September unfurls with quiet charm
The first palette of colours
to paint the year's end, tell the tale
of descent into Winter's cold arms.
...Protesting Autumn, calling out
- Joy and warmth and ripeness
still abide! Dance with me one
more time, before the leaves fall.
Wednesday 1 September 2010
September unfurls with quiet charm
Friday 6 August 2010
A man on an escalator, did something silly; and reminded me that underneath the suit can be an innocent heart
He's suited and booted;
On the down escalator
being in charge.
Reaches out one hand
tips the metal
makes it sing
smiles a little smile.
Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
Friday 30 July 2010
The Murder of Cliona
Cliona sits by the shore
Singing songs of love and loss
Like any underdressed lady of the sea;
passing as one of them, the myths and nymphs
Brushing hair with comb and bone
While all the time, counting waves.
The Ninth one is still hers. She yet
rides the horses of the surf
And Mannanán calls her from the west;
It would be best to return
not wait and hide and hope
for cornucopias of adoration
But she clings on still, a languid
survivor on a rock.
Connla calls by, Sinnan at his side;
they have long ago given up on us,
our ways beyond the
comprehension of mere gods.
They beg her, leave. Come with us
Into the glittering sunsets, into the
Land of Promises. Leave behind
the heartbreak of rejection. Sing with us
once more, don’t let them
poison you here, where you sit.
It’s true her hair is dull
her eyes are swollen and her lips
chaffed. O! mortals, you are killing
Her, killing Cliona of the Ninth Wave.
And yet she sits and waits,
Refusing to drown her hope.
Thursday 29 July 2010
Well It's a bit later than promised but I think you'll agree, well worth the wait!
Thanks to almost epic levels of incompetence on behalf of Ireland's leading phone and internet provider, I've been without proper BB access for weeks now, and it's been a struggle to get even the basics done.
However the power of poetry and creativity triumphed in the end aided by a very high level of excellent submissions this time!
We have a collection of poems from Sunil P Narayan that we are confident you will enjoy; along with a debut poem from Peter Lukey entitled "Boudicca". Sara Curran returns with the comic "BBQ Blues" and Gina Bass with the tragic "No Cards" giving us a taste of light and dark. Maureen Duffy-Booze gives us two lovely offerings "I cry out to the Rock" and "The Sphinx" while Joker returns with "Midsummer."
"The Garden of the Wild Wild Rose" by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne is in memory of her baby niece; while "Solstice" represents the experiences of solstice morning at Tara. SparrowGael's haunting "Dark Lover" and ElainePurplePagan's evocative poem "Stepping from the Shadows" exhorts us to leave nothing unsaid..a very fitting motto for poets.
We hope you read and enjoy...and be inspired!
Spread the word!
Friday 21 May 2010
On stony ground, You fall like rain
When I walk the hard path
and stray, distracted by storm clouds
you walk with me.
I know it is your hand that
pulls me back, steers me towards
When I am blinded by the sun,
and fear I will not find my way again
you call my name.
It is your voice I recognise
over the howling winds and
When I can find no rest or shade
it is you who shelters me, like an
I am safe with you, my love -
for you fall on stony ground
Tuesday 16 March 2010
When St Patrick met the Druid
Seeing is believing, but really
there were no snakes to start with
It's not a miracle
to drive away the invisible.
He was a gaunt man
inflamed with the need to prove
he was no swineherd;
Patrician of Ireland
refusing to acknowledge an Ollamh
A Doctor of Knowledge, a poet.
He has no subtlety of words
but speaks quickly without reflection
eager to fill the space between us
With reflections on his God
I ask him, what three things
make a man of honour?
He does not know the answer
He is no initiate.
Yet he has fire, this slave turned master
I can see him devouring us all.
I waste no more words on him;
He cannot hear what I say.
Saturday 6 March 2010
rock and nook and inlet
wave upon wave, from the time
my father's father stood
every grain of sand filtered
through a dark hourglass
calling me back, pulsing
like the blood in my veins
Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
Posted by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne at 13:59
Wednesday 10 February 2010
Poetic Challenge for today is to write a love poem.
I have written several poems about the love of my life Toast and Belgian Chocolate; An Apology to Aongus Óg and This of Small Virtues for example.
Seeing as Valentine's Day is almost upon us, this is a small but heartfelt one for Himself.
If he is tired, I only want
To smooth the lines of his day
And hold him safe.
If he hungers, there is no joy
In food or drink until
He is replete.
If he is cold, my only thought
Is to light a fire
To warm him.
I have no needs, I lack nothing
Until he hurts; and then I bruise.
Tuesday 9 February 2010
And now for something completely different. This is a poetic challenge from Robert Lee Brewer - essentially to write a sestina using 6 favourite obscure or at least less common words. Now being a total dunce at this and never having attempted a sestina before I made a fundemental error - I thought the end words of the lines had to be rotated in order. I didn't realise they had to be rotated in a different order, despite rather clear instructions :) So having finished it I realised I had done it wrong however, I have grown rather fond of my Monster and Gargoyle so I've left it as it is. I will however have another go tomorrow using different words and the correct rotation order!
Chortle , Gargoyle , Hullabaloo, Portmanteau, pomegranate, countenance
You know what makes me chortle?
Said the monster to the Gargoyle
when I jump out of a portmanteau
and my victims make a hullabaloo
One swallowed whole, a pomegranate
Turning puce in her fair countenance.
The other would not countenance
this; cruelty did not make him chortle
- his was a noble race, The Gargoyle
lofty towers, not cheap portmanteau
Silent watching, not raucous hullabaloo
And no choking on pomegranate.
She could have choked on that pomegranate
He said with a stern countenance.
While you indulged in your chortle
Why can’t you be more like a gargoyle?
As it is she packed your portmanteau
You’ve lost your place for that hullabaloo!
The Monster sniggered. That Hullabaloo
Was worth a dozen strangled pomegranate
eating women, however fair her countenance.
Your problem is you never have a chortle.
You don’t know how to live, Gargoyle.
So what if all I have is my portmanteau?
If you are happy living out of a portmanteau
Then by all means, enjoy the result of your hullabaloo
You’ll never find another girl to feed you pomegranates
Or who will love your ugly countenance
But you’ll have had a good old chortle.
Thus spake the wise old, cool headed Gargoyle
The monster looked at his friend, the Gargoyle.
He scratched the worn leather of his portmanteau
He was a monster, his business was hullabaloos
It seemed hard that his nature lost him pomegranates
And soft words and kind hands and pretty countenance.
And yet, he could not have stifled that fateful chortle.
Monster sighed -Gargoyle, I did not mean to chortle
. but jumping out of portmanteau and causing a hullabaloo
Is more to me than sweet pomegranates and fair countenance.
Friday 5 February 2010
Tuesday 2 February 2010
Deep in the night
Between last orders
And first light
Gods wander the city
Pass them by,
If you see them
Do not stop or stare
Do not dare them
They are not at play.
They own this ground
From slick kerb
to guttered edge and
All the spaces.
Saturday 30 January 2010
Girl on city street, heels clicking
shiny hair, gleaming lips
eyes glinting in the smokey light
siren song in her stride
Boy on corner smoking
haloed under streetlight's glow
watches the lilt of a girl's walk
breathes her in like air
forgets to exhale
Cold grey sky can lie
the tell tale signs
one green shoot, rooted in dark soil
one new blade turned toward a wintry sun
hope - uncertain friend
promising much yet in the end
what happens next, all depends
on things Hope can't control
Dark rain, vanquishing spirit
overpowers the pristine cloak of snow
revealing colours, angles, edges
Monday 11 January 2010
Snow in Dublin II
We found ourselves
walking a borrowed dog,
in a world
of white, frosted
under a diamond sky.
We were silent;
that still cliché of snow ,
not a sound
except the crisp
break of sparkling cold.
There is ice,
the soft clean white.
is quite sure,
so you take my arm.
you, me and the borrowed dog.
We are safe
in this world,
under jewelled skies.