Theology books
\nstacked by my mother\u2019s sickbed:
\nDeLillo \u2013 and more.<\/p>\n
\u201cSerious guys, these,\u201d
\nher priest said admiringly.
\nHe\u2019d only dipped in.<\/p>\n
Despite deep reading
\n\u2013 that was her studious side \u2013
\nher faith was simple.<\/p>\n
She \u201cmissed him so much.
\nAnd the Lord works … well, you know.\u201d
\nCancer was a Means.<\/p>\n
Now, just the waiting.
\nAs she sank, her eyes brightened.
\nPatient and hope-full.<\/p>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 ***<\/p>\n
The land holds its green.
\nThe low sun favours one hill.
\nRuined tower broods.<\/p>\n
Huge, silver-lined clouds,
\nfraying at the underside,
\ntrail violet threads<\/p>\n
of cold, Autumn rain
\nacross North Cork\u2019s tree-trimmed hills
\nand blue-green beet fields.<\/p>\n
Like the land we\u2019re poised.
\nHelpless before circumstance.
\nStasis. Primed. Waiting.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
Published in A Bowl of Mysteries: Poetry Ireland Introductions 2017.<\/a><\/p>\n Pheasant songs\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Southword 22. June 2012<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n ( i ) ( ii ) ( iii ) ( iv ) ( v ) ( vi ) ( vii ) ************<\/p>\n St.Brigids Day\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>\u00a0\u00a0<\/a> \u00a0 (click for original Irish) \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (winner Poet’s Podium 1995<\/em>, Samhla\u00edocht Chiarra\u00ed)<\/p>\n The sun awoke us. We didn’t, at first, understand, \u201cThe Sun will come back on St.Brigid\u2019s Day.\u201d<\/p>\n And a welling of Hope, \u201cThe Sun will come back on St.Brigid\u2019s Day.\u201d<\/p>\n **********<\/p>\n Lost Crickets\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (Published The SHOp 24, Summer 2007)<\/p>\n Whistling and whirring, **********<\/p>\n Looking at Japan from a futon in West Cork\u00a0<\/strong>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (published Southword)<\/p>\n My bedroom windows are like Japanese prints.<\/p>\n In Spring, puffs of apple blossom, In later days, And now, at Hallowe\u2019en, Through the lower window, Each morning **********<\/p>\n Epilogue\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (Published in Southword<\/a> Feb\/Mar 2010) Like a wren he was, brushed, feathered from that almost-elusive to all he saw or felt flits among the brambles Reading at \u00c9igse Michael Hartnett<\/p><\/div>\n **********<\/p>\n Hilltop, Aghatubrid\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (published in The SHOp 14, Spring 2004)<\/p>\n The parent tree, still bare, Here are some of my poems, including translations of some of the poems in Irish. Enjoy! Waiting Theology books stacked by my mother\u2019s sickbed: DeLillo \u2013 and more. \u201cSerious guys, these,\u201d her priest said admiringly. He\u2019d only dipped in. Despite … Continue reading
\nBrackened pheasants rise
\nfrom invisibility
\ncacophonously.<\/p>\n
\nA pheasant barking
\nlike an old starter-motor.
\nFlowers yellowing.<\/p>\n
\nFrom the bog-silence
\nan explosion of pheasant.
\nShocking suddeness.<\/p>\n
\nDiamond Hill glitters,
\nsilver bulk ragged as the
\npheasant\u2019s whooping cough.<\/p>\n
\nStrangled yodelling
\nof a pheasant\u2019s Tarzan call
\n– Lord of the Bracken!<\/p>\n
\nGorgeous finery,
\nthe \u201cAutumnal Hill\u2019 palette
\nfaithfully adhered.<\/p>\n
\nBronchial love-song:
\na pheasant comes a-courting;
\nmusic to her ears.<\/p>\n
\nLike a fanfare
\nor a burst of wild laughter.
\nPlayfully.
\nUnfamiliar.
\nSpilling in along the floor,
\nSplashing up the walls,
\nStreaming through the ever-open door.<\/p>\n
\nFailed to recognise
\nthe bright clamour of the sun.
\nThen we remembered the words
\nthat you, druidlike, had spoken:<\/p>\n
\nPagan and Pure,
\nCame rising inside us,
\nSitting in bed,
\nBrigid or Dan\u00fa,
\nThe Winter defeated:<\/p>\n
\nthe soft, dark night pulsates with
\ntireless cicadas.
\nDetermined suitors,
\nnocturnal lotharios,
\ntroubadours of love,
\nthey scale olive trees
\n– each and every vantage point –
\nfor optimum range,
\nvolume, resonance;
\nsome warm-up exercises,
\narpeggios, then,
\nwithout more ado,
\nlaunch into their yearning song,
\ntheir lonely-hearts ad:
\n\u201cdesperate insect,
\nloves night-life, extravert, seeks
\nseveral females
\nfor a one-night-stand
\n(must love music – and cricket!)
\nto raise family.
\nLots of stamina.\u201d
\nAnd who knows what subtleties
\nand what nuances
\nand what heart-winning,
\ncicada-breath-catching notes
\nform his repertoire?
\nHe trills an \u201cA\u201d note
\nbut the chord\u2019s tone is minor
\n– like all the sad songs.
\nAnd it brings me back
\nto turf fires in wide chimneys,
\ngently glowing hearths
\nand soulful solos
\nby pale, rheumatic, freckled,
\nlonely bachelor
\nIrish grasshoppers,
\nlone uileann piper to their
\nlusty Greek chorus!
\nCentral-heating and
\ndouble-glazing have put paid
\nto their leg-music.
\nMemory-consigned.
\nMy grief! We\u2019ve lost them surely,
\nour only playboys.<\/p>\n
\nchiffon toutous,
\npink-tinged pomme-poms,
\ndance on an azure background,
\nframed by the wooden skylight
\nin my honey-panelled ceiling.<\/p>\n
\nthe countless leaves, sun-doused,
\nlap and overlap
\nin everchanging layers of light and shade:
\nimmaculate composition.<\/p>\n
\na few sure brush-strokes,
\nstark against the blue, blue sky,
\nworthy of a Hokusai.<\/p>\n
\nwhen I turn my head,
\na mossy bank slopes left to right.
\nAnd curving up and arching gently over
\nwith ineffable grace,
\na willowy stand of young bamboo.<\/p>\n
\nI can look at scenes
\nas Japanese as Fujijama
\nfrom the occidental warmth
\nof my West Cork bed.<\/p>\n
\n. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 (also in I Live in Michael Hartnett,<\/em>\u00a0Revival Press, 2013)
\nfor Michael Hartnett<\/p>\n
\nbright and quick and brown,
\nhead angled to miss no trick.
\nHair like down<\/p>\n
\naround the black bird
\neyes. And what
\na sound we heard<\/p>\n
\nwren-poet,
\nhalf-hidden,
\ngiving full throat<\/p>\n
\nwe missed. For any
\nnaturalist of song
\nto hear. And he<\/p>\n
\nof our thoughts. His song
\ncaught, hedged `round,
\na sound that proves them wrong.<\/p>\n![\"Reading](\"https:\/\/paulocolmain.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/07\/922686_517806821619684_317590198_n.jpg\")
<\/a>
\nshivering grey limbs
\nin the grey sky.
\nUnderneath,
\na million tiny sycamores,
\nlittle green flags,
\nclaiming the land,
\nnaming this field.
\nA speckled cross,
\nall sharp angles,
\nbleeding rust
\nthrough a crack on the
\nnorth side,
\nsalt and pepper camouflage
\none colour
\nwith the stunted gorse
\non this scrubby hilltop,
\nwaving, stiff-armed
\nat the toy, blue trawler
\nstraining, foam-hulled,
\ncircuitously past Adam\u2019s and Eve\u2019s islets.
\nAway to the North,
\nthe Drinagh windmills
\nemulate,
\nakimbo,
\ntilting at clouds.
\nGod is Energy,
\nEnergy is God.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"