Poems from a Life Read online

The chap who is windsurfing

  Doesn't know he is envied

  By two lovers dressing on the shore.

  But the day is young

  And fed by a ravishing breakfast

  The only cloud is the coming morn

  When we part for the week

  But with the dream of endless time

  Between us.

  Do not fret or sigh or wonder

  Do not care how I feel or you,

  Remember the times together

  And together we start anew.

  3. Greece

  Tall toes and endless bottoms

  On a bare beach naked,

  In Greek Isles alone.

  Remember the rustle of bodies,

  The starch of virgin skin

  And how the writhing of bodies

  Remained forever within.

  The cold night offset by shutters

  And early morning by orange juice,

  Take me oh my darling,

  It's you I've dreamed of

  All my life.

  Not windmills nor barren mountains

  Nor beaches strewn with flesh

  But you I long for ever,

  Come now, come with me again.

  Perhaps its the dawn

  and the horizon lightens pale.

  Tearing back the curtains

  And a new day.

  How happy I was then

  Driving into the sun

  Singing to radio music

  Whilst at home was the one.

  We picked mussels together

  And ate them,

  With wine and later with stout.

  Soon we would lie together

  But to make love was not our lot.

  To love is to endure

  But here we're not the same

  Because shatter we did our dream

  Too late to pick up pieces

  Too late to rekindle the flame.

  4. West Cork

  And the smile of the other haunted

  And allowed the spirit to dwell

  On days of splendour on water

  And ending in eating as well.

  We left the restaurant so late

  And little juice in the car

  Through the night we drove.

  In Bandon found a petrol station

  That wouldn't turn us away.

  Early morning we arrived home

  And tired we went to bed.

  Separate.

  How lovely and lonely I felt

  To be forever repeated.

  The good and the bad.

  And seeing you again I wonder

  Is there still the same light

  Or is the spirit of Sligo

  Forever within my sight.

  The Lake 1

  The lake is always there.

  The grey pool of my imagination

  steeped in the thrilling mysteries of youth,

  romantically traipsing through adventures

  that now never lighten my being.

  The waves as they wash over brown stones

  are frozen in my living memory

  and always evoke a feeling

  that wells up from within

  from childhood, perhaps from ancient man -

  a lengthening bond that I will pass on.

  I seldom go back now

  but am sustained in my mind's eye

  to live and live over those days

  as a child , by the lake's shore.

  The Lake 2

  How, lonesomely, I escaped school

  to spend hours with the gravediggers

  as they prepared the soil to receive the dead.

  Their grey stubble and rough manners

  were a comfort to a frightened fugitive.

  Better the quiet of the cathedral -

  there to pray pious supplications to Our Lady

  to avoid the lashings and the anger

  of my mother who could not understand

  or the Brother who well understood and enjoyed

  the pitiful wailing and the swishing switch

  which left red marks on my growing hide.

  Only my father understood,

  as he lay blind and powerless on his bed

  threatening lest anyone lay a hand on me.

  I cowered by his side, sheltered in his shadow.

  The shadows before his eyes dulled too soon

  and left painful memories.

  My mother fared better and matured

  but understood no less even in love.

  Wild wet nights in winter I remember

  hunted by all, afraid and in terror.

  The brute instincts of survival driving me

  to avoid the retribution and penury

  that awaited by the lighted fire in the kitchen.

  Each hour scarred a tiny child mind

  and tore the heart of love,

  Made blind a blind faith in the sky

  when the problem was firmly rooted on earth.

  Collections of rosaries and prayer books

  soon built up from off-hour visits to church,

  Spoils of a miss-shapen youth gone awry.

  I would walk beneath the school stone walls

  and think of a heaven of freedom -

  Each step drawing nearer a hell

  orchestrated in the good name of heaven.

  No, I don't blame you Lord.

  You were my best friend,

  loyal confident at chapel and bearer of my despair

  that before long had broken my weak shoulders.

  No wonder I let you take all without question.

  My soul was vouched for before I had possession.

  The Lake 3

  I remember those frosty mornings

  when the windows sported white fern leaves

  and the sky was so purely blue

  that the infinities of heaven were attainable

  if I had wings to fly.

  On such mornings my being would sing -

  wingless and elated in a happy cocoon.

  Time had passed, my father dead, the tyrant Brother gone,

  School suddenly no longer held fears.

  The Still Water

  ‘I love the sea,’

  Said I to the stranger.

  ‘Why?’ was all he could reply.

  ‘The power,’ I sighed.

  ‘Is like glory,’ I cried,

  becoming immersed in my joy.

  ‘And more,’ I said,

  becoming more staid.

  ‘It’s more than that.

  It’s all I’ve got.’

  A silence ensued

  And everyone stared and wondered.

  I shouted. ‘Ye fools!

  Take heed of advice

  and drive carts and the like

  Down to the shingle beach

  And there let ye play

  In the still water so gay

  That all yer troubles

  Be lost in the spray.’

  But they listened not,

  Got caught in the knot

  And will never play

  In the still water so gay.

  How I feel

  That how I feel be compared to thee

  Is lost on a string of thoughts so frenzied.

  That were words not enough to build a life,

  How splendid it would be.

  Lost again in myriad ways – I see

  A repetition of life, of joy and sorrow.

  A struggle of existence with thought,

  An end eternally sought.

  But not again nor yet to achieve

  Happiness.

  Of things mellow, fruitful and rewarding

  To the mind of things I seek

  And share and pine my life.

  Ongoing through restless years, bypassing happiness

  In search of the new and finding the old.

  Of memories to haunt the future, unsure.

  How to be able to exist,
to accept, be grateful

  And not seek the other, the other and the other.

  Training in happiness – a grant-aided specter.

  The hungry denying their food, the sick their cure

  And I my fulfillment.

  Must I forever seek?

  Cherish

  Cherish now the thought

  Of dreams and things

  And all that lights

  In the spirit of the night.

  There are stars that shine unseen

  To those who would behold them

  But are lost in pain

  In the silent patter of the rain.

  Take me away

  To where the trees grow pure

  And the greenness of sound

  Is reflected in sight

  In the miracle of the night.

  A whirlwind of images

  Without a reflection

  Inside the dull brain of existence

  Await their sentence

  But die in the moment of conception.

  You have cherished the trees

  And the rain keeps falling

  But the clouds will part

  Before coming of night

  To reveal the stars

  In a heavenly sight.

  All dreams, sights, sounds and more

  Are lost forever in a personal lore.

  Beach

  Wind blowing cold past cheeks

  And hair flying.

  A quiet walk it was by the shore,

  With waves breaking on sloping beach

  And in the background

  The mountains, draped in last night’s snow.

  The setting sun, tired by the day’s thaw,

  Shelters behind a rugged outcrop of rock

  And colder blows the wind.

  Alone, but for errant stranger, in the distance,

  My inner self expands.

  And from the jungle anxieties come and go.

  How good to expose them to the winter cold!

  Quickly they re-seek asylum, unchanged.

  Now feeling good, now bad, then unfeeling,

  Never getting to the core.

  On the sand the tiny footprints of the stranger,

  Following no particular direction.

  Inadvertently they trace out a curve.

  Unwittingly I follow.

  No better cause than imprints in sand.

  Is the stranger too following imprints?

  It does not matter which route is taken,

  The beach is wide and endless.

  I continue on my walk

  As the sun finally disappears

  And the evening begins to freeze.

  Up there on the mountain slopes

  Amidst the snow,

  The coldness must be unbearable

  And the coming night lonely.

  So Far On

  How is it now, so far on?

  A whirl of thoughts colliding,

  Chaos when things are wrong,

  To come back to the beginning.

  I feel sad, nay thwarted,

  Such a strange word, thwarted,

  But it expresses how I feel

  And feel I will,

  Deserted I am.

  Can I love again

  What I feel has deserted me

  And towards which I feel want

  But absence prevents our meeting.

  Can I be cruel and part

  From afar.

  Am I deluding myself?

  Perhaps I am.

  I loved a girl and thought her beautiful.

  Away she went

  And what of my love?

  Think, for this is crucial!

  What of the future?

  The future so bright.

  I feel as if I am in a time warp.

  Do I wait and see?

  Or do I begin again?

  Can I begin again?

  I put these questions to you.

  And hope.

  And remember words, lost now,

  But still there.

  Where

  Where are you now?

  On the crest of a cloud

  High over rugged mountains

  Whose snowy peaks descend to the valleys.

  Staring aloft at the flight of a bird,

  The stranger wonders and forgets.

  But not I, who will follow you.

  The rain blows on the wind.

  It howls against windows

  And spits at trees as they sway.

  And the night gets rough,

  The journey – hard – continues.

  Through the wind and rain I follow.

  Over dead sea drifting

  Endless space of blue

  And white stripes at random.

  Fresh and invigorating,

  I thrive with you and exult.

  The rewards are on the horizon.

  Silently through darkness,

  No guide or direction,

  Through night air ongoing.

  The calmness I share.

  Arriving at the destination

  The image blurs for me.

  You are there.

  I have never moved.

  Sadness from afar.

  To have gone with you, I despair.

  Leaving

  The engine revs

  And all is packed.

  Memories surge to the fore,

  Of many days spent here.

  Sure, not all of them great

  And few were good

  And some were…

  Well memorable.

  But the thought of leaving is sad.

  Driving through streets one knows,

  Oh so well,

  The bars, hotels, shops,

  Each one a memory.

  Pavements one knows

  Where on somber nights

  One did contentedly meander,

  The cracks, a map of existence.

  The city now so attractive,

  The people once unknown, now loved.

  The surge emotive

  Makes me want to cry.

  But tears are not shed over this.

  With hope for the new ‘endroit’

  I press my foot to the floor.

  Into the distance recedes

  The years of habit,

  Now all gone.

  Onwards through familiar countryside

  Towards a destination in the distance.

  Spirits rise and hope envelops.

  Sadness is nearly gone.

  The Picture

  Mid-summer tolling

  The zenith of blossoming.

  The road, a track, dusty.

  Overhanging trees in green

  And flowers pouring forth.

  Somewhere a blackbird sings.

  The cart rattles along,

  The mare calm.

  Old oats litter the floor.

  High above, overlooking the valley,

  A small cottage hidden by trees.

  Cart track leads down to gate,

  Sentried by two great piers.

  Garden cluttered with wild roses

  And in their midst an old plough.

  Cobblestones before doorway,

  Well worn by time passing.

  Below in the valley the road,

  Like a snake in grass,

  Wheedles its way to the horizon.

  Beyond there is no beyond.

  A dream world within a dream.

  Please do not shatter the illusion

  That such exists.

  An enchanting picture conjured up

  By an artist,

  Resplendent in itself.

  Ask not where the setting exists,

  For the artist will look tired

  And come back to earth.

  It's his dream.

  Doing and Regret

  ‘A nice to do,’ said the old woman.

  She leaned against the stone wall,

  Her face expressionless yet alive.


  ‘Twere better not to be here

  than to be like that.’

  I felt reproved and accosted.

  ‘What,’ asked I, ‘to do?’

  The wind caught a grey wisp of hair

  And looking at the greenness and greyness

  She sighed.

  ‘You know what to do

  but have not the courage to do it.

  Just remember you are only afraid of fear.

  It’s not the risk involved

  But fear of the risk.

  How often have you looked over a hedge

  At a fiercesome bull

  And your mind pictured its rampage

  And from the safety of the meadow

  You conjured images of violence

  Where none existed

  But the birds sang and flies everywhere?’

  How right, thought I, was she.

  But nonetheless I didn’t.

  Our Portrait

  It hangs on the wall

  In greys verging on black,

  The record of our state

  At that time.

  What time is that?

  I hear you ask.

  A time, we were not first in love,

  But alas, on our honeymoon.

  Montmartre in the rain

  And the gallant Gaby

  Recorded

  And set down

  What she saw.

  And none could recognize

  And were ever amazed

  That the heads portrayed

  Were Clare and Des.

  The Badger

  Once I went for a walk

  And met a dead badger by the road.

  His journey ended in a strange place,

  Blood on his face.

  I stopped but for a moment,

  Contemplating his fate,

  Then moved on.

  I continued on my journey

  But my mind stayed put,

  Standing there at the badger’s foot.

  When I Speak of Love

  When I speak of love I see

  Of all that is external to me

  A small little boy of three,

  Nay more, growing towards four.

  But not of me or a part

  Of my own self made image.

  No, an existence all his own.

  A gentleness and naivety

  That is born only in tender years

  And that becomes suspect with age

  - of those who perceive him.

  Pray that I who perceive him

  Will not wane in my ardour

  As the moments I savour

  When sleepily he hugs me

  Slip further and further away.

  That time will come

  When no longer a child

  But a self seeking young man

  Will ask of his past

  The questions that to now have eluded

  And with no answers forthcoming

  Will distance himself with disappointment.

  And what of the love,

  To what can I appeal?