"cathleen" poems
The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand,
Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;
Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,
But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knock-narea,
And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.
Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;
But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,
For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;
Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;
But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood
Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
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ALL the heavy days are over;
Leave the body's coloured pride
Underneath the grass and clover,
With the feet laid side by side.
Bathed in flaming founts of duty
She'll not ask a haughty dress;
Carry all that mournful beauty
To the scented oaken press.
Did the kiss of Mother Mary
Put that music in her face?
Yet she goes with footstep wary,
Full of earth's old timid grace.
'Mong the feet of angels seven
What a dancer glimmering!
All the heavens bow down to Heaven,
Flame to flame and wing to wing.
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I SOUGHT a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
The Countess Cathleen was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
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I
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.5k
heather is a feminine body
in a suede chair under charcoal ceilings
perry is wearing
sweaters to evening dinners
katie is a black light poster
in newspaper print
alex is an origami sailboat
spoon feed yourself some more cathleen,
the cats are waiting
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 4:07 PM UTC
Baby Bobby is free,
No more whips, from amish men,
Baby Bobby is free,
You kicked and screamed on the glue truck sweetie,
Baby Bobby is free,
A nice lady Cathleen rescued you for me,
Baby Bobby is free,
She Cleaned you up and healed your wounds,
Baby Bobby is free,
Bobby baby, why are you scared of me,
Baby Bobby is free,
Bobby baby, I'd never hurt you, I just want to love you,
Baby Bobby is free,
Bobby why do you kick and scream?
Baby Bobby is free,
Bobby I love you, what's wrong baby.
Baby Bobby is never going to be Free,
Bobby is trapped inside his fears, much like me.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:30 AM UTC
O’Brien was out. The door’d
Slammed some minutes back,
The windows shook. Cathleen
Sits and opens her make-up. She
Waits for the return; but none
Comes. Good riddance, she
Mutters, opening the small
Mirror, taking out the lipstick,
Gazing at the face, the eyes,
The lips. Who’s he think he is?
She darkly muses, applying
Red to the lips, pressing the
Lips together as she’d seen
Her mother do years back,
The look is there; the hard
Faced ***** gaze, her daddy’d
Called it, his cap pushed to
The back of his head, the self
Rolled cigarette hanging from
The lower lip like a limp *****
Funny how memory deceives;
Makes things seem better than
They were or worse than ever
They’d been, she thinks, pursing
The lips, making the oval with
The mouth, then stretching it
Into the stupid smile. He’d be
Back carrying his mood soaked
In porter, his eyes glazed, his
Mouth still and silent. Always
The same thing, the same topic:
The lack of *** or not too often.
Forget him for now, go out and
Enjoy and shop and drink and
Visit mother in the home, her
Sitting by the window looking
Out, waiting for the husband
Long since gone, brain muddled
As a dark puddle, lips painted red
And opening in a wet smile, the
Hard faced ***** gaze still there,
But having seen much better days.
Cathleen pauses and stares
At the lips, bright red: Mother
Brain wrecked and Daddy dead.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC