"belfast" poems
psychologism, i.e. neo-racism, neo- due to it being without any collective ethnic collectivisation, best insinuated by marijuana users, grouping alcoholics with ****** sharp shooters; they think they have the moral high ground, but they talk jack sh-: medicinal marijuana is synthetic marijuana / ore without casual-use effects, it's not the sh- you put in your **** have a *** change and tell me about children suffering from cancer while you're at it: because those starving children of africa adverts... are really really working... knowing that the man in control of such charities earns over half a million a year - post-colonialism only really works while you have former colonial indigenous peoples nearby, then you can milk that ***** cow from the locals... make sure you think the nairobi international airport has a dirt runway and you'll feel all ******* fuzzy giving money to these companies... post-colonialism only works like that... import some former colonials to milk the former colonial whites into coughing up money & guilt... then watch the irish get leery with sarcasm at almost anything... and the scots gear up pride and become politically malignant... the good friday agreement? tony blair did as much as / avoiding-tax cigarettes smuggled from eastern europe west of the ural mountains exchanged in belfast... but geographic borders were never used in rhetoric in politics... because ireland was always further west than iceland: as oaths go... it was a neighbour of liberty iseland... with the true statue of liberty in a moulin rouge cancan attire, skirt up, flame extinguished - although ***** as hell: and in koranic reality, requiring a harem for her three holes.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
In the early morning air
between the Londonderry hush of dreams
and the cry of Belfast on a weary morn
Where saddened eyes embody the twilight haze
of long past marches, the bewildering blaze
Of Beltane fires that scorch the hills
The world shudders to the battle cries
where brother to brother the war pitch fills
the saddened visions that over spills
That a Gaelic tongue can curse its own
To the bitter harvest of the Gael
That wipes away the blood dew
from these fields from which it grew
and damns itself in the pain and sorrow
That relives this war on every tomorrow.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 7:21 AM UTC
The American said: let's drink the words.
She was so right.
A loquacious gin & tonic
An acerbic Darwinian daiquiri on ice
A French martini disrupted not stirred
A mojito muddled in abstinence
A Belfast bomber & brimstone
Love on the Rocks with perpetual dissent
*** on the Beach with a dash of chilli & lime
***** scorpion splashed in ironic ascension
Dark *** stifled by the sting of a disturbance
Love scented petals infused with tequila worms
Salubrious shots of Sambuca
Absinthe toasted in lunacy flakes
This is my bar.
Choose your poison wisely
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Seagulls on the beach
along them chanting, I exist.
A mountain overlap on slaying deranged.
Mind-blown,
portrait of yore.
Sweet Belfast;
Antique,
unique,
ambiguous,
get obscene, now!
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice.
I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams;
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams
The little boats beneath the Norman castle,
The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt;
The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses
But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt.
The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine,
The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon;
Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor
Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon.
The Norman walled this town against the country
To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave
And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting
The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave.
I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order,
Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor;
The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept
With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.
The war came and a huge camp of soldiers
Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long
Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice
And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long;
A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge
Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront;
Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?'
The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front.
The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England-
Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train;
I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar
be always rationed and that never again
Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags
And my governess not make bandages from moss
And people not have maps above the fireplace
With flags on pins moving across and across-
Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles,
Flares across the night,
Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans,
A cage across their sight.
I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents
Contracted into a puppet world of sons
Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines
And the soldiers with their guns.
Louis Macneice
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
Mr McParland;
our Primary 4 teacher lived in Newry,
Northern Ireland.
Not a City in those days,
but a dangerous border town.
He had wiry hair like a blonde Afro.
Pat Jennings;
world class goalkeeper for his country,
was also born in Newry.
Our man claimed to know him,
and went to school with the green giant.
We believed without reproach.
Yours truly;
age 6 & 7, in the years of the Hunger Strikes,
born in Belfast.
I was enthralled because Pat was of another
world to kids reared in our divided times.
A symbol of hope on an island of doubt.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
How can Belfast be so cold?
a breeze in a summer front
the unpredictable British weather
Of intermittent warmth and dull
drizzles of a torrential fizzle
The titanic stands erected
stilled by the western winds
In stiles as robust as steel
as shadowy silverly specks
reflect on the unused puddles
Southwards to the coastal shores
where green shimmers magnify
and blue waters justly testifies
of the beauty of the north-eastern waters
flowing from one glen to another
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
My little redheaded cousin
Still in elementary school
Or whatever it's called in Belfast
The news just came in
From the other side of the pool
The Brexit movement has passed
Will little Aoife still be
Able to travel freely southward
To see the rest of her family in Ireland?
I'll have to wait and see
If North Ireland's change will be hard
I have no idea what's being planned
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
Such vicious energies of hate
That propels an enactment
Of intense and exhausting experience
Where vigorous rhetoric of contending factions
Show inability to shape a moment into coherent form
Providing only chaos
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 10:53 AM UTC
The mouth of the sandbanks,
Ireland’s Linenopolis,
Where King Billy rode the walls
Of the loyalist Sandy Row.
Samson and Goliath crane over the skyline
At the dock of the brave Titanic
That, like everything built by Belfast,
It was built to fall.
Good Friday had ended the Trouble,
so we thought,
But when they took down the flag
it was all forgot.
We have never had peace;
But we had found some pride.
After thirty years the fires had ceased,
We’d finally taken that stride.
Working towards putting this country right.
Peaceful protests, that’s what they said
The people’s spirits now filled with dread,
Fearing the riots that loom ahead.
Our gums bleed as we eat the fables we’ve been fed.
Unity is a lie; unity is dead.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
Metaphor for Metabolisms
and adventurers of culinary
conquests catering for those
with bilingual taste buds in
an Irish city called Belle Feast.
ps.
Bia is the Irish word for food.
Bia Rebel is a restaurant in
Belfast Ireland.
https://www.theguardian.com/food/2019/feb/24/jay-rayner-restaurant-review-bia-rebel-belfast-noodles-ramen
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 3:34 AM UTC
Five, *** seven
If and only if,
You are from Belfast.
If this is true
Why did they not focus on the ***
“Make Love not War” etc.
Who really cares about religion?
Especially today.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
Around the backs of houses:
Overgrowth cloaked a
Horde of little rascals with
Pockets full of pennies.
Some were almost as tall as the
Highest stalks and jumped
Once a minute to gauge the number
Of silly long strides left to spring from.
Eyes fixed forwards, soldiering
On to the treeline and then just
Beyond - Through the ditch and
Brambles, emerging onto stones:
Ten feet towered with a
Steep ascent as a clear warning
Raptly ignored by the imps --
The chasers of thrills and stories
And melted misshapen metal -
Wherein lies the innocence of their
Treacherous endeavors. Those
Pennies would return mangled and bent
Enough to weave a tale of valiance
And near-death peril so captivating
It couldn't possibly be spun;
For in your hand you held a token.
"The world vibrated and ear drums
Exploded, running to cover from
The screaming, steaming demon:
Dublin to Belfast express!"
They would say.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
Well we jumped on the wing
for a good Irish fling
kicked off the week
with a boiler
The banter was high
as we took to the sky
nothing in sight
was a spoiler
And the red eye at night
was a captain’s delight
we spread on the seat
of the liner
Arrived just in time
for a whale of a time
at the Temple Bar
and Diner
Well the Dublin scene
in the Old College Green
was wired and alive
on the corner
Where me and me' mates
paired in at the gates
there were welcoming arms
to us foreigners
And we sang through the night
and grinned in delight
with banjos, pipes
and lasses
Drinking whiskey and beer
in a boatload of cheer
the rooster got lost
in the masses
The **** in the walk
was out on the stalk
a wee little flute
on display
His shoulders were pinned
with a great big grin
they were such
peculiar ways!
Well we found em next day
(in a sauntering way)
*got tossed in
all the commotion*
What happened to you?
said he hadn’t a clue
or any
baldy notion!
Hit the road to Howth
little east, little south
the seaside town
was groovin
Found the Cobblestone Pub
for a jar and a scrub
the seabird sounds
were soothin
Then we jumped a train
in the lashing rain
the Belfast craic
was mighty
Hit the Thirsty Goat
with a parching throat
some Tullamore Dew
for a nighty
In the Crumlin jail
the spirits set sail
the IRA
was gaffin
There was Bobby Sands
in celestial lands
alive and proud
and laughin
The Griffin dance
was the final chance
the evening closed
in nigh
And we made our way
through the Chelsea lanes
to say our
final good bye
~ ~ ~ ~
Singing
Ay, oh…let it all go
safe haven in the wasteland!
Singing
Slainte’…take me away
to the old Irish sounds
of the band!
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC
Landing at Belfast International Airport always made Byron feel better, but nowhere near the way he used to feel when Megan was alive. He was glad for the busy workload ahead of him, a very welcome distraction.
The latest nightmare revealed more to him than usual, which, according to his phsychiatrist, was a good thing. Climbing into a cab, Byron opened his laptop and immediately noticed the little envelope at the top of the screen. Messages from the site. Beautiful Words was a luxury, especially since adding his new friend, pen name Maiden, real name, Holly.
Byron could be a normal person on the site, no disfigurements, no judgement, and nobody would ever know about the fire, his failure to save his Megan.Of course, people could read between the lines but that was unlikely.
The message from Holly read "Dearest Phantom, i was so moved by your latest poem..." It went on to state her amazement at Byrons last name, Lorde. " is it really true? so, your name is lord Byron in reverse?" Byron felt a little flutter of excitement at the thought of someone noticing his name, for the first time,.
Byrons mother was a lover of poetry, especially romantic poets, hence his name.The opportunity was irresistable , her name being Lorde.Megans grandfather would poke fun at Byron, saying he was lucky his mother didn't like Edgar Allen Poe.
He almost replied immediately but noticed he'd reached his destination, shutting the laptop, promising himself to pay more attention to beautiful Words, Holly, Jester, and the rest of the crowd.
Byrons shrink was moonlighting at the local hospital, community work made him feel more human, less robot-like."Well well well," Byron and jake were friends from way back, even before Megan.After the fire,Byron would surely have given up, had it not been for Jake.He poured them both a mineral water while Byron made himself comfy, he knew the drill. The age old cliche, lay down on the couch, close your eyes, "Count backwards from 10, slowly drifting off the closer you get to 1,".
Byron could smell the smoke, taste the charcoal at the back of his throat. He could see her, more clearly than before....
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 11:32 AM UTC
Billy from Belfast.
Oh, I wish I could explain what you did to me..
I close my eyes and I can still see us there,
on your tiny balcony.
The silence of our dreams covered by a voice that sings about an unknown future.
The sun dancing on the rooftops.
You are me and I am you, a soul connection out of this world..
A silent minute for our fallen hero, Chester Bennington.
A cheer with Stella.
Tired legs running, empty streets.
Our laughter echoes, a dead bar street.
A lost phone, a search for an open supermarket.
An empty beach, no life guards on duty.
My head on your chest, shared chemistry.
Your lips on my forehead..
Oh, how the morning sun hit your face.
I wish you'd realise how beautiful you are..
I take a sip of your ****** drink, I smile and take your hand.
Sticky salty skin, the heat of the rising sun.
7AM.
Sand in my cup, I see you watching the horizon.
I look at you and I wonder..
Can I have you?
...Billy from Belfast.
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
You were the only man i had always wanted to see
Walking down the road to the sea Swaggering in your new jacket
Looking for fellas to bracket
In Carrickfergus they called you a robber To me you were a handsome rover Beautiful green eyes as the rolling hills Your happy thoughts into me you had instilled
In Belfast you smuggled your hopes and fears
Slainté! You danced pints of beer away Alas! They did not see your tears
You were on your own finding your way
My old friend, my sad handsome friend Patrick...
Alone you sang your weary songs and turned sick
I cried bitterly, nobody to lay you down Summer,and you had no wheat to sow
Ah! You were so handsome and young During summer days you smiled and cheered me up in my den
Calling out your name,i screamt at the top of my lungs.
You were gone....gone...you would never answer again
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
Icy winds blew
along the wharf,
as three men mixed
for a quick conversation,
exchanged money
& a loaded gun,
then dispersed
like the ocean spray.
Later that night,
Davy and Ian were shot
point blank in the face,
with no witnesses
but the gulls shrieking
above the dockyards of Belfast,
a place where some paddies
pay with their lives.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
You were the only man i had always wanted to see
Walking down the road to the sea
Swaggering in your new jacket
Looking for fellas to bracket
In Carrickfergus they called you a robber
To me you were a handsome rover
Beautiful green eyes as the rolling hills
Your happy thoughts into me you had instilled
In Belfast you smuggled your hopes and fears
Slainté! You danced pints of beer away
Alas! They did not see your tears
You were on your own finding your way
My old friend, my sad handsome friend Patrick...
Alone you sang your weary songs and turned sick
I cried bitterly, nobody to lay you down
Summer,and you had no wheat to sow
Ah! You were so handsome and young
During summer days you smiled and cheered me up in my den
Calling out your name,i screamt at the top of my lungs.
You were gone....gone...you would never answer again
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
Simic almost starved to death waiting for the
man who told him "our goose is cooked".
I folded my napkin in preporation. And
remembered what my grandma told me:
"We never starved in belfast".
But now everyones arived in one piece.
Hoping their goose was cooked.
We waited and waited. Two more
guests sat down. One said " Is our goose
cooked yet"? No not yet!
Finally a fed up patron
arose from his seat.
He had to of been eighty nine.
Listen he yelled:
Have fun!
Do what ever needs to be done.
Before all of your geese are cooked!
***** waiting for it.
Theres nothing we can do to change the circumstance.
Believe me Im getting the first serving, I can already smell
the aroma.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:07 AM UTC
with the U.S.A. it's oh so monochromatic.
why is it that when i
listen to Simon & Gafunkel
i think of Woody Allen?
well, anything goes
with under-representation,
apart from the Jews
and the English we're like that angry
integrated and assimilated
black women giving a near
**** salute although ******
like the Black Panthers
at a Nordic parade... Orange Coats
in Belfast, perhaps William minded,
or perhaps the Red Coats
were too deviating in propaganda
(need orange)...
while some **** gets told to suffer,
suffer, suffer... expect no
justice and propose no alternatives,
if it ain't private enterprise
don the ******* mask and say
you won the national derby on
a donkey rather than on an arab stallion
feeding it hallucinogenic carrot paradise
rather than the whip.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
*it's just a selfie... don't forget my face is mandible and is non-representative of whatever idealism you have of dundee / glasgow. you ever noticed it's only paris that's mentioned in 20th century classic literature? oi! **** why not oslo schweggenladder stockholm or edinbrugh? so 20th century of you to mention any place south of london.*
when i hear modern poets wheeze and ooh and ah
and climb the everest... i think of the bee gees
or michael jackson, not one wrote the illiad... but it’s
still memorised - what’s the point...
poetry begins with the thought:
i can rhyme bling with bee sting... **** i’m in!
heave of relief interlude with abba’s super trouper
in the background to breivik’s slaughter...
now that’s taking satire to the extreme of absurdism:
you know that french thinking movement
that changed hammering a nail in with the elbow
rather than the hammer.
‘orchestra!’
‘ yes maestro?!’
‘play me the divination of vivaldi in #strauss for winter!’
‘yes maestro!’
‘ah the autumnal leaf waltz via psychadelia
of femininity given to the beast of feminism
of lost ego, what splendour... and the reindeer,
ah... it’s only missing the alcohbolic reindeer of the
puffed-up cheeks and red noses of burst veins to hue
the canvas of red with streaks of blue.’
as benny hill said... it’s not called black english humour
for reasons that might suggest it was the oxford rowing
team losing against h.m.s. belfast that made the cambridge rowing
team sing the chritmas carols in halloween costumes:
the wise pumpkin, skeleton and hybrid tarantula sang
in soprano: the shepherds put on castrato opera for a reason
that became apparent with roman authorities despising
celibacy but turning quiet fond of castration for the pope's opera:
plus the **** orgams sounded more feminine with
guilottined ********
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
*You were the only man i had always wanted to see
Walking down the road to the sea
Swaggering in your new jacket
Looking for fellas to bracket*
*In Carrickfergus they called you a robber
To me you were a handsome rover
Beautiful green eyes as the rolling hills
Your happy thoughts into me you had instilled*
*In Belfast you smuggled your hopes and fears
Slainté! You danced pints of beer away
Alas! They did not see your tears
You were on your own finding your way*
*My old friend, my sad handsome friend Patrick...
Alone you sang your weary songs and turned sick
I cried bitterly, nobody to lay you down
Summer,and you had no wheat to sow*
*Ah! You were so handsome and young
During summer days you smiled and cheered me up in my den
Calling out your name,i screamt at the top of my lungs.
You were gone....gone...you would never answer again*
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 9:45 AM UTC
Across the water, away from here.
I had left my heart on the green.
Only sound of your shore i hear.
A glimpse of your waters i have seen.
In Belfast Old McCarthy sang his sad songs.
To lovers who had been waiting so long.
He walked on that long road down the hill to the sea.
He danced his songs away for us to see.
Carrickfergus, this longing i can not bear any longer.
In another town i sing like a lonely rover.
O ocean breeze fly me home i sing.
I miss to dance a fling.
My heart thumps like the sound of a bodhran.
Across the ocean my songs span this flood of longing.
Before God and men alone i stand.
Serving you is my true calling.
I want to come home to see her.
Her hair radiant beneath the sun.
My love and songs i want to share.
Across the hills to her i will run.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 7:02 AM UTC
You left
A footprint
On the wood panel
In front of me
Your wet soles
From dewed grass
And drunk squats
Your mark
Lays upon me
I know you’re near
But not here
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 8:01 PM UTC