Family Poems 2020 by a.guinan

Our Family Treasury of Poetry

2020 1

This is my favourite poem as it reminds me of primary school, of summer, of picking blackberries with Granny. Julie

Blackberry-Picking Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely can-fulls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. Seamus Heaney

This poem needs no explanation, it just makes me smile, Anne Marie

Who's Who I used to think nurses Were women, I used to think police Were men, I used to think poets Were boring, Until I became one of them . by Benjamin Zephaniah

When Thos was asked for a poem this was first that came into his headâ&#x20AC;Ś I love it! Piddling Pete the Pup A famous dog once came to town Known to his friends as Pete His pedigree was ten yards long His looks were hard to beat

He piddled on the cornflakes He piddled on the floor And when the grocer threw him out He piddled up the door

And as he trotted down the road 'twas beautiful to see His work at every corner Every post and every tree

Behind him all the city dogs Debated what to do They'd hold a piddling carnival The hoop they'd put him through

He never missed a land mark He never missed a post For piddling was his masterpiece And piddling pleased him most

They showed him all the piddling posts They knew about the town And off they set with many a wink To wear the stranger down

The city dogs stood looking on In deep and jealous rage To see this little country dog The piddler of his age

But Pete was with them all the way With vigour and with vim A thousand piddles more or less Were all the same to him

They smelt his efforts one by one They smelt him two by two But noble Pete in high disdain Stood still 'til they were through

And on and on went noble Pete As tireless as a windmill And very soon those city dogs Were piddled to a standstill

Then when they'd smelt him everywhere The praise for him ran high But when one smelt him underneath Pete piddled in his eye Just then to show these city dogs He didn't care a damn He strolled into the grocers shop And piddled on the ham

Then Pete an exhibition gave Of all the ways to piddle With double drips and fancy flips And now and then a dribble The city dogs said farewell Pete Your piddling did defeat us But no one ever put them wise That Pete... had diabetes.

This was one of my favourite from the Leaving Certificate. Kavanagh through splendid imagery and symbolism grapples with how life has corrupted his childhood innocence. This project has rekindled, however temporarily, my interest in poetry. George

Advent We have tested and tasted too much, loverThrough a chink too wide there comes in no wonder. But here in the Advent-darkened room Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea Of penance will charm back the luxury Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom The knowledge we stole but could not use. And the newness that was in every stale thing When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking Of an old fool will awake for us and bring You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins. O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching For the difference that sets an old phrase burningWe'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching. And we'll hear it among decent men too Who barrow dung in gardens under trees, Wherever life pours ordinary plenty. Won't we be rich, my love and I, and God we shall not ask for reason's payment, The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges Nor analyse God's breath in common statement. We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hourAnd Christ comes with a January flower.

Patrick Kavanagh 5

My poem was written by John Moynihan, from Rowels, Meelin. We always saw the top of Killila going to and from my Mam’s home. Tomás Jr. (Mossie)

The Top of Killila Have you been to the top of Killila

When you stand on the top of Killila

and looked down on the Golden Vale?

Soliliquy sticks in your mind,

Then you know what I mean

as your voice you don’t trust

You mumble at first,

When I say I have seen Every sight in this sorry domain: I have strolled through the Tuileries gardens And the folies Bergere I have seen,

Then you shout out into the wind, Though you travelled the wild world over

But when my day is done

Though you come here by land or by sea,

And I look for some fun

We won’t think you daft

It’s the top of Killila for me.

If you shout for e and aft “It’s the Top of Killila for me”.

Meet Jack Gibbons on top of Killila And Leahys below in the trees There McCarthy More Stands inside his front door, While Foleys stands out in the breeze, Dunleacy’s is right there fornenst you By the lake Pannen’s cottage you see. So don’t think I’m queer If I shout loud and clear “It’s the top of Killila for me”. 6

We had De Gaulle at the top of Killila

Dig my grave at the top of Killila

-Incognito he came to be sure-

Let me rest where the Glashawee flows,

He took one stern glance

Give me coffin a tilt,

At this fertile expanse

So my eyes I don’t squint,

And turned to Madam and do say

As I gaze at the valley below.

I have marched down the old Champs Eylsées

Then when St. Peter comes around with his trumpet

Beauty spots I have seen far and near,

Digging up every grave, every mound,

But when my day is done,

Then my ghost will appear,

And I hand in my gun,

Shouting out loud and clear;

“It’s the top of Killila for me”

“The top of Killila for me.”

John Moyhihan

I'm not a big poetry fan but I've never forgotten Mid Term Break by Séamus Heaney. I 1st heard it in English class in secondary school and thought the way it's written, from a child's memories, is so simple and innocent and makes it all the more heartbreaking. And then the last line.... Laurena

Mid-Term Break I sat all morning in the college sick bay Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home. In the porch I met my father crying— He had always taken funerals in his stride— And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow. The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram When I came in, and I was embarrassed By old men standing up to shake my hand And tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble'. Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest, Away at school, as my mother held my hand In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses. Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four-foot box, a foot for every year. SEAMUS HEANEY 8

I like my poem because the reader get to choose what happens next and what is behind the door. I hope you liked it too. Síne One hell of a… Once there was an odd looking dog in one hell of a fog, then someone came and said where you from and the dog lead her to a cage, one hell of a cage and the dog went over to one hell of a page to revel his age, name and so much more then the dog went to a door with the number four and what was behind door number four… I don’t know, you tell me! Síne Guinan

I only learnt this poem as an adult but I love it. In Robben Island Prison, Nelson Mandela used to recite this poem. It inspired him to keep going through the hard times. We are the Masters of our own destiny. Anne Marie

Invictus Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. William Ernest Henley

I wrote this because I want a reminder of Granny Trish in the poems. Eibhlín

Granny’s Little Robin My Granny used to watch

I was outside of Church,

The birds fly by

On that dreaded day,

Big and small,

I saw that Robin

Slender and tall,

Leaning to pray

But she had a favourite,

I smiled, I remembered

Oh indeed she did,

Granny’s dear friend,

This small little bird

He had come to watch

Always came around mid

At her sad end.

Now the bird was a Robin,

Sometimes, just sometimes,

Granny’s little Robin,

I see him again

With a big breast of red,

In a bush or a tree

with a bright smile ahead

And then he would flee.

But on one day

I think of her,

Granny wasn’t there.

Watching down from afar,

The Robin didn’t like it

And I am sure

It just wasn’t fair.

Granny’s little Robin is with her. Eibhlín Guinan 11

This was written by Tomás for our collection. When asked for an explanation he answered “It’s just a poem”…

Hypocrisy Who am I you big Hypocrite ye Listen real close and let the rhyme hit ye. Lay out your soul free and flowing, A wink and a smile and we know yiz are going.

I move through the crowd looking for light, Floating like a butterfly without any bite. On the waves of sound invisible to sight, Dancing and romancing never needing to fight.

Well come with me it’s that time of night, All the pissheads in your face all talking shite, But we don’t mind cause our love is growing, Thinking of the fruit from the seeds we are sowing.

Don’t overdo it, the calm before the storm Somethings are accepted and some are the norm. Keep it to yourself unless they want to know Then share a little music which helps the love grow. Thomas Guinan Jr.

I read this poem in school, for leaving cert I think. It is very long but it is a real poem as far as I am concerned. When I am out in a field and see a skylark in the sky I think of this poem. It is a beautiful sight and a fantastic poem. Thomas Guinan Sr.

Ode To a Skylark Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert,

Keen as are the arrows

That from Heaven, or near it,

Of that silver sphere,

Pourest thy full heart

Whose intense lamp narrows

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest

All the earth and air

Like a cloud of fire;

With thy voice is loud,

The blue deep thou wingest,

As, when night is bare,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.

In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

What thou art we know not;

Melts around thy flight;

What is most like thee?

Like a star of Heaven,

From rainbow clouds there flow not

In the broad day-light

Drops so bright to see

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Sound of vernal showers Like a Poet hidden

On the twinkling grass,

In the light of thought,

Rain-awaken'd flowers,

Singing hymns unbidden,

All that ever was

Till the world is wrought

Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Teach us, Sprite or Bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Like a high-born maiden In a palace-tower,

Chorus Hymeneal,

Soothing her love-laden

Or triumphal chant,

Soul in secret hour

Match'd with thine would be all

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew,

What objects are the fountains

Scattering unbeholden

Of thy happy strain?

Its a{:e}real hue

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:

With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear,

Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found,

We look before and after, And pine for what is not:

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Many moons ago, when playing an inter-club golf match of moderate importance, I happen to say to a more seasoned golfer that “you’d swear we were playing we were playing the bleedin’ Rider Cup”, due to how serious spectators and participates alike were taking this insignificant match. He replied very simply “everyone has their own Ryder Cup to play”. For some reason that stuck with me, for what must be well over 20 years, and made me quite a competitive match player regardless of level of importance. So why tell you this now as I reread the only poem that has ever stuck with me from my school days, well, it’s basically the same sentiment at heart, no matter what the prize or what the battle is over, it’s the importance to you personally that matters. Ciarán

Epic I have lived in important places, times When great events were decided; who owned That half a rood of rock, a no-man’s land Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims. I heard the Duffys shouting ‘Damn your soul!’ And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen Step the plot defying blue cast-steel – ‘Here is the march along these iron stones’ That was the year of the Munich bother. Which was more important? I inclined To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin Till Homer’s ghost came whispering to my mind. He said: I made the Iliad from such a local row. Gods make their own importance. Patrick Kavanagh

I suppose you can guess why I put in this verse and we have been doing a lot of gardening now during lockdown. Shelagh The Lord planted a Garden THE Lord God planted a garden In the first white days of the world, And He set there an angel warden In a garment of light enfurled. So near to the peace of Heaven, That the hawk might nest with the wren, For there in the cool of the even God walked with the first of men. And I dream that these garden-closes With their shade and their sun-flecked sod And their lilies and bowers of roses, Were laid by the hand of God. The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth,-One is nearer God's heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth. For He broke it for us in a garden Under the olive-trees Where the angel of strength was the warden And the soul of the world found ease. Dorothy Frances Gurney

Conall submitted this one as this is about something that plays a large part in his life and gives him joyâ&#x20AC;Ś

Soccer

I have always liked soccer Such a rough game Suck skills are required And popular

You must be strong And fearless Long kicks to bring you closer

To achieving your goal Of making goals to win the game Heading and saving the ball Is important too

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all about a game called soccer.

I like this because maybe we when we get together again we can spread a different type of virus? Cillian

Smiling Is Infectious Smiling is infectious, you catch it like the flu, When someone smiled at me today, I started smiling too. I passed around the corner and someone saw my grin. When he smiled I realized I'd passed it on to him.

I thought about that smile, then I realized its worth. A single smile, just like mine could travel round the earth. So, if you feel a smile begin, don't leave it undetected. Let's start an epidemic quick, and get the world infected! Spike Milligan

I picked this one because it is true and people look for happiness in the wrong places. Cillian

Happiness Happiness, such a funny little word For some it comes so easy For others the idea seems absurd We spend our lives chasing it, One way or another, Through money, fame, Religion or the embrace of a lover But all these goals are futile and deep down we know itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true Because in the end it's your own happiness It has to come from you Craig Jones

Chosen by Meadhbh, perhaps hope is what we should hang on to… “Hope” is the thing with feathers “Hope” is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm I’ve heard it in the chillest land And on the strangest Sea Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. Emily Dickinson

I chose this poem because it is both funny if you read it one way and dark, and a little spooky, if you read it another. I first read this in Raheny when Granny gave me a book of poetry. CaitlĂn

Antigonish "Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there! He wasn't there again today, Oh how I wish he'd go away!" When I came home last night at three, The man was waiting there for me But when I looked around the hall, I couldn't see him there at all! Go away, go away, don't you come back anymore! Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door... Last night I saw upon the stair, A little man who wasn't there, He wasn't there again today Oh, how I wish he'd go away... William Hughes Mearns 21

THIS POEM IS ONE I REMEMBER FROM WAY BACK, FROM A BOOK OF POEMS MAMIE BOUGHT FOR US. IT WAS CHOSEN BY EIMIR, WHO SAID IT WAS THE FIRST POEM THAT CAME INTO HER HEAD WHEN ASKEDâ&#x20AC;Ś

THE TALE OF CUSTARD THE DRAGON Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a little grey mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon. Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little grey mouse, she called her Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth, And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes. Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chased lions

down the stairs, Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe cage. Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival, They all sat laughing in the little red wagon At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon. Belinda giggled till she shook the house, And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard cried for a nice safe cage. Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And Mustard growled, and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda. Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright, His beard was black, one leg was wood; It was clear that the pirate meant no good. 22

Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp, Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink was strategically mouse holed. But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine, Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm. The pirate gaped at Belindaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon, He fired two bullets but they didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hit, And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him, No one mourned for his pirate victim Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate Around the dragon that ate the pyrate. Belinda still lives in her little white house, With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse, And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon, And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon. Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs, Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage. Ogden Nash

This poem is important because it is the first ever time I saw Liverpool beat Man United. Páidraig

The Game that Changed Everything! Liverpool v. Man U, A corner for the Scousers, It was from Trent, Then VanDijk put it in the net. Then the Red Devils struggled to form till a corner which Alisson got. Then he kicks for Salah To carry…he slides it, then put it in net! Páidraig Guinan

This was also chosen by Eimir. I also think it is a beautiful and romantic poem. He Wishes For the Cloths of Heanven Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. William Butler Yeats

I chose this poem because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a beautiful poem at the best of times but at the moment itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s particularly poignant. We carry our loved ones with us always. Amy

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling) i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you Here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart I carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) E.E. Cummings

Not really sure why I like this as I think dislike the way WB was always whining about Maud being Gone and all that. I think he’s just taking his anger out on the poor merchants who are just doing their best to earn a few bob, even if they are greasy! He actually sounds like a spoilt teenager rebelling against his rich merchant background! Yet it is still a deadly poem and the repetition of the last two lines of each verse hits home nicely. He’s is probably right about the fact that we lose a lot as we become a more materialistic society and that is as true now as it ever was. Ciarán

September 1913 Was it for this the wild geese spread What need you, being come to sense, But fumble in a greasy till And add the halfpence to the pence And prayer to shivering prayer, until

The grey wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,

You have dried the marrow from the bone; For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave. Yet could we turn the years again,

Yet they were of a different kind,

And call those exiles as they were

The names that stilled your childish play, They have gone about the world like wind,

In all their loneliness and pain,

But little time had they to pray

You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair

For whom the hangman’s rope was spun,

Has maddened every mother’s son’:

And what, God help us, could they save?

They weighed so lightly what they gave.

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,

But let them be, they’re dead and gone,

It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

They’re with O’Leary in the grave.

William Butler Yeats 27

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve always liked the strength and power of these lines, especially the last line. Rob

No Second Troy Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn? William Butler Yeats

Silent Assassin! Licking lips and itching paws She flickers her eyes and bares her claws Still... So still ... Not moving her head Then with One Vicious swipe ... the mouse is Dead!

Robert Stewart

This Page is reserved for Catherine Rose

I really love the description and images it creates in my head. I read it in 6th class and it stuck with me since. Sarah

Dulce et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 30

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,â&#x20AC;&#x201D; My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie:

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Wilfred Owen

This Cultural Gem was submitted by Eimir. It is actually quite long so here is just the first verse. There is a story attached to this poem; some years ago I came home from work and the front door was open. From inside I could hear a voice and followed the sound upstairs. Dad and Mam were in bed, Dad reclining alongside Mam, who was sitting up in the bed reading this poem to him…

Eimir

A bhonnán bhuí, A bhonnán bhuí, is é mo léan do luí, Is do chnámha sínte tar éis do ghrinn, Is chan easba bidh ach díobháil dí a d'fhág i do luí thú ar chúl do chinn. Is measa liom féin ná scrios na Traoi Tú bheith i do luí ar leaca lom', Is nach ndearna tú díth ná dolaidh sa tír, Is nárbh fhearra leat fíon ná uisce poll. Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna.

The Yellow Bittern Yellow bittern, there you are now, Skin and bone on the frozen shore. It wasn’t hunger but thirst for a mouthful That left you foundered and me heart sore. What odds is it now about Troy’s destruction With you on the flagstones upside down, Who never injured or hurt a creature And preferred bog water to any wine? Seamus Heaney (Translated from An Bonnán Buí in the Irish of Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna)

I have always believed that life is all about the path chosen and how you deal with the hand you are dealt. One’s Whole Life can change, merely from turning Left or Right. There is no turning back, you live with your choices. Hence “The Road not Taken” has to get a mention. Rob Stewart

The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveller, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and II took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference. Robert Frost

I remember this poem from my childhood, from that book of poetry that Mamie gave us, Anne Marie

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-Tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. 34

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. Edward Lear

I picked this poem because it is very abstract and allows you to create fun pictures in your mind. Eibhlín

Jabberwocky Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought– So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One two! One two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll

Mossie’s choice of a poem about Rowls and Meelin put this one in my head, written by Katy Lynch’s niece. The Granny mentioned is our great-grandmother Roseanne Fitzsimons

Dear Old Maghera Tonight my thoughts go back again To happy days of yore That I spent around old Maghera And Lough Ramor’s lovey shore. I see again Tighe’s island With its monastic walls so old Where the Holy Monks were massacred In the pillage for their gold. I see the anglers on the Nine-Eyed Bridge In the evenings warm and fine In the clear Blackwater river Casting out their bait and line. In the old Blackwater meadows Courting couples loved to stray And hand in hand they pledged their troth Mid the scent of new mown hay. My Grannie’s home I see again Her new wireless did amuse As old Luke called in to hear Lord Haw-Haw

Read out his wartime news. When Mattie played accordion And Mickey played the flute, They danced half-sets around the floor In heavy hob-nailed boots St. Matthews Church I see again, With its spire so grand and tall, As its bell rings out the Angelus To the faithful one and all. Across the field in Lynch’s The Bishop’s skull I find A relic from the distant past To cure ailments of all kind.

I climb again the double ditch As I’ve done when as a child To reach the summit of Bruise hill With its stones and furze so wild. I see Pat the master’s old hedge school And the Black-pigs stepping stone I can view the Mourne Mountains As I stand here all alone. The old hall at the crossroads Once a ballroom of romance Now lies so still and silent No concert or no dance. The “Broad” road has been widened too New shops and homes abound With bright lights along the road Maghera now a little town. The little cemetery down the road Kept so neatly and so trim Alas, with friends and relatives it’s almost filling to the brim. If God should grant me just one more wish I’m sure and certain that It will be to wander once again Around Maghera and Stramatt. Maureen O’Dwyer

Just because of the times we are inâ&#x20AC;Ś CaitlĂn

And The People Stayed Home And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently. And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal. And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed. Kitty O'Meara

This poem speaks to me of everything I pride myself on and, where I fall short, everything I strive for. Cormac

If If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Rudyard Kipling

Thank you all for sharing, I will treasure your poems.

The End