#heaney
Glenshane Pass separated you both.
23 miles away in the same time, same place as my father’s childhood.
So when you talked of your da digging Toner’s bog and waxed lyrical about sheughs, I knew in our English class what exactly you were saying (when others didn’t).
Your words float over time & space to me now.
A celebration of the intimacy of our homelands.
A holy adoration of long gone voices that still resonate.
You never strayed, never.
It was always in your heart, always:
the land, the forgotten lanes, the broad fields, the lost language of it all.
I keep a certain comfort now with your lines as I Iay in my southerly home,
knowing that I am forever tithed to the townlands of our shared ancestry.
I thank you.
May your words stay alive as song as Ireland still has its beauty
and may their illumination still shine on us all.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC
Why write a poem?
Write a tweet instead.
Goes the internal monologue running in my head.
Why write a poem?
Go and do some work.
Getting out the fountain pen is an excuse to shirk.
Why write a poem?
Nobody cares.
Spend your time on snapchat racking up the 'flares'.
Why write a poem?
Heaney's been dead for years.
Can't read Mid Term Break without it reducing me to tears.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 3:18 AM UTC
•Copyright 1993-2014 snipet by EPH
E. Patrick Heeney from pg. 1 of 2
CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
WHEN WILL YOU EVER LEARN? CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
DON'T WAIT UNTIL YOU BURN.
You just **** on a can to get your high
and do odd things until you die
first it was snorting, then you tried base;
you knew it was risky when you burnt up your face.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC