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Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
CHAOIN SÉ UISCE A CHINN
(HE WAS IN FLOODS OF TEARS)

The doctor wrote out
a prescription for tears.

I was all out of tears.

"Here!" the Doc said
in his off-hand doctor-ish way.

"Cry these three times a day.
Once in the morning...twice in the afternoon
and all night...alright?"

He looked at me distrustfully.

"Only cry real tears mind...
cutting onions doesn't count!"

Despair gnawed
upon my soul

as if it were a stinking bone
and Despair a wild dog.

Despair growled
slowly showing its teeth

every time I tried to
take it away from him.

"Oh, and....you must only
cry in Irish!"

"Will that cure me?"
I asked without hope.

"No!" he said with a laugh.
Honest at last.

"But it will somehow
help and

what else
are eyes for?"
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
His wife, George, was present with flowers.
Anne and Michael,his children, were there.
A headstone had been carved at the Quarry,
now all waited on Yeats to appear.

Soft and damp was that day in the graveyard
with the scent of turned earth in the air.
Beyond rose the bulk of Ben Bulben,
As the Lorry, with the poet, drew near.

Ten years he had slept in his coffin,
while the great nation states played at war.
Now Sean MacBride, the son of his rival,
brought him home, where he'd not been before.

At his birth, Yeats was a British subject.
By his death, a Dominion was here.
Now they laid him to rest in the free state;
the newly minted Republic of Eire.


A bhean chéile, George, a bhí i láthair le bláthanna.
Anne agus Michael, a pháistí, bhí ann.
Bhí A cloch chinn snoite ar an Cairéal,
gach fhan anois ar Yeats le feiceáil.

Bhí bog agus tais an lá sin sa reilig
leis an boladh de domhain iompú san aer.
Beyond ardaigh an chuid is mó de Ben Bulben,
Mar an Leoraí, leis an bhfile, tharraing aice.

Deich mbliana bhí chodail sé ina cónra,
agus an stáit náisiúin mór a bhí ag an chogaidh.
Anois Seán MacBride, mac a rival,
thabhairt dó sa bhaile, i gcás nach mhaith a bhí sé riamh.

Ag a rugadh é, go raibh Yeats ábhar na Breataine.
De réir a bhás, bhí Dominion anseo.
Anois atá leagtha siad dó a gcuid eile sa stát saor in aisce;
an bualadh nua-Phoblacht na Eire.
Yeats always called his wife "George" short for Georgette. Ben Bulben is a mountain in County Sligo, Republic of Ireland. Sean MacBride was the son of John MacBride a hero of the1916 rising and the estranged spouse of Maud Gonne, Yeats' lifelong love and muse. The poet died abroad on the continent in early 1939 and did not rest in his native soil until September of 1948. A rough translation in Irish follows the English version.
Will ye hear what I can say
Briefly of my Julia?
Black and rolling is her eye,
Double-chinn’d and forehead high;
Lips she has all ruby red,
Cheeks like cream enclareted;
And a nose that is the grace
And proscenium of her face.
So that we may guess by these
The other parts will richly please.
janice chinn Apr 2017
SAYING GOODBYE  

I miss you every day and even when I think I don’t
You’re still an ache deep in my heart
We sorted all your clothes and shoes
Put them into black bags for charity shop
The ones that you would choose

It was hard, not the physical lifting of bags of once you
But the emotional side of putting your once you things
Away forever from our view
I got loads of your personal things in my spare room
Old specs, purses, jewellery boxes and more
I’ll keep them along with the memories I store

I found a small tapestry bag and peeked inside
There inside were your little rollers and comb
You were so fussy about your hair
I held it to my heart and cried

Then I found your makeup bag
The one you used each day
Foundation, mascara, two favourite lipsticks
And I cried…
Still can’t get around that you’re no longer here
And that one simple thought can bring on a tear

Took your identical twin sister home yesterday
She lives in a lovely little place in Kent
We had tea and chatted about this and that
A lovely time and really well spent

We drove to Broadstairs and went to the beach
Had a portion of chips and a mug of tea
Took off our shoes and straddled our feet
The sand was so soft underfoot
It was a well welcomed treat

Then it was time to say goodbye
I hate that moment it’s hard to deny
We hugged and said farewell
And I tried hard not to cry
Just moved to the car with a quiet sigh

I smiled as I waved to hide the sadness inside
As I looked briefly back to see  
The reflection of mum slowly closing the door
And knew mum would live on in our hearts evermore

                                        by Janice chinn 2017 ©
janice chinn Jan 2020
Joan used to tell me about the day you were planted
Fifty eight long years ago
Now she is gone and you have fallen
Defeated by years of strong winds

Twelve years I’ve watched
From my bedroom window
Seen your beauty change
With each passing season

Watched so many birds rest
In your thick heavy branches
Flitting forth and back
To collect seed from the feeders

Great ***, blue ***, long-tailed *** (like lollipops)
And the not so often beautiful coal ***
Greater spotted woodpecker, Male and female
Crow and dove, robin and chaffinch
Dunnock, nuthatch and the rarely seen Yellowhammer

I’m sitting here looking at the empty space
That you used to occupy
It seems so bare, even barren
Not to see your branches spreading outwards
In welcome to the wildlife that came

Now you lay horizontal across the ditch
Trunk torn from its rightful place by a storm
Leaving a big empty space
That opens the view across the common to the woods

As lovely as the view is and I’m grateful for it
It will not compensate for the view of you each morning
As I look at the open space you left in the hedgerow
I realise you have left a similar space in my heart

Farewell my regal hawthorn tree
You will not be forgotten
All the memories will stay in so many hearts
And the birds are still resting for now
In you sadly fallen body

       Copyright 15/01/20 Janice Chinn
janice chinn Nov 2019
Late November       Janice Chinn 21/11/19
Bare branches like gnarled fingers twisted and rough from age
Grey skies cloudless and silent hanging in space like a shroud
A horse tethered on a lifeless common
Standing as still as the dead grass surrounding her
A cold wind blowing in from the east
Chilling to the very core of your soul
Just a few yellow and red leaves
Hanging on in stubborn hope
Red berries very few waiting for the last pecks of the blackbird
Old woman sits and watching from her window
And likens herself to the scene beyond
Wondering if the spring to come will be hers once more to embrace

— The End —