"seamus" poems
In a building not concrete of origin
Near a forest we used to forage in
In the village we muck and wander
Towards the river over yonder
On the isle of sacred Avalon
There was new ground to tread upon
Amidst the brier, bog and heath
Among the thistle, needles and oak leaf
Round the timber fire we sang
Of lady luck’s mercy and lady love’s pain
We drank a drink of potent potables
Phrases spoken few of which notable
From the lambs leg we feasted
While the mystic death we cheated
Nights never ending and those yet experienced
We roam them on and on, ever-delirious
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
Dear Mr. Heaney
I wish I'd read your poetry
years ago when I was still impressionable and coy and all that jazz.
Now it resounds in my skull, leaving a tingle in my right hand.
My pen is somewhat snug, but a revolver, no.
Ink and shovels aren't far from each other,
so your point is well-taken. In fact, they're co-workers –
Ink's proved itself just as deadly. It slowly ushers men into the earth,
their soil-seat, while the shovel stages the unending play;
the eternal lattice.
The Nobel hung above your head,
the vast array of pins, medals, papers with your name in billowing scarlet.
What a treat. Like the last cupcake in the back of
the refrigerator that had too much chocolate icing and was only
semi-covered in multi-colored snowflakes. I'd loved to have
personally presented it to you. There'd be my own plaque,
billowing scarlet and all. It'd say, "Mr. Heaney,
, you must own a ***** I hope you'd laugh, and not be offended,
thinking me a distasteful and insensitive lout. It may not be right,
but I can't help but steal the volumes surrounding yours out of
every **** library so
"Seamus Heaney"
may catch the eye of the common passerby
more easily. I think I even went to work on
enhancing a spine with a red sharpie once.
Red hits the eye hard.
That was in the central library downtown.
Don't tell anyone.
Beyond a laugh, what I hope for most is that you get this letter.
Just look at it.
Wonder why someone so far removed in age and culture and place
would ever think of you holding an over-frosted desert as glorious.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
I remember it well
As if it were yesterday
We geared up and set sail
And embarked upon unfamiliar waves
It was I captaining the vessel
With One-eyed Sven my quarter master
He could cut throats and roll pretzels
His weapon of choice was his bow caster
This wasn't a mission of plundering
That alone left the crew in a state of wondering
No, we weren't looking for buried treasure
But for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
My first mate Mr. Obanion said to me
"Captain are we off course?"
Then my boatswain , Wiley asked sheepishly
"Aren't we going for *** and ******
I looked them in the eye at the same time
"Gentlemen, this ship is headed to Dublin"
"We're going to see a good friend of mine"
"Now get back to your swabbing and scrubbing"
This was an order of business not some sort of cruise
I'm sailing with a ship of one track minded fools
We didn't set out on a vacation of leisure
Were on the hunt for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather
I did not mean to keep them in the dark
But they would think less of me
I needed these things
For the women I married
You see we'd been on the rocks
And I know she wanted these items
So I went over the sea with a fine tooth comb
Until I had finally found them
My men had sailed endlessly for months
They were worn down and ragged
Waterlogged and exhausted
While I always came up empty handed
But I had to save my marriage
Salvage my relationship
I knew it would work
If I gave my love these gifts
We reached the golden, calling shore
Of the beautiful Dublin
From the River Liffey and headed north
My friend Seamus let me come in
I came out shaking his hand
I was satisfied with my purchase
Until I was questioned by my men
What it was we came for in our searches
I had to show them, I was under scrutiny
I pulled out two stagecoach seat covers and a pair of pants
They were enraged and called mutiny
They blindfolded me and bound my hands
Now I'm marooned on some unmapped island
And I see my ship riding that horizon
This will sadden my wife, oh how it will upset her
She will never receive her sheep skin seat covers or her Scandinavian leather
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
REPUBLICANS
Former South Carolina GOP leader
kills dog to please God
Rob Beschizza
GERMANY
Germany's top domestic spy advised far right xenophobic political party on how to avoid being billed as "extremists"
Cory Doctorow
RUSSIA
Guy who pretends to ****** people for a living named Russian Goodwill ambassador
Seamus Bellamy
BUSINESS
We're going to be eating bugs really soon now, again
Cory Doctorow
POLICE
Surveillance camera shows off-duty NYPD cop dropping a weapon near man he shot in the face
Rob Beschizza
SCHOLARSHIP
When should the press pay attention to trolls, lies and disinformation?
Cory Doctoro
CORRUPTION
Wells Fargo: we stole houses and we're being investigated for ***** low-income housing credits
Cory Doctorow
LATE STAGE CAPITALISM
How Jpay gouges prisoners' families for "digital postage stamps"
Cory Doctorow
ALEX JONES
Alex Jones is suing the parents of a Sandy Hook victim for $100,000
Gina Loukareas
***
:(
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
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Her scarf a la Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river,
Took the embankment walk.
Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm:
Dusk hung like a backcloth
That shook where a swan swam,
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.
A vacuum of need
Collapsed each hunting heart
But tremulously we held
As hawk and prey apart,
Preserved classic decorum,
Deployed our talk with art.
Our Juvenilia
Had taught us both to wait,
Not to publish feeling
And regret it all too late -
Mushroom loves already
Had puffed and burst in hate.
So, chary and excited,
As a thrush linked on a hawk,
We thrilled to the March twilight
With nervous childish talk:
Still waters running deep
Along the embankment walk.
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 7:29 AM UTC
Words Heavy (Kiss Bukowski)
Drinking White Russians with Black Kenyans,
not joking you I was just in Ethiopia,
this it not a Haiku or a Love Poem,
this is gifted insanity like Jim Morrison,
no jealousy I’m already Seamus Heaney,
isn’t it ironic how we can be both depressed and happy,
like a ghost that won’t leave earth,
or a Self that’s over the hill but still tries to write ****
oh that’s touching,
like John Updike meeting E.E. Cummings,
not gay no way,
but I’d still kiss Charles Bukowski,
no bukkaki though,
because I’m a Simple Man and rather than,
bukkaki I’d probably like to make Love One on One,
I guess I’m New School and Old Fashion,
flirting with Death like I’ve already got my chips cashed in,
Life a Trip and can be a B!tch it depends on how you’re acting,
as an overwhelming sense of anxiety creeps into me,
like being Maya Angelou performing a show for the ****
a Civil Rights Superhero,
that makes Her point without any lustful thoughts of revenge,
presence light as a snowflake,
words heavy as the weight of the world on her back as it bends,
words heavy as the weight of the world on my will as it bends,
all the white watching my own show from the front row,
drinking White Russians with Black Kenyans,
joking I’m not joking,
I was just in Ethiopia,
this it not a Haiku or a Love Poem,
this is gifted insanity like Jim Morrison…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
My books are piled in the Hallway,
The Girlfriend wants me out,
She can keep all the household cargo
the insecurities and doubt.
I don't care much for chrome Toasters
Just give me my Damon Runyon,
Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway,
Jack Kerouac and Jack London.
Albert Camus, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh
Mayakovsky and Roger McGough,
the Steamer, bread -maker, Asparagus- spearer
Are all yours, I'm ******* off.
Just give me a dozen or so boxes,
Not those ***** looks,
Your welcome to the giant fridge-freezer,
All I want, are my books
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
Today a thought or two sped into center stage,
Disguising the space that surrounds the seas,
What if the lands we ran from were where we ought to be?
What if the green leaves of summer could no longer be seen,
Autumn colors only reminders of pastures in a dream.
Birds singing unfamiliar songs, ones we had never heard,
Yes, it is great to be part of the new but it isn't as new as it seems.
Dave, John and Mary have been here before,
Sure didn't they talk about it in the times?
No, that was some other folk, turning memories into sweet rhymes.
You weren't the first to open the door, spreading wisdom, giving new hope.
Remember all lands were founded so play in them how you may,
All of these pastures were built for your pleasure,
New characters created each day.
Its not that you are less special then all who have gone before.
No, you have a purpose, so use it, adding blocks to the core.
In memory of Seamus and Thomas, sing out to all who will listen,
Give them your whole hearted vision
Explain that a pasture isn't a prison.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
Morning is not my time of day,
That's when concepts float away,
Across the garden, down the lane,
Through the gate at Hester Payne's.
Teacher's pet and top pass,
Hester sits eyes front in class,
With rubbers straight and pencils sharp,
A clean page ready to start.
I, of course, am running late,
Hair a-fly, face scrubbed in haste.
Chasing my thoughts, I see them now,
Bouncing ahead: _’Where? Why? How?’_
Miss Armitage says I can do better,
Just follow her lead to the letter.
She raps twice: _’Attention, please!’_
We all fall quiet - three sniffs, one sneeze.
_’Now settle down, it's time to count.’_
Braids and partings turn around
To face the board and I'm up first.
Chalk in hand, could things get worse?
In front of Danny, in front of Sue,
In front of Seamus. And you know who?
Three plus three, then five times six,
Square root of nine, just take your pick.
Six and...thirty...three, I'm sure.
Or was that seven? Maybe four.
My mouth goes dry, I stare and blink.
Lord knows, I find it hard to think.
Up the corridor, down the stairs,
Right then left, my thoughts in pairs,
Sift and swirl and giddy about.
_’Behave yourself, now cut that out!’_
_’Come back here, where you belong.
Don't wonder off! Don't make me wrong!’_
I scratch my answers, the class is aghast,
It seems I've something right at last.
Hester sighs, as glum as can be,
For today...this morning...for everyone to see,
My thoughts have stuck with me.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
I am a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
All my sheets are white. And that's despite the fact that
I sleep with all my verbs on.
I've had friends that were good who were poets that are dead,
And the poem always got them in their sleep.
I rhyme with one eye open. I give birth in my sleep like a bear
To cubs that have left their crap on the notepad in the morning.
All over it; like letters from one poet to another -a thankful thing
Since poets say nice things nicer than non-poets; and even insult with
Slightly more finesse.
But it always gets you in the end, the poem. It gets you with the
Caps Lock, and you can see the Head of the Title, and then...
I'm a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
I traded it for a *****
I'll dig with it.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
His name was Father Harrigan.
He was so poor at the seminary . . .
Ireland’s flagship seminary,
Erin’s last remaining seminary,
Maynooth College near Dublin,
Once a network of theological schools
Exporting priests worldwide,
Struggling today to
Produce enough priests for
The shrinking next generation of
Irish Catholics . . .
He was so poor upon
Sacrament of Holy Orders,
He accepted a first post to Argentina,
Where he met a young Pope Francis,
“The Talking Mule,” as he was
Mocked back then, back in
The student lounge,
Universidad del Salvador,
A Jesuit institution,
Buenos Aires.
But I digress.
Father Harrigan made friends easily.
It wasn’t too long before
He had his choice assignment—
His coveted next assignment--
North America--specifically the
Boston Archdiocese,
For any ***** Irishman
A land of carnal opportunity &
Never Ending Corn Beef
& Cabbage Bowl®,
($Ka-Ching! Finally making poetry pay!$)
The Olive Garden.
Southie was where it all got
Started in 5th Grade, Elementary,
Our Lady of Tipperary, the
Spring talent show.
His mother convinced him to sing
One of George M. Cohan’s tune, i.e.
A tune by His Eminence
“Yankee Doodle Dandy,”
A song called "Harrigan."
**“H, A, Double-R-I, G-A-N spells Harrigan,
Proud of all the Irish blood that's in me . . .”**
What better way to ingratiate
Himself to his parish,
Or his parish priest to his family?
Father Seamus Harrigan:
Built like John Candy, RIP.
A fat Irish slob,
A captive of his appetites,
Including one for boys.
That guy should be given
Kennedy Center Honors, for
Giving the gift that keeps on giving:
That first exquisite *******
Which in subsequent years
Defined my taste for women
Capable of perfection.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
Seamus would talk about those,
"Sexually liberated Ithaca College girls."
I guess that's what I thought you were.
Cornell with it's ******* frat houses.
and ******* nasty frat parties.
We met in the basement of mine.
I was still hungover.
I don't blame you for thinking
I was just another frat boy.
I don't know for sure,
We were so far apart.
But I think we were both shocked,
That we had found real people.
Normal people.
Caring and sensitive.
Doing cute little romantic things.
Saying the right stuff,
And in between, saying the wrong stuff.
Letting the weird stuff spill out.
Then thinking maybe it wasn't so weird.
Maybe there was somebody amazing,
Hidden behind the person I made them out to be.
Maybe that wildness I saw.
It was't exotic.
It wasn't ***
It was familiar.
It was looking in a mirror.
It was a sunset at the farm,
And morning coffee with my family.
I knew it when I saw it.
But it took me a long time to know what I saw.
If I hadn't learned who I was.
If I hadn't looked in the mirror and
Understood,
Finally,
What I was seeing.
I wouldn't have understood
Why I wanted you so bad.
I want to hold your head in my hands.
See that fire in your eyes.
Relive the first time.
Every time.
See home,
From so far away.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
folding the pages to an escape
consume the clarity
worth the calories?
cut cut cut
you ate. You stupid *****
the edible woman.
girl, interrupted.
my eyes track along the shapes of my sanctity
a little train to my escape
i run as fast as my eyes can carry me.
isolated in my alphabets
my bell jar.
the Grecian shapes have fenced around me
but I'm snug as a gun.
and i cannot force myself to my own conceit.
Seamus Heaney
Shakespeare
my true friends.
listen to me. Speak to me
through their squiggles and stories.
who don't ask me to eat.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 7:11 AM UTC
— for Seamus Heaney
Forging scaffold and wells of tongue,
Whose every word— rung to the stars,
One sprite, born a new heart to Ulster,
Tanged in sounds of the beating sparkle,
Now the leftover sun, a light in absence,
Falls with leaves of the turning autumn,
Tears, sloping, in a feathered arc, so fair,
Splitting to the shores of a western isle.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Wouldn’t it be great
a decade from now
when it’s bills, insurance,
married life,
to wander into Waterstone’s
and go *‘hold on a minute,
I sat next to him!’*
At the counter we could say
*‘Oh, I knew the author,
uni days and all that’*
as we fish around
for a ten quid note
thinking *‘hang on,
I should have a signed copy!'*
We’ll call ourselves
intellectual,
scrawl sonnets in cafes,
sup pints, smoke cigars,
proclaim Seamus’s work
*‘just... just… it just speaks
to me you know?’*
And we’ll remember
that teapot,
those guys coming in late,
dishing out slips of paper
like a croupier with cards
and still wonder
if what we’ve written is magic.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
— for Seamus Heaney
Forging scaffold and wells of tongue,
Whose every word— rung to the stars,
One sprite, born a new heart to Ulster,
Tanged in sounds of the beating sparkle,
Now the leftover sun, a light in absence,
Falls with leaves of the turning autumn,
Tears, sloping, in a feathered arc, so fair,
Splitting to the shores of a western isle.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
— for Seamus Heaney
Forging scaffold and wells of tongue,
Whose every word— rung to the stars,
One sprite, born a new heart to Ulster,
Tanged in sounds of the beating sparkle,
Now the leftover sun, a light in absence,
Falls with leaves of the turning autumn,
Tears, sloping, in a feathered arc, so fair,
Splitting to the shores of a western isle.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
You are 49 today,
49 years ago you were born,
In 16 days, you will be gone one year.
I have thought about you a lot today,
Thought about who you were and what you are now.
Death hasn't changed you,
It has changed the value people have for you.
I wonder if its because when you die, people seem to care that little bit more,
They care more about you than they did when you were alive.
I know that sounds harsh,
But god its the ****** truth.
They cry over you and pray for you,
But who the **** did that when you were alive.
I prayed for you..I prayed when you were alive and I will be sure to pray for you now your dead.
I prayed because I cared, I knew the struggles ,
The problems ,
The utter **** that was served to you and called life.
And yes,
Yes Seamus I am mad.
In fact I am livid,
Not with you,
But with him.
The big man in the sky we call our saviour.
49 today..how the hell is that a decent age to die when your life was only starting.
And I am sorry,
Sorry that this poem I wrote for you doesn't rhyme and is all negative,
But sometimes..you gotta just let it go and say **** it.
I will for today, light a single candle and made a wish for you.
And dear Gem of mine,
I wish you peace,
But most of all...I wish you a Happy Birthday
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
"That's something poetry can do for you, it can entrance you for a moment above the pool of your own consciousness and your own possibilities."
Seamus Heaney
it is not enough
the eyes, the ears,
the ebb and flow
of calcium in bones
of iron in stars
sometimes silence pours down
like a blessing
some left their offices
and they're now deciphering
the eyes of thunder
some inner power turns me around:
the tribes of air
the shapes of a child's wonder
the involuntary rehearsal of words
this passivity of language
like jazz phrases
the wrinkles of that woman
imprinted in my heart
(by her murderous fingers)
spring gives me rose-like mornings
(because of my bedroom curtains)
and there is something else
this feeling of oneness
the cedar and the flowering river
motherly care, exhaustion, or not knowing
and the hues of morning skies
countless fleeting little gestures
and the cries of birds
tearing solitudes
my complete abandonment to him
in the sea of time
I let the window open
every day is a declaration of love
even when I hate
the dance with the unknown
the inextricable
the polyphony of laughter
and darkness
you live in me during the day
and I **** your name each night
anew
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
You escaped us and went somewhere better,
I like to think of it as a world with no worries.
A world where you are free to be demon free.
A world where you weren't plagued with addiction and debt.
But now, as I look at you laying in a wooden box,
Your brown beads clasped stiffly in your hands,
I realise you were like me,
You never believed in a God,
So where will you go?
I rub your cold leather hands,
And for the first time I break down,
I break down because it's not you.
Not the Seamus, I believed in and loved.
And I know in the mourning I will let you die,
But for right now,
I will cry the pain out,
But deep down I know this pain will not go.
So as you escape,
I will try and bring you back,
No running away from this burden,
Even though I carry them on my shoulders.
So in this mourning I will rise,
In this mourning I will let you die,
But Seamus, what if I am not ready to mourn and let you die?
Where can I escape to then,
Because I am praying to a God I dont believe in.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
( for Seamus Heaney)
as if the pale stones
share the warmth
between two sides
sea and field cut
early light and fallen morning
the path weathered and slow.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
Seamus hopes
that the girl
Moran will
(he's heard she
maybe will)
have a touch
and a kiss
maybe more
he sees her
by the fence
standing there
moodily
other kids
going home
from the school
walking past
the wire fence
she sees him
approaching
his swagger
the dark hair
snotty nose
how are ya?
Seamus asks
who's asking?
Mary says
eyeing him
her satchel
by her feet
you now me
I'm Seamus
he replies
taking in
her fine eyes
her small bust
what you want?
Mary says
walking on
he follows
how about
you and me
meeting up?
Seamus asks
we've met up
I mean some
place after
school where we
can do things
Seamus says
what you mean
by do things?
Go to church?
Kiss a nun?
Go visit
the sick ones
or the poor?
Mary says
monotone
I thought of
something more
Seamus says
maybe us
touching up
kissing such
I'd rather
smell a pig's
foul behind
than kiss you
or let you
touch my skin
Mary says
her voice hard
(thinking of
Magdalene's
hands on her
and kissing
a day back)
up you then
***** teasing
Moran girl
fecking ****
he walks off
*********
signs to her
hope you get
warts on yours
Seamus Doyle
Mary calls
after him
she walks on
home from school
muttering
to herself
fecking fool.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC