I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Portmanteaux packed and loaded,  a new life is my call
In going I am coming home, to rivers, forests and swan
And all the hustle-bustle I leave behind for all
As I start my life anew, as one.

In joyous solitude shall I bide, to be alone at last
I see it in the forest glade, among these misty leaves
The darkness and the shadows seem so very vast
And sleeping under ink-black skies deceives.

And so I travel homeward, a long, long journey home
Where waters lap so sweetly there lives a gentle swan
Which to the forest edge and by the glade does come
A gentle flutter of my heart so finally at one.

©Joe Wilson – Going home…

A poem in  the style of W B Yeats (1865-1939)
After re-reading The Lake Isle of Innisfree

A lighthouse beckoning to the
moon beyond craggy outcrops
from the shores of Iskeroon.

Territorial challenges perhaps,
or most likely, a navigational
warning of encroachment.

White surfs are fraught with
repetitious semaphores, alerting
luminous shallows to the dark.

This Brailled seascape, a maze
of protrusions, polka dotting the
frothy foam of tidal turbulence.

It is where the antonyms of
silence harmonise with their
perfect chorus of sound.

One could imagine anything here,
the Lake Isle of Innisfree springs
to mind, (with a sea shell to my ear).



              Ryan 12th November 2019.
              Full moon at Iskeroon. ©

Ps.

Iskeroon is a coast house in
Cahirdaniel County Kerry
Ireland, which I am currently
minding during closed season.
iskeroon.com

The name Iskeroon is hereby
is copyrighted as titled poem
12th November 2019.

Well, apparently we are back,
it is at times like this I wish I
could bounce and land in the
country again on a farm like
the Isle of Innisfree bordered
by fields of trees for animals
and birds, far off mountains
with lakes tied to rivers, but
alas, the dream ends, reality
is a predator always stalking
the aspirations of innocence.
Returning is the nightmare’s
futile search for a stallion, it
ends with the dawning of a
realisation that if the horse
had bolted (the stable door)
she wouldn’t be out there on
on the craggy wastelands of
Connemara facing an Atlantic
wind with mane and tail hoisted
lamenting "Quarry Field Farm".

Our levels of tolerance
have gone beyond norms.

Barometers of convention
need to be recalibrate'd.

I has become we, a plural
disassociation of acceptance.

They are the ones that are
causing all the problems?

Us being the victims, since
before them all was well.

There are no Innisfree's, no
places to go or be left alone.

Everywhere has become
loud, bees disappearing.

Solutions are a collective
compromise, social initiatives.

Strauss™ horses never pull
together, demutualisation.

Privatisation, a surreptitious
weapon aimed to lacerate us.

We voted for change, in pencil,
but our wishes are not indelible.

I'm anti sceptic and
antisocial distancing
is something Covid
19 has forced on me
unwillingly I'm now
a solitary recluse by
a quiet flower garden
without any bees or
butterflies because
pesticides herbicides
and fungicides have
killed them all here
in the so called green
island of Ireland
which is a deceptive
description implying
a sense or organics
pure or natural but
at only 1% of land
devoted to this form
of agriculture, Green
is a calculated illusion.

ps.

Yeats lived near a bee
loud glade at Innisfree
but I bet it is quiet now!

Metaphorical
Métamorphose

In poetry
And in prose

River flowing
From the mountain

Makes it’s way
To Innisfree

Spills its water
Round the lake isle

Then outflows
Towards the sea

And just as one
Cannot stop the wind

That shakes the
Barley

The bird of Palestine
Like the Irish Wolfhound

Is gentle when stroked
But viscous when provoked.



For the people of Gaza
And the indigenous
Underdogs of our world