"furze" poems
869
Because the Bee may blameless hum
For Thee a Bee do I become
List even unto Me.
Because the Flowers unafraid
May lift a look on thine, a Maid
Alway a Flower would be.
Nor Robins, Robins need not hide
When Thou upon their Crypts intrude
So Wings bestow on Me
Or Petals, or a Dower of Buzz
That Bee to ride, or Flower of Furze
I that way worship Thee.
2.6k
It faces west, and round the back and sides
High beeches, bending, hang a veil of boughs,
And sweep against the roof. Wild honeysucks
Climb on the walls, and seem to sprout a wish
(If we may fancy wish of trees and plants)
To overtop the apple trees hard-by.
Red roses, lilacs, variegated box
Are there in plenty, and such hardy flowers
As flourish best untrained. Adjoining these
Are herbs and esculents; and farther still
A field; then cottages with trees, and last
The distant hills and sky.
Behind, the scene is wilder. Heath and furze
Are everything that seems to grow and thrive
Upon the uneven ground. A stunted thorn
Stands here and there, indeed; and from a pit
An oak uprises, Springing from a seed
Dropped by some bird a hundred years ago.
In days bygone—
Long gone—my father’s mother, who is now
Blest with the blest, would take me out to walk.
At such a time I once inquired of her
How looked the spot when first she settled here.
The answer I remember. ‘Fifty years
Have passed since then, my child, and change has marked
The face of all things. Yonder garden-plots
And orchards were uncultivated slopes
O’ergrown with bramble bushes, furze and thorn:
That road a narrow path shut in by ferns,
Which, almost trees, obscured the passers-by.
Our house stood quite alone, and those tall firs
And beeches were not planted. Snakes and efts
Swarmed in the summer days, and nightly bats
Would fly about our bedrooms. Heathcroppers
Lived on the hills, and were our only friends;
So wild it was when we first settled here.’
2.4k
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro' the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze.
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
2k
What should I be but a prophet and a liar,
Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?
Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,
What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter?
And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,
That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?
And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,
But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?
You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,
As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,
You will find such flame at the wave’s weedy ebb
As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother’s web,
But there comes to birth no common spawn
From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,
And you never have seen and you never will see
Such things as the things that swaddled me!
After all’s said and after all’s done,
What should I be but a harlot and a nun?
In through the bushes, on any foggy day,
My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,
With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth,
A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.
And there sit my Ma, her knees beneath her chin,
A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,
And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying
That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!
He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,
He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,
He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil,
And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!
Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known,
What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,
And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,
With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?”
With him for a sire and her for a dam,
What should I be but just what I am?
1.7k
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro' the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
1.6k
NEVER MIND WHAT THE ****** SHEEP ARE SAYING!
First sheep to second sheep:
"Maaaa!"
which with
subtitles on
comes out as
"He just hasn't got his grandfather's legs!"
Second sheep to first sheep:
"Baaaa!"
Thank God for subtitles
"No...nor the Sheedy stamina!"
And indeed I have
inherited none of these famous attributes.
I, a shortsighted
puny bookworm
not taking to
this cross-country running lark.
The famous runner doesn't run
in my side of the family.
Early morning spiderwebs
bejewel the furze bushes.
A cuckoo calls.
Sheep bleat.
I recite poetry
to the yellow furze
passing slowly by me
I madly in love with Hopkins' words.
"I caught this morning(puff pantpANT!)
morning's(aghhhhh!)glory...!"
"Oh jaysus...he's off on the poetry again!"
first sheep moans to second sheep.
"Poetry at his age..I just don't get it!"
Second sheep bemoans the fact.
I pay no attention to this
sheep commentary.
Hurl Hopkins
at the world.
Slog through the pain
and mud.
"Nothing is so
(gaspgASP!)beautiful as Spring -" I yell!
I become a dot in the distance
of this misty Curragh morning.
Run on into the blue
of these my teenage times.
"The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness;"
"Bè bè" first sheep
to second sheep in Dutch.
"Meh meh!" second sheep
to first in Japanese.
So the sheep I see
are studying foreign languages.
But I don't hear them
and anyway
someone's turned
the subtitles off.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
I found thee again this morning
Wand'ring peacefully through the drops
As I walked down by the bus stops
Next to the farm full of green crops
Thy naivety, and stares of love-
were like the flopping birds above!
How thy questioned my weary face-ah!
With signs as clear as thy blue eyes.
Alexander, Alexander
How thy eyes still wicked with wonder
Pity but I love thee no more
Nor as much as I did before
As now I'm painfully certain
That I'm in love with another
Yet our first meeting shalt remain-
strong, untouched and never alter.
How I gasped as our eyes met;
how thou rubbed thy hair when I greeted!
Ah! Thy golden hair-shone light and fair,
as I sat next to thy blue chair.
Alexander, Alexander
Let me show thee how cries can smile
and how sad tears can be joyful.
Let me teach thee that love is vile
and openness can be spiteful.
And when thou understand this then;
be glad and shed thy tears away.
For thee wilt come that joyous day-
the one our hearts might not know when.
Alexander, Alexander
Let me cherish thy remembrance
As I write here 'twixt the brown furze.
Let us cheer nature's prominence
With our stories' shifts and curves.
Forgive and forget, dear lover
as I turn right in yon corner.
For 'nother soul, is there for thee-
whilst my dream prince, there waits for me.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
I
Possesion/extension
Nightly woman instinct,
lend your guiding scent
to fierce winds/
combining
into poison,
deliver down
my mercy to the great shining
(seduction poetics,
unrestrained and visible like a crown
of death hanging proud
by my bedside, eager
to martyr oneself for fertility)
Cosmogonic dawn/blinking fire-wheels,
shallow, holy waters
receding as silken tides, awoke from idleness
Discarded silver haloes, thrown into the hallowed dirt to drench in mortal youth
Monarch eyes/careful
heart, sealed/felt lucidly
worried/cavernous and hidden/wild kingdom dancer
A proclaimed Fool.
Imitator, mutilator
clay creator/for pathless ambition
I sink further in sand
which lacks definition, it is careless
like myself
(take a trip to Angel river, where one longs to be freed from skeleton grins
& pagan bathtubs, pollinating one
with wivesblood)
II
Out of the fog to a
marriagebed & lambs head
mounted, awkwardly
backdropped to an altar of Furze &
disorientation-theatres draped in Neon
& excess
(where even the walls are unaware of their own Earthly position)
If I am the stone,
you are the water, carving
me closer to your desired
shape
to become an Outer, a cloud-catcher, liplurker, destined to Saturn worship
III
My zeal is an impatient grave & you assume the feral mother
whose flashflood voice draws me to rest
..Yet, I am willing. Carry my body
to your domain, feast kindly, until
paradise is all that remains of us both
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
RUNNING THROUGH HISTORY
( for Grandfather Sheedy )
I, a creature of flesh
& mud.
Mostly mud I
train...run...running
across Curragh
Plains...pain. . .pain.
School cross country
running is - not:
my forte.
I, being constantly told I
am not my grandfather.
Obviously.
I plod after grandfather's
famous footsteps
inheriting only his calf muscles
but not...his stamina.
I am all skin & bone
merely my mind keeping me going.
Grandfather Sheedy is
running on into history.
I, the clod forever
running after his fame
into many a Curragh
sunset.
I run back through
time.
"In the year of the world
4608. . "
The Annals of the Four Masters
a running commentary in my mind.
I run through
my mythological past
the ghosts of kings famous
before time began.
Cobhthack Gael is still
killing Laoghaire Lore.
He highfives me as I
stagger past.
St. Brigid casts her cloak
it covers the entire plain.
I greet and thank her
with a wordless nod.
The Curragh Camp of today
coalescing into being
thanks to the Crimean
Campaign.
I recite Tennyson to
startled furze bushes.
"Furze bushes to the left of me
furze bushes to the right of me. . ."
into my mind rides
the 17th Irish Lancers
leading the Balaclava Charge
their mascot terrier Jemmy
following close behind
barking at the Russian guns
surviving it all
to roam around where I am
raoming now.
My Uncle Tossie's
familiar greeting
"How ya...howya...how ya
are ya winning...are ya winning!"
Grandfather and Uncle
Balaclava dog & mythological
kings and saints
all urging me on
claiming I can do it.
I can & I will
...come. . .last.
Me the non-runner runner
driven by
history
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
WALKING FROM THE RISING SUN TO KILDARE TOWN.
I take up
my stick &
walk:
back into my past.
Planting the countryside
of my youth
with each step
the years falling away.
The young me unfolds
into being.
The flag of self unfurls
snaps into the lost moment.
My shadow strides
ahead of me
impatient with this
flesh and blood man.
My shadow stops
waits for me to
catch up
catch my breath.
He stares at me
with broken dandelion eyes
a green milk bottle top
mimics a nose
a leaf acted
as a smile.
I laugh at this me
created by chance
and happenstance
step once more
into my shadow's footsteps
let it lead the way.
A tree which had been
there since I had been three
sarcastically remarks" "Oh, is it
yer self that's...in it?"
"It is!" says I
addressing the sky
spread before me
a vast blue field.
Furze blazes
with yellow.
Horses turn to
the gallops.
The sudden thunder of hooves
jockeying with laughter.
I left here to
make something of myself.
I, then...a nervous nobody
returning now
a mere nothing
a success only at failure.
I recite Hopkins
to a straying sheep.
The sheep suspiciously
regards this poet
hitting his stride now
"Nothing is so..."
The sheep coughs.
"... beautiful as
Spring!"
I tell a passing cloud
who is in too much of a hurry.
The poet's proud words
falling by the wayside
as me-then and
the me of now
stroll down
(cane nonchalantly in hand)
memory lane.
The Future hiding just
up around the
corner.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
RUNNING THROUGH HISTORY( for Grandfather Sheedy )
I, a creature of flesh
& mud.
Mostly mud I
train...run...running
across Curragh
Plains...pain...pain.
School cross country
running is - not:
my forte.
I, being constantly told I
am not my grandfather.
Obviously.
I plod after grandfather's
famous footsteps
inheriting only his calf muscles
but not...his stamina.
I am all skin & bone
merely my mind keeping me going.
Grandfather Sheedy is
running on into history.
I, the clod forever
running after his fame
into many a Curragh
sunset.
I run back through
time.
'In the year of the world
4608.. '
The Annals of the Four Masters
a running commentary in my mind.
I run through
my mythological past
the ghosts of kings famous
before time began.
Cobhthack Gael is still
killing Laoghaire Lore.
He highfives me as I
stagger past.
St. Brigid casts her cloak
it covers the entire plain.
I greet and thank her
with a wordless nod.
The Curragh Camp of today
coalescing into being
thanks to the Crimean
Campaign.
I recite Tennyson to
startled furze bushes.
'Furze bushes to the left of me
furze bushes to the right of me...'
into my mind rides
the 17th Irish Lancers
leading the Balaclava Charge
their mascot terrier Jemmy
following close behind
barking at the Russian guns
surviving it all
to roam around where I am
raoming now.
My Uncle Tossie's
familiar greeting
'How ya...howya...how ya
are ya winning...are ya winning! '
Grandfather and Uncle
Balaclava dog & mythological
kings and saints
all urging me on
claiming I can do it.
I can & I will
...come...last.
Me the non-runner runner
driven by
history
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
BAA YOURSELF!
A cloud grazing
upon a hillside.
A sheep genuflecting
before a tuft of grass.
The Curragh spreads itself
before me
like a legendary
saint's cloak.
The cloud now visiting
the old English graveyard
stopping every now & then
to read a lichen eaten inscription.
The long dead bask
in the morning sunshine.
The sheep has found another
tuft of grass as nice
if not nicer than
the last one.
The cloud has left me
alone with my thoughts.
"We remember you. . . "
the Dead whisper.
"We sheltered you
In a broken tomb..."
"So you did..." I tell them ". . .so you did!"
"When the rains came...
...you used to come
& read to us
when studying for your Leaving."
"I liked to talk to the skies!" I said.
"You never got to finish
North and South. . ."
"Another time..." I said.
The furze burning yellow.
"Your sadness is...hurting us!"
the Dead whisper.
I leaving them gazing
at an infinity.
Their eyes upon the ever
changing skies.
"Baa!" a sheep comments.
"Baa!" it says again in case
I didn't hear it the first time.
I almost expected it
to say: "Humbug!"
"Baa. . .yourself!"
I tell it.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
WALKING FROM THE RISING SUN TO KILDARE TOWN.
I take up
my stick &
walk:
back into my past.
Planting the countryside
of my youth
with each step
the years falling away.
The young me unfolds
into being.
The flag of self unfurls
snaps into the lost moment.
My shadow strides
ahead of me
impatient with this
flesh and blood man.
My shadow stops
waits for me to
catch up
catch my breath.
He stares at me
with broken dandelion eyes
a green milk bottle top
mimics a nose
a leaf acted
as a smile.
I laugh at this me
created by chance
and happenstance
step once more
into my shadows footsteps
let it lead the way.
A tree which had been
there since I had been three
sarcastically remarks" "Oh, is it
yer self that's...in it?"
"It is!" says I
addressing the sky
spread before me
a vast blue field.
Furze blazes
with yellow.
Horses turn to
the gallops.
The sudden thunder of hooves
jockeying with laughter.
I left her to
make something of myself.
I, then...a nervous nobody
returning now
a mere nothing
a success only at failure.
I recite Hopkins
to a straying sheep.
The sheep suspiciously
regards this poet
hitting his stride now
"Nothing is so..."
The sheep coughs.
"... beautiful as
Spring!"
I tell a passing cloud
who is in too much of a hurry.
The poet's proud words
falling by the wayside
as me-then and
the me of now
stroll down
(cane nonchalantly in hand)
memory lane.
The Future hiding just
up around the
corner.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
ALL THE WAY FROM 1967
I can still hear myself
crying
all the way from 1967
when I was 9.
The crying has never stopped
echoing through all the ages
I've ever been.
You: had died and
I had asked
God to give you
back.
When that didn't work.
I asked for a swap.
I tried to put it as simply as I
could
so that even a God
could understand.
"Take me - instead..."
I said to God
as if talking to some foreigner
in a too loud voice
as if that would....
"..put her back!"
He didn't.
I had the feeling that
He couldn't.
"Some God you are!"
I howled in disbelief.
I went out in the Curragh Plains
and wept.
And wept.
So that only a few hundred sheep
and some scattered clouds
could hear.
The clouds were only here
for the day.
The sheep lived only
for the moment.
Almost 5,000 acres
could not contain my grief.
The Curragh blazed yellow
with furze.
The world was as beautiful as
it could ever be.
But not for me.
I keep trying to go back
to the me of then
take him in my arms
give him the comfort I
never had
but like God
...I can't.
I can still hear his forever
crying
this 9 year old boy
who I always am
crying all the way
from 1967.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
WALKING FROM THE RISING SUN TO KILDARE TOWN.
I take up
my stick &
walk:
back into my past.
Planting the countryside
of my youth
with each step
the years falling away.
The young me unfolds
into being.
The flag of self unfurls
snaps into the lost moment.
My shadow strides
ahead of me
impatient with this
flesh and blood man.
My shadow stops
waits for me to
catch up
catch my breath.
He stares at me
with broken dandelion eyes
a green milk bottle top
mimics a nose
a leaf acted
as a smile.
I laugh at this me
created by chance
and happenstance
step once more
into my shadow's footsteps
let it lead the way.
A tree which had been
there since I had been three
sarcastically remarks" "Oh, is it
yer self that's...in it?"
"It is!" says I
addressing the sky
spread before me
a vast blue field.
Furze blazes
with yellow.
Horses turn to
the gallops.
The sudden thunder of hooves
jockeying with laughter.
I left here to
make something of myself.
I, then...a nervous nobody
returning now
a mere nothing
a success only at failure.
I recite Hopkins
to a straying sheep.
The sheep suspiciously
regards this poet
hitting his stride now
"Nothing is so..."
The sheep coughs.
"... beautiful as
Spring!"
I tell a passing cloud
who is in too much of a hurry.
The poet's proud words
falling by the wayside
as me-then and
the me of now
stroll down
(cane nonchalantly in hand)
memory lane.
The Future hiding just
up around the
corner.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC