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