"tipperary" poems
Whisky in the bottle
County Donegal
The flowing river swilly
In the distance Errigal
I don't know how I made it
To the port of letterkenny
Nor where I'm going next
As my bottles almost empty
I am just a poor boy
Born in county Tipperary
I left my family farm
And the maiden I would marry
I made my way to Ulster
Searching for the town of Derry
I spend all my gold on whiskey
Now I cant afford the ferry
Met a man from cork
In a pub where I was drinking
Why come so far north
We were talking and were thinking
Kilometres from home
And from anyone we've known
County Donegal
And there's whisky in the bottle
Whack-fol de daddy-ol
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Daves trowel has a hickory handle,
With a blade thats broader than most,
It could cover the **** of a Tipperary mare
Going down to the Steeplechase post.
I spin it around in my palm,
the trowel . . . not the horse,
Its old, from a bygone age,
When skill was the poor brother of force.
Now its weatherbeaten and corroded,
Every cut and nick still lingers,
Daves trowel shines as bright as day,
Im talking about my fingers.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
i tip toed to tipperary with its land so green with lots of different things that made a lovely scenethere were hills and mountains and castles everywhere. lots of lakes and rivers i saw while i was there i saw piper playing such a lovely tunewalking through the glen underneath the moonthere was lots of grass as soft as eiderdown.and clouds that looked like silk in this tipperary town.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 5:48 AM UTC
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Raises his arms to shelter himself
From the cloudless sky
He ticks off seconds with the twitch of his left knee
And the jump of his unhinging jaw
He falls
He falls nowhere
But flat, back, motionless in his seat
Hands cocooning head like a heavy day’s work
And then digging up and pressing down
Trying to rid himself of the sounds
Which splice him like glass shards
Or screaming shrapnel
And mutilate
His view of a pretty English station
And a blue steam engine
Beaming like the moon for which it was named
04:18 and he sets himself straight
Like ***** shoelaces
Or cards on the mantelpiece
Winds a bit of string
Around his wedding finger
And croons
As a man inside a toddler
Re-wired refrains
Lick his lips like soup stains
*Pack up your troubles…
Long way to Tipperary…
In your old kit bag…
I wonder who’s…
My heart’s right there…
Kissing her now…
Smile, smile, smile…*
And from my compartment
I watch him fade like
An ink blot from a pillow case
While a boy who looks a lot like him
Turns with purposeful avoidance
And takes the opposite view
Of a pretty English station
He soothes the angry creases
Of his forehead
Of his uniform
And smiles
Smiles
Smiles
And mutters to himself
And they said it would be over by Christmas
04:14 and the shadows are long
A boy pressed into a rail-side bench
Jogs his knees
With the obligatory poppy
His mum pushed into the zip of his winter coat
Drooping like a hangnail
He is busied and hassled
By the phone in his palm
It plays an odd kind of game
Where those who die
Are allowed to come back
And press Retry
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
I see a payload on the rocky road
and no one's crying wolf
we're a long,long way from Tipperary
but there's warships in the gulf.
The clock spins back,the lights burn low
and off we go once more
we're a long,long way from Tipperary
but it's still a ****** war.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
No social ***********
no discourse on current affairs,
on who's doing what or where or to whom
and that's why you will always be
the silence in the silent room.
In aluminium doorways where the sun's rays reflect
I have always suspected a hoax,
japery that capers about my head,
is it me or the sun that is dead?
Victorian cobblestone paths made from grandad's dry bones
and shells off the front line on the Somme
meandering,
Picardy's never that far from me and
Tipperary just goes on and on.
I sit here in reverie and the world
pebbledashes me
I am becoming a scroll lost to history
a paint *** full of scenery
the brush with the bristles
all gone.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 4:58 AM 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
She belonged to him, no other man,
So he said to her each day she left.
To sell the eggs and the dress she made,
To pull them from the line of the poor.
On the way to town each day she passed,
The rings of County Tipperary.
The ancient rings that live the wee folk,
Who dance in moonlight and trick us all.
That day she waited to see her kin,
But she left no gift to please the old.
So home she came with arms still heavy,
and a chest that weighed a cough so foul.
“My Bridget” as he knelt by her bed,
Holding her hand as it shook with cold.
In the crack of the flame voices he heard
To hang him from his grief with despair.
The news he heard was of his father
Whom died the evening he felt alone.
Mr Cleary swore and slammed his fist.
“Midnight tonight or Bridget is lost!”
The men in village knew the tale,
Of the wee folk who cursed Bridget.
The woman in the Cleary home bed,
Was an echo of the wife he loved.
They held her down and asked her, her name,
She screamed and growled but did not reply,
Three times they asked and still she refused.
So tight the grips they beat her to sleep.
The morning arrived, Bridget awoke,
To her husband who looked upon her.
His eyes full of loss and fear as-well,
“my Bridget?” he asked “are they gone now?”
She smiled and agreed, she was alone,
So the priest came to deliver mass.
Mr Cleary agreed and drank from the cup
But he knew that his wife was not home.
He asked her again, three more times; “Speak,
Your name to me now, are you my wife?”
Each time she replied “It is I, Yes.”
Michael still knew his wife was away.
That evening men from the town arrived
And took Bridget deep into the bog,
Where they bound her and lay her down flat,
As she screamed for her husband to help.
“It is I, It is me, Your sweet wife,
Believe me my husband I am here,
No faerie has seized my soul from me,
No witch has uttered a devil curse.”
Her mouth was covered and bound so tight
Her screams were made only with her eyes.
In front of the men, Michael asked her.
“Are you my wife? My Bridget Cleary?”
No voice or reply came from the girl.
Her body lay still in the bog land.
So onto a bed of wood she was placed,
And burned in the cold evening moon light.
The story was told through the village,
That Bridget had fled with another,
A man who bought all her eggs each week,
But not everyone believed this tale.
The priest of the village found Michael,
Praying blood, sweat and tears in the church.
He told him the fairies had taken,
The changeling they had placed there before.
The priest told the men of the Garda
That ****** was rife in this village.
That men had taken a sick women
And burned her to death in the bog land.
Michael was guilty of Manslaughter
No conviction of ****** was passed
For the people believed his story,
The woman who burned was not his wife
To this day the rings of Tipperary
Still grow foxglove and weeds in the cracks,
The Faerie mounds are feared like darkness
And steered clear of, by those who live near.
Even now it is heard in the school,
By the children who skip on the rope.
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
i went to tipperary with its land so green
with lots of different things that made a lovely scene
there were hills and mountains and castles everywhere.
lots of lakes and rivers i saw while i was there.
i saw pipers playing such a lovely tune
walking through the glen underneath the moon
there was lots of grass as soft as eiderdown.
clouds that looked like silk in tipperary town.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Magdalene lay beside Mary
on her own bed
as Magadalene's parents
were out shopping in town
wonder what
Sister Luke'd say
if she saw us here
like this? Mary said
exhaling smoke
from the cigarette
she held away
from her lips,
probably have a fit
or wet her bloomers
in the middle of Mass
Magdalene said
before she inhaled smoke
from her cigarette
and going red in her plump face
she'd mouth out
half a dozen Hail Marys
Magdalene said
through a mouthful of smoke,
what'd your Da say
if he saw us now?
Mary said
bet he'd take to your behind
with his big hairy hand
and mine too
she added laughing,
Magdalene hadn't put on
the record player
so she could hear
if the parents returned
and they could
vacate the bed as quick
as they could and dress,
are you still seeing
the Brady boy?
Magdalene asked
as I saw you talking to him
the other day
and you were making him laugh,
wouldn't give him more
than a smile the big loon
nor let him near my *** ***
nor lick my skin Mary said,
they turned to face each other
having stubbed out
their cigarettes
in the ashtray
beside the bed
and embraced
for the last time
before dressing,
they had just dressed
when the downstairs door opened
and they could hear
her father's voice
and so left the bedroom
and went downstairs
acting all innocent
and pure as angels
and lied about what
they had been doing,
the parents greeted Mary
in half smiles and lowered voices
and were glad when she left
and moaned at Magdalene
for bringing her home,
just played records and talked
Magdalene lied
sensing the kisses
which had stayed
and dried.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC
& AGAIN: "YES!"
He stepped out of
the photo
stretched and
gave a great yawn.
He had been standing by that
wall it seemed forever.
The sun shone
in black&white.;
Outside it was
night.
He had never seen his grandson
who lived in colour
on the mantlepiece just
newly born.
He strode out boldly
in 3-D
with the strange gait of a 2-D'er
trying to put his best foot forward.
It was a long long way to
the photo of Tipperary
and the smiling newborn boy
but by God he made it.
His grandson lay smiling
in a shaft of sunlight
that rocked him gently
and gently.
He stepped into the colour
and turned into a nice sepia.
He held his grandson
against his chest
smiling
in Kodachrome.
Then put him back
in the frame.
He managed to return
to his own black& white
as headlights travelled
across the ceiling
before the telephone rang
and the morning awoke
and sleepy feet from above
went to answer it with a yawn:
"Yes...yes. . ."
& again:
"YES!"
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
Her baby was buried
in a grave alongside 827 other babies.
Who knew no mothers.
Her mother thought it best
to let the nuns help her sell the child to the Americans.
The babies would have had names like Dermot, Aoife, Sandra and Sean
"Would have" isn’t an awfully good thing to think about.
It was a typically miserable November Sunday
When they brought her over there
after that last mass.
Unrelated to this, there is a launderette named the Magdalene
in the city I live in, which is nowhere near Tipperary but in the East of England.
In fairness, it is located on Magdalen Street, without the second “e”,
A once rough and tumble but now an up and coming kind of place,
where among the students and young professionals getting their whites cleaned
the only ones likely to take offense at this are students of history or the named émigré children of
Irish parents.
I’ve been told it’s now a chain of launderettes, but I imagine the owners have enough on their mind
without constantly Googling their services.
When they let her out of the home for troubled girls,
it was the warmest July she’d ever seen.
Some days the baby’s name is Michael, others it’s Matthew, recently, it’s been Corey, Ryan, even Sean.
But she never wishes that it would have been a girl.
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 12:53 PM UTC
Mary Moran rolls a cigarette
between fingers and thumbs,
liberated tobacco and paper
from her da's pocket,
if he knew he'd belt her behind,
she licks the paper end
with her damp tongue,
rolls it thin and lights it up
with a Swan Vesta stole
from her ma's kitchen box,
Magdalene she'd met
at the coffee bar
had a laugh talked
of Sister Bridget and the priest
and some going ons,
sweet Mags gazed at her
placed a hand on her thigh
talked of her da,
the smoke rises
from the ciggie skyward
cloud like,
Martha sat sipping her coffee
********* her rosary
in the bar like Brian
fingers my bra strap
the loon,
Mary knows what
Brian is after
he's more chance
of the pox than that
she muses watching
the smoke twirl
as it touches the roof
of the greenhouse glass,
if Da found me now
he'd tan my ***
she muses inhaling
deeper lungful drag,
the priest in confessions
(the old boy)nigh on
had a heart attack
when she confessed
the weeks worth,
spluttering she heard
through the wire mesh
of the confessional,
Magdalene wants me
to go listen to LPs
on her record player
in her room away
from her da and ma
and their moans and groans,
Martha with her blue eyes
stared at the crucifix
on her rosary
like a lovesick cow
as they sipped their coffee
and yakked
of the priest and nun
and imagined fun.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
Dear Charlie,
Don’t worry about me, I am doing all alright
Today I ate a Rhubarb custard pie
Like mom used to cook when we would’ve cried
Or when we finished eating dinner late in the night
Then, we played "Beat Your Neighbor Out Of Doors"
And we wagered collectible cigarette packs
I have won a Lucky strike just like yours
So I exchange it for a bugles and dots snack
Later, we listened to the radio
Everyone knew: “It's a Long Way to Tipperary"
I looked at some memorable photos
Even the one with grandpa who stayed temporarily
Finishing the day, I read the book you gave me
Looking at the sky, reminiscing our memories
At the end of the day, I cherish you greatly
So, little brother, don’t worry about me
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC
((20 minute poetry)
To be sure
the beginning always starts with a flutter of hearts and the shivers that run down your spines.
Has it happened to you
how many times,
and can you tell me
what did it do?
did it make all those dreams that you once dreamt come true,
or did the heart only flutter in you?
down here on the lower rung
where the choir boys once
stood and
sung,
it's a long way back to
Tipperary.
From Bantry bay
through Kenmare
on the way,
then on to the old town of
Cork
it was a long road,
but a nice day
for a walk.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
I'm nostalgic for those old wars;
The coloured Roses kind,
With heroes and villains named Henry or Joe.
Wars that inspired poems about fields and bunkers.
And songs. So many catchy lilts with
Tipperary, white cliffs and battleships.
And slogans that made children want to fight
Against Loose Lips and encrypted blips on collateral damages.
I could be persuaaded to enlist,
To serve along side guys like the Duke,
And **** and **** Tojos and Huns,
While singing and dancing.
And the community. How all chipped in with the Effort.
Congealing around ***** of yarn or tinfoil... and victory gardens!
We'd be three deep on the boulevard, handing flowers to marching children on Main St.,
And the pulpits and towers exalt our efforts:
*God is with us.
Shangdi yu women tong zai.
Dieu est avec nous.
Gott ist mit uns.
Bag s nami.
Dio e con noi*.
Nobody has penned a memorable song
About Nagasaki;
We've seen some brain numbing,
Award winning pics
About Hiroshima.
We won't meet again.
I don't know when,
But how is definite.
A few big boys,
And...
Phsssszzzzzt!
How does that song go?
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 10:23 AM UTC
Martha stood outside the door
of Sister Teresa’s office;
other pupils passed by
along the corridor
on their way to lessons.
One of the pupils
came over and said:
What you doing here?
Martha paused
********* her rosary
in her skirt pocket.
Seeing her
about my vocation
to be a nun,
she said.
Rather you than me,
Mary said,
I wouldn’t be a nun
for all the holy water in Rome:
See you later,
and she walked off
down the corridor.
Martha resumed
********* her rosary
and muttering an Ave.
The door opened
and the nun
poked her head out:
Come in, Martha.
Martha entered the room
and the nun closed the door
behind them,
and sat at the desk.
Sit down, Martha.
Martha sat in the chair
opposite the nun.
Sister Teresa,
fingered pages
in front of her.
So you want
to be a nun?
Martha nodded
and gazed at the nun.
The nun was thin
and had a pointed nose
and thin line of a mouth.
What kind of nun?
Sister Teresa asked.
A good nun,
Martha replied.
The nun frowned:
I meant, an active
or contemplative nun.
Contemplative nun,
Martha said.
She focused on the crucifix
on the wall above the nun’s head:
the Crucified's eyes
were half open
and half closed,
and the crown of thorns
was pushed down
into the head.
The nun studied
the young girl
opposite her: plump
with brown hair
and a vacant expression
on her face.
Have you spoken
to the priest
about this?
the nun asked.
Yes,
Martha replied
returning her gaze
to the nun.
What did he say?
the nun asked.
To see you,
Martha said.
The nun looked
at the girl’s expression,
at her other-worldly gaze.
Have you any particular
order in mind?
Martha’s eyes lifted
to the feet of Christ,
nailed one on top
of the other, bloodied.
Not sure which,
Martha said,
but my auntie Rose
is a Benedictine nun
in some abbey
in the south.
The nun gazed
at the girl’s hands
********* a rosary.
She took down a book
behind her and opened it.
Shall we write
to the Benedictine order?
she asked.
Martha wanted to go
and kiss the feet of Christ,
place her lips
where the feet met.
Cistercians nuns,
Martha said,
gazing back at the nun.
The nun scribbled down
the address of the order
from the book.
I will write to the abbess
of the order
and see what she suggests,
the nun said,
but you will need to be
at least sixteen
before you can enter,
although they prefer eighteen.
Martha remembered seeing
a photograph of a Cistercian nun
in a book from the school library.
I’m nearly fifteen,
she said,
and by the time
all the letter writing is done
and I make a visit
and they see me,
the time will go,
Martha said.
The nun said
she would write
and after a few
more questions,
Martha left the room.
The nun gazed
at the door;
she would
write the letter
and express
the best she could
about the girl.
She was certainly not
the usual fifteen year old
in Tipperary;
and there was something
a bit odd about her,
how she eyed
the crucifix on the wall
during the interview.
She would write
and hopefully
it would do.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC
The sky is blue, the water green,
the sand is white and the Seagulls squawk.
The squish between my toes is friendly.
Try as hard as I can I find
no joy.
The children dash about and
mother's call. The red
bathing suit of the toddler
shines and is beautiful.
The lovers on the blanket
kiss, oblivious to my gaze.
The sun is strong, the breeze
is glorious. The lifeguard
watches the bathers from
a ladder high off the ground.
I walk, alone, along the shore
holding no one's hand.
The salt air is filled with the
smells of Sunday.
You are off to the wars and
I am walking to Tipperary.
Caroline Shank
10.18.19
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC