"chinn" poems
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.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
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.
1.2k
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?"
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
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 ©
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 5:45 AM UTC
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
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC