"sligo" poems
I CALL on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.
Have I, that put it into words,
Spoilt what old ***** have sent?
Eyes spiritualised by death can judge,
I cannot, but I am not content.
He that in Sligo at Drumcliff
Set up the old stone Cross,
That red-headed rector in County Down,
A good man on a horse,
Sandymount Corbets, that notable man
Old William pollexfen,
The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back,
Half legendary men.
Infirm and aged I might stay
In some good company,
I who have always hated work,
Smiling at the sea,
Or demonstrate in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content.
4.1k
YOU waves, though you dance by my feet like children
at play,
Though you glow and you glance, though you purr and
you dart;
In the Junes that were warmer than these are, the waves
were more gay,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
The herring are not in the tides as they were of old;
My sorrow! for many a creak gave the creel in the-cart
That carried the take to Sligo town to be sold,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
And ah, you proud maiden, you are not so fair when
his oar
Is heard on the water, as they were, the proud and apart,
Who paced in the eve by the nets on the pebbly shore,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
3.3k
WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney.
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.
2.9k
DO not because this day I have grown saturnine
Imagine that lost love, inseparable from my thought
Because I have no other youth, can make me pine;
For how should I forget the wisdom that you brought,
The comfort that you made? Although my wits have gone
On a fantastic ride, my horse's flanks are spurred
By childish memories of an old cross Pollexfen,
And of a Middleton, whose name you never heard,
And of a red-haired Yeats whose looks, although he died
Before my time, seem like a vivid memory.
You heard that labouring man who had served my
people. He said
Upon the open road, near to the Sligo quay --
No, no, not said, but cried it out -- "You have come again,
And surely after twenty years it was time to come.'
I am thinking of a child's vow sworn in vain
Never to leave that valley his fathers called their home.
2.1k
The tour guide was usually a taxi-driver,
But for a few extra Euros, he was my guide.
Jobs are scarce.
For two hours we toured Yeats Country,
Me, sitting beside this man of letters, and for once,
Enjoying the drive and not the anxiety
On Irish roads.
They're narrow and winding to Ben Bulben,
With stops at neolithic stone circles, burial mounds,
Passageways and, A Fairy's Fort.
The culmination was Drumcliff Churchyard
Where I was to prove his existence.
He has an unassuming stone,
One usually doesn't linger long,
But my Guide stood beside me,
And suddenly recited,
The Fiddler of Dooney.
I was sure it was Yeats' accent,
This unassuming poet.
I did as bid,
I
Cast a cold eye,
And stood glad that
I
Wasn't him,
As I stopped,
Before passing by.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
De elevating power might
seem a futile task for a mere
earthling, disadvantaged by
stature, and of course due to
being under surveillance from
an altitude beyond reach, of
even, the imagination.
Such being the predicament
of an elderly Weasel inattentive
to the hidden dangers from an
intemperate predator soaring
directly above, just waiting to
profit from this evident dotage.
Down swooped the winged
carnivore, availing of surprise,
up-draught and velocity, it
quickly sank its talons into the
side of the disabled animal
and rose triumphantly into
the empty sky and high.
But just as possessions fall through
fingers, the winds of change were
about to reverse the tide of misfortune.
The stunned carcass, which only seconds
previously seemed as though was dead
as dead could be, suddenly posed a
problem for its captor (in flight).
Immediately, there was a notable change
of direction and a notable drop in the
flight horizontal, the big bird was visibly
in trouble, the Weasel had sunk its teeth
into the undercarriage, securing itself
from being released of the foot spikes.
The underdog was not going to go down
without a fight and there was nothing,
absolutely nothing The Eagle could do,
no negotiation, no solution other than
land, because The Weasel was not going
to let go and The Eagle was loosing fuel.
Efforts to dislodge The Weasel proved
nugatory, yet, The Weasel was prepared
to **** the Eagle in flight, a pyrrhic victory
is as democratic as one could wish for.
The Eagle had no option, down it came,
flew low along by the tree tops in an effort
to detach itself for The Weasel.
The Weasel availed of the Hobson Choice
and released itself from the breastbone
clambered on to the branches, making
its way out of the tree.
Meanwhile, The Eagle after a huge loss
of blood, left a trail along to forest floor
for The Weasel to follow
Ps.
The leech Eagle ended up in College Road
Sligo where it has a nest.
What became of it, is still unknown, but we
are sure, that The Weasel has not given up.
This is the Fable of Free Travel.
A pass given to the author by
a Government agency in Sligo
Ireland, and taken away with
no explanation.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 9:33 AM UTC
That night was cold,
The wind was biting.
All over Ireland
the snow was falling
“I was packing
my trousseau,
To Dublin town
I was to go.”
“I heard a pebble
strike my pane.
A moment passed,
then, there, again.”
“I looked out
On the snow filled lane.
That’s when I saw him,
Saw my Michael.
His pale face raised
toward my light.
Like an angel
lost in contemplation.”
“Michael’s health was not the best.
His lungs were weak
and fluid filled.”
“Soon after I had left the West,
I heard that he had fallen ill.”
“He’s buried now near Sligo town,
between Ben Bulben and the sea.
Michael Furey's soul is free,
You know, I think he died for me.”
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
Ah I get scared sometimes.
Sometimes it is terrible being,
and to be and to be,
it is terrible.
Oh I do repent me here my shred,
my little of lonely happiness,
which with syntax allowing,
here vanquish shed.
Nay morn not, but read in accent,
and accent like Sligo people,
W.B. Yeast and the others,
whoever they may honey bee,
for this is Sligo Lament,
me in the lamenting of it,
for two more lines,
Sligo Lament.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
She opens and closes her eyes
She smiles and says I’m fine.
Do you know that’s a lie?
When she cries she doesn’t tell you
You get mad at her for small stuff
and it breaks her heart through and through.
Did you notice her tears…? No?
She wants to tell you
But it kills her to make you worry
So she shuts up and pretends
……did you notice the mistakes………
……no well then let me fix them……
He opens and closes his eyes.
He smiles and says I’m fine.
Do you know that’s a lie?
When he cries he doesn’t tell you
You get mad at him for small stuff
and it breaks his heart through and through.
Did you notice his tears…? No?
he wants to tell you
But it kills him to make you worry
So he shuts up and pretends
-chyanne (kyle) sligo
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 5:15 PM UTC
The poor men will rise with the searchlight of God streaming out from their eyes and the sinner shall have this day.
On the *** of the city where the fat cats and pretty boys walk,,where the talk is of bonds and debentures,diamonds in dentures and pearl driven breath,
there,
where the air lingers sad and the crazy man had all the luck he would get,and
standing tight on the floor calling more,give me more as if enough was not a feast,was
Jimmy Malone at home in the square mile and though crooked his smile he was as straight as a die,
he'd say, 'good morning my dear' with a grin or a leer and you knew you'd be faked out or taken down in the trading,but he was honest enough among the shylocks and tough boys who used to be hawkers down in the markets until Thatcher (the plot hatcher) showed them the yellow brick clique down in Threadneedle street,but
now they're just wide boys with big gobs,the new gentlemen fat slobs,pinstriped fat **** wipes who ain't got no time for their roots,all bar Jimmy Malone,
who calls mum and dad twice weekly at home and sends a cheque through the post to the boys club in Sligo where the young lads still go to learn how to live.
This is give and take city where nothing's given freely not even pity,where you're charged for your time by the dollar or the dime and the rich will stitch you sideways which only proves that crime does pay.
It's the sinners who win in the end,
while we're chasing geese they're fleecing us blind,I don't mind that's just life,sometimes I wish I was living it and
not shoveling ****
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
The doctors told her: “Leukaemia”.
More cancer? So I munched up Molly
and chain-smoked Benson
in the night club outdoor area.
The lights were stunning,.
We marched a half mile in heels
over frosted ground with knocking knees,
looking for people to please.
New Year’s Eve.
A house filled up to the brim
with big, fat eyes and dancing lovers
in a horrid estate in Sligo town.
2016 rang in, triumphantly.
I was surrounded by beautiful people
drowning in loud music
slept at 8am and dreamt of her.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!—
Two tweakers, a rat, and a Jellicle cat
Have all built their nests in my beard."
There was an Old Man of Connecticut,
Who possessed an innate sense of etiquette;
He'd lay down the fork to the left of the spork,
That mannerly man of Connecticut.
There was an Old Man from Earth's center,
Who left it and couldn't reënter;
He crawled out a hole like a man who's a mole,
And lost his way back to the center.
There was an Old Person of Skye,
Who spent his days wondering, "Why?"
When they asked, "What's the word?" he replied, "Haven't heard,"
That discouraged Old Person of Skye.
There was an Old Man of Seattle,
Who had an attraction to cattle;
Considering bovine anatomy _so_ fine,
He prodded the cows of Seattle.
There once was from Thessaloniki
A man who was geeky and greeky;
An avid fanatic of things democratic,
He voted in Thessaloniki.
There was an Old Person of Perth,
Who buried his gold in the Earth
And then plum forgot whereat was the spot,
That forgetful Old Person of Perth.
There was a Young Man of the South,
Who mouthwashed with whiskey his mouth;
He spoke with a drawl, saying yes'm and y'all,
That drawling Young Man of the South.
There was a Young Person of Boston,
Who wandered around and got lost in
The Chinatown section with a raging ********
That poked out an eyeball in Boston.
There was an Old Person named Lear,
Who surely was scroobious and queer;
He sat rather fat, and Old Foss was his cat,
And he couldn't abide ginger beer.
Mar 24, 2025
Mar 24, 2025 at 5:00 PM UTC
In the shadow of Ben Bulben
off the road from Mullaghmore
in the parish yard of Drumcliffe
you will find me there for sure.
It is a fair spot where I lie
Here in my native loam.
This was my heart’s desire
This was my mother’s family home.
How beautiful is Sligo
that I nevermore will see.
I’ve now become a part of that
which was a part of me.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
Touring County Sligo
In my Toyota Aygo.
In-built Sat Nav Mishap,
No real road map.
Lost in County Sligo
Cursing my Toyota Aygo.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 4:30 PM UTC
There are mountains
Benbulben is a beacon
There are lakes tied
to rivers and brooks
There are bye-ways
of The Drovers era
And romantic villages
with poetical names
It is bordered to Donegal
by a seminal chord
Which gives it a melodic
accent in regional intonation.
Dec 27, 2020
Dec 27, 2020 at 8:48 AM UTC
Made by the faeries of Sligo,
Is she stealing me for her kind?
If she is I'd have no choice but to go,
I really wouldn't mind
My hand she takes, my heart awakes
Her aura and aurora -
unexplored they are
What parties are there?
Will she dance with me -
in the faerie way
And kiss in the ferns
In the moonlight
Till day.
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 3:11 PM UTC
Irish Government senior
citizens free travel card
announcement.
Attention all bearers.
Before embarking on any
journey, by rail or bus, you
must contact the provider
at College Road Sligo, as
these computerised cards
can be deleted at any time
without notice.
If you and your travel
companion happen to
be trapped an unable to
return, then, it is your own
problem.
May 4, 2019
May 4, 2019 at 5:22 AM UTC
Slimy Snails of Sligo,
Slither Slowly and
Sleazily Slouching,
Suspiciously Sliding
Surreally, Squirming
Sidelong, Stopping,
Senior, Sitizens Special
Status Social Services.
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 1:57 AM UTC