Emigration never left

There was a time, maybe thirteen or fourteen years ago when it seemed the country was rid, once and for all, of the sad days of mass emigration. All was lift; then came the collapse. Now, Dublin is vibrant again, but in many rural parts it's the old story of population decline, absence of youth, absence of vigour.

The scene I'm describing seemed like it was becoming less relevant, but unfortunately no.

No People

The hunch-doubled thorns,

ingrown pantries

dung-puddled;

the moss-stone walls

tumble-gapped.

The nettle-cracked doorway,

lintel-fallen

byre-footed;

the cloud curtained windows

elder-berried.

The stone-sheltered air

bumbled still,

ruin-reverent;

the submerged garden ridges

dumb-founded.

Crosses in a snow-covered military cemetery.

These crosses seem to rise from oblivion

and carry oblivion on their shoulders.

In their ranks, each is unaware of the next,

as though the world must teeter on him alone.

And silence is the law, since all around is silent;

each one white as the ground he stands on.

Workshop Tips for Poetry Beginners

1.       Check that details included as factual are accurate.

2.       Check that words you have used do not have unplanned, unhelpful connotations.

3.       Colloquialisms should be used for definite purpose or effect; casually inserted, they often jar.

4.       Use ‘like’ and ‘as’ sparingly e.g. the train crawled out of the station like a caterpillar.

5.       Avoid explaining yourself; imagery or other poetic mechanisms may provide a necessary clarification.

6.       Avoid moralizing.

7.    Beware of lines you really like in your poems; if they are 'stand out' to you, they'll quite possibly unbalance the boat.

8.       Avoid changes of style in a poem, unless there is a specific purpose (e.g. the sudden appearance of rhyme).

9.       Read your poetry out loud to check cadence.

10.   One poor (lazy) line sinks a poem.

11.   Engage with art of all types regularly; poetry is art, artistic taste brushes off on your work.

12.   Compile a list of events/experiences/sights from your past and present life that could spark poetry.

13.   Look at day to day events in terms of their writing potential and take notes.

14.   Create a mood for your creativity with evocative music, images, smells etc.

15.   Poems seldom arrive in finished state; be patient, leave them to sit, and edit them after a reasonable period of cooling off time.

16.   Retain older versions of poems. Rewriting can change the tenor of a piece of work. It may transpire that you have more than one poem among a series of drafts.

17.   Old poems, that have been unsuccessful, can prove excellent sources of lines that, stitched together, recombine into  new and successful poems.
18. Get yourself a critic, who sees the world your way, but knows enough to give informed opinions.

The Lake

The lake sees.

It draws the world’s beauty into itself

and is replete.

I may admire,

but must not dip my hand into the water,

for worry destroys beauty.

Well, my friend

Well, my friend, our time is gone;

you are dead, and I have left that group.

Our friendship was the sole tie,

and it was a friendship, though only you

and I ever knew. The world is a cold place;

our time is passed, and, in truth,

there is nothing to mark our closeness.

I keep it in my head; it is precious to me;

beyond that there is no proof, no evidence;

the memory goes with us, and, I suppose

that is the way it should be.

A happy thought for St Patrick's Day

The weight of these beautiful things:

pool of sunlight among the trees;

scurrying shadows of April clouds;

scintillations on water flashing into my eyes;

brilliance of rime on a January morning footpath;

a blackbird’s notes spilling down;

magnificent blur of a kingfisher’s flight;

smell of lavender, of newly mown hay;

the sound of wind in the telegraph wires,

of children playing in the schoolyard.

The weight of these beautiful things is naught.

Films in your Face

I am watching the film in your face:

your enjoyment crinkling

at the corners of your eyes,

teeth catching your lower lip,

blood draining from the pressure,

draining back as soon.

Furrows on your forehead,

I am smiling at your absorption,

want to stub them out with my thumb

but you catch me looking

so I turn back to the screen

till your face is mine again.

The words on my lips

remain unsaid. A time may come

when, not having words,

I will wish I had spoken; a time

when love being tested, I could say 

I used to watch films in your face.

Under the Bridge

I sat under the bridge, our old den;

flung out a net to catch memories,

and sat watching the water’s  steely

mail grind past. It was cold, 


and I would not have chosen to sit there 

at this time of year;  life is miserly

to those who want a moment; I needed to stop,

 to look back, to feel my belonging.

Oh yes, I pulled in some cold fish;

 cold for their distance, estrangement; 

and cold too  for recognizing, as the years flow,

 the emptied out treasure chests of childhood.

Your Last Day

On the day you died,

All the important global events

Happened in your bedroom.

Gathered around your bed,

We followed your breathing

like we were following the events of a war.

And when the last breath

Left your mouth,

It was our Hiroshima.