Tag Archives: Poetry

Grand Canal Dock, Dublin 2

Given my already compromised lungs – I have a condition called Sarcoidosis, about which I contributed this to the Irish Times health supplement, – I have now been told to cocoon which raises many issues, some of them comical…

Apart

The advisory booklet says,
because my rubbish lungs
and the compromising position
in which my immune system finds itself
put me among those most likely to expire,
my wife and I must, for the duration,
remain at least one metre apart
and I shouldn’t wander
beyond the front garden
except for my weekly safari
to put out the bins.

If she has an itch,
it’s okay for me to scratch
her back with the sweeping brush
without the written permission
of a Garda Sergeant.

But if she kills me
for talking too much, as she likely will,
the Minister for Justice
has signed an order requiring her
to do so with a twenty eight inch shotgun
(with which she will be provided)
or at the very least a regulation length
Samurai sword. It won’t be pretty.
But neither, the booklet assures me, am I.

Meantime, there are other possibilities:
couples such as us
are still legally permitted
to do things to each other
with a Marks & Spencer cotton dishcloth attached
to what looks like a mop handle;
or by making imaginative use
of a retractable ostrich feather duster.

I worry it could lead
in the long run to her coming
at my most vulnerable bits
with the hedge clippers;
and where would I be then?
Though the cat assures me:
I’m there already.

Kevin Higgins

Rollingnews

Sandycove, County Dublin at the weekend

The Other Side

When the frantic world
Is all too much
For your brain

Go into the other side
Of solid things
Poetry filled with sandy beaches
And teacups

Quiet blankets, rivers and monologues
Silent weeping, moon frogs and romance
Floorboards that creak

When the news
Makes you dizzy
With lost breath

Go to the other side
Of history, long lost loves
And the quiet knell of grass, so wise

Rain strewn landscapes
The darkness of night
Littered with stars
And century old bumblebees

Escape for a while
And join us on the other side
Remember why it is
We need to fight

Roberta Cappieri

Lines on the lockdown to broadsheet@broadsheet.ie marked ‘Lines On The Lockdown’

Rollingnews

Dublin City centre this morning

The Coming Of The Virus

Where did you come from, when will you go?
You make us sad and sag, like a weary weeping willow
Do we have to suffer, so the world can recalibrate
Is this the final chance, we ask, or are we too late?

Did you come in nature’s way, the Earth to regulate
The few mad men and women who were deciding all our fate
Stripping all our natural wealth, our homes and lands and all
Had you to come, to ensure, those greedy few would fall

Did you come to stop the burning of the Earth
Is your goal to warn us, of the need for our rebirth,
Does the lesson have to be, so terribly, terribly cruel
To stop the greed and put an end, to this global misrule.

Does it have to be so general, the horror that lays in store
Are we all guilty for allowing them, come inside our door,
Should we have been braver and thrown them all back out
Is it because we closed our eyes and didn’t raise a shout

We cannot fight you, with all the arms that we have made
The nuclear button, the aerial bomb or the hand grenade
Must we slow, slow down, and learn the errors of our ways
Did you have to come among us to put an end to all this craze

Are you far into your circle or is there more to go,
Have we destroyed so much, that the lesson must be slow
Is this our ultimate sacrifice , so our children can survive
Is this the final warning, to keep humankind alive

Oh man, woman, boy or girl, no matter where you are
Don’t ignore the signals that this virus spreads afar
There is a chance, that we could dance, once again in love
And pray it won’t be long until, the virus is a dove.

Shay Connolly

Meanwhile…

Rage

I hate when my pen runs out of ink
Way much more than you’d actually think
Scraping the page with invisible print
Time to chuck the damn thing in the bin

I hate institutions that display hypocrisy
And the over reliance on modern technology
Those who drive, when they really don’t need to
Not to mention the footpaths, so full of dog poo

I hate when folk buy more than they need
It’s not precautionary, it’s just plain greed
And idiots who engage in risky behaviour
They annoy me as much as my noisy neighbour

Those who ignore health and safety advice
For their stupidity, we all pay the price
Distance is vital in the supermarket queue
‘Cause if you breathe on me, I’ll breathe on you too

I’ll breathe out fire like an angry dragon
I’ll huff and I’ll puff with all my passion
I’ll send you a minimum of two metres away
Heed those guidelines as of today!

And why is my house constantly untidy?
Despite my best efforts, it always looks messy
I notice my housemates turn a blind eye
When I ask them to help, they refuse to reply

We all live together and we have to survive
I concede they’re only ten, seven and five
But it’s common courtesy to pick up your stuff
I guess I’ll keep nagging and never give up

I can’t even hang out the washing in Spring!
What kind of a country is this we live in?
It’s freezing in March, snowing in April,
Raining in May and all flights are cancelled!

I’m rambling now and inclined to digress
I’ll get back to the point that I wish to address
The thing that enrages me most, I think
Is when my ballpoint pen runs out of ink

Eimear Grace

 

Rollingnews

Lines on the lockdown to broadsheet@broadsheet.ie.

Sunset at Portmarnock, Dublin 13

Ramblings on a park bench overlooking the sea

On a bench by the sea
A man watches waves rise
and dissolve back into the ocean
like humans on earth

His breath condenses
And thoughts rise and dissolve in his mind
As electro-chemical signals pulse through neural networks
Creating pathways in his crackling brain

We are made of recycled matter
that was once a part of other plants and animals
And we comprise ever changing configurations of cells
Through which life and energy flow

This cellular pulse is part of a worldwide continuum
Guided by a common genetic code
Which connects us to the entire history of life
And back to the fusion of hydrogen and helium
At the dawn of time

We are interdependent and belong in the world
And like roots and trees
We are open interfaces
Between inner and outer ecosystems

Thus we are dependent upon essential living viruses and bacteria
That continually permeate our porous skin
And live within and upon us

And we are dependent too upon the delicate symbiotic interplay
Of nature’s self sustaining systems
As forests, rivers, oceans, glaciers and soil
Nourish and maintain us

Photosynthesis is the yang of respiration
Trees and plants recycle our exhaled carbon breath
And we take in air, food and water
And expel energy in heat and waste

Uniquely we also transcend our biological nature
Sharing a world of meaning and value
As waves of sound and electromagnetic energy
Link our neural networks with others

And we have created a virtual web
Where it can be unclear where one mind ends and another begins

And there is a complex physical web
Of industry, technology and systems
As lines, grids, routes and roads
Connect humanity like the veins and arteries of a vast central nervous system
Of cooperative global endeavour.

Our achievements are immense

But civilisations and species have risen and fallen throughout history
And verifiable science shows that we are approaching a crest
Of irreversible tipping points
And the signs are all around
In habitat decline, species loss, melting ice sheets, acidic oceans
Disappearing coral reefs, desertification, tropical deforestation
Water shortages, forced relocation, civil unrest and refugees

Perhaps Ozymandias wears a sharply cut suit
And speaks smoothly of the necessity of the way things are
But if we don’t turn the tide
We risk drowning or being stranded on the shore
For in depleting natural resources
And polluting the earth, the water and the air
We destroy ourselves

The system shock of a global viral pandemic
Has laid bare our fragility and contingency
But it has also shown that new mindsets, behaviours and paradigms are possible

We can broaden our perspective
To see our common humanity in nature
And through global collaboration and solidarity
Decarbonise and regenerate
Rewild and replenish
And use the abundance of natural energy
In the sun, wind, waves and earth

The future of humanity depends upon it
And although it might be unlikely
It’s worth fighting for

But It’s a lot to be thinking about
For a man who’s breath quietly ebbs and flows
On a bench by the sea

Fran Cassidy

Pic by Fran

Of The Coming Plague

I ask nothing
but that I be allowed go out and get it.
Better death than suffer
the interminable sobbing of newscasters,
the grimaces of sweating experts,
and politicians’ elongated
gobs, which keep moving
in the hope the blame
will be stapled elsewhere.

I’ll tour the town’s mortuaries
and kiss on the mouth all the corpses
that died of it. Before you ask: yes,
there will be tongues
which I’m told will feel
like cold, stiff slugs.

And if that doesn’t finish me,
I’ll start breaking into hospitals,
quarantined night club toilets,
the offices of eminent plastic surgeons
to lick clean the soap dispensers
which, by then, will be all out of soap
but alive with the world’s germs.

For, Death, what do I know of you,
never having died before?
You’ve had a terrible press,
but could be victim
of the smear campaign.

Perhaps you’re the best thing ever.
Like the first gulp of Champagne;
or all the orgasms I’ve ever had,
and a few I never managed.

Kevin Higgins

Rollingnews

Yesterday.

Oluwaseun Ola, who has been living in direct provision for six years, writes:

“Putting  the finishing touches to a poem I’m writing and I found this (above), it was written by my 9 year old daughter.

As much as I’m proud of her, it hurts to see that she’s aware of the “class” she belongs.

I’m waiting for that day I’ll walk out of this system.”

Previously: Direct Provision on Broadsheet

US Democrat Presidential candidate hopefuls Bernie Sanders (left) and Joe Biden. Voters go to the polls tomorrow to decide 14 ‘Super Tuesday’ states

Confession of a Realist

A realist about other people’s lack
of toasty winter coats,
I expect them
to be realistic about my 401k;

in the context of which
I’m realistic about Lockheed Martin’s
need to add to their stockpile of
Dollars by finding more
brown people to liberate
by setting their countries
on fire.

I expect the brown community
both internally and out foreign –
with the absolute exception of those
on the Democratic National Committee –
to be realistic about the limits of
my love for them.

Realistic about low-end people
with terrible teeth
and the need for political candidates
with impossibly white smiles;

like everyone else here
I’m wildly for, in theory,
hospital beds for everyone
but realistic about a certain per cent of relatives
going to DNA stained motel rooms to end things,
when the chemotherapy bills come in.

I beg of you, put Bernie Sanders aside
or, if necessary, to death
and be realistic about the need
for a certain per cent starvation
to oil loose the markets.

When I think of all I sacrificed to sit
behind quadruple glazed windows
trying to watch a film:
‘Mephisto’ or ‘The Discreet
Charm of the Bourgeoisie’,
my phone being pinged all evening
by messages from work;

I grow more and more realistic
about how difficult it is
for the electricity company
to have to switch
other people’s lights off;

but know some people are
just better off in the dark.

Kevin Higgins

Getty

Meanwhile…

In fairness.

Earlier: A Limerick A Day

Poet Kevin Barrington

 

Kevlar For The Soul
(For Liz )

Yo
Listen up
Just been told.
Am on
An active waiting list.
For
A ward.
So….
Congratulations may be in order
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
But really, where else would you find me?
Hardly on the passive one
Cos that doesn’t sound at all like me.
I’m the active dude
On the active list
That’s right, that’s cool, that’s just
That’s perfectly suited to me.
Yippee
A ward
A ward
A ward
Another a ward
In a life that’s been full of on and off
A ward
A ward
For scallywagging Scallywagging
All across the universe.
Think we started out with politics
And a little bit of rock n roll
A dalliance with the Saatchi Bros
Before the toxic beauty of Cambodia
Took its inevitable toll
Then somewhere between grim grim Bosnia
And Africa’s riotous machete glint glow
I just fucking ran
Full out of Kevlar
Kevlar for the soul

Now I need you back Mr Kevlar.
God I need you back real bad
Cos Kevin here has just been told
The a ward they have granted him

Is the very same one
They granted
To a wonderful sweet august person
That just happened to be
His dear dear Dad
That’s right you heard me
The same as my dear dear Dad
I don’t think I can overstate this
My dear dear Dad
Dear dear Dad
Dear
Dear
Dad
How
I miss you
Then I listen out
And catch his voice.
In its loving judicious tone
And he is saying
Don’t panic, relax now
My sweet sweet son
The Kevlar I can offer you
Is the fact you won’t be alone.
The fact
You won’t be alone

Kevin Barrington

February, 2020

Pic: Conor Horgan

Previously: Kevin Barrington on Broadsheet

Garda Commissioner Drew Harris (left) has agreed with the assessment of Minister for Foreign Affairs Charlie Flanagan that the IRA never disbanded and Sinn Féin is run by the ‘army council’.

;

The Continuing Story of Óglaigh na hÉireann

All around the snot-nosed parishes of Ireland
small people of both genders, and neither,
are flapping open
copies of The Sunday O’Duffy
getting worried
about the continued existence
of the Citizen Army, Fenian Brotherhood,
Official IRA.

We can’t have
parties who perspire to government
secretly controlled by cabals
of men (and ladies) whose faces
we never see; apart from those
faces prescribed by prevailing winds
and the agreed rules
of the European Union,
which we need never see
but rest eternally assured
are there. Or thereabouts.

The only weaponry allowed
those seeking elected office
are five piece suits to help little
men appear substantial,
and no more than six
plastic chairs on which the faithful can
every other month gather
to recite the Our Father,
or discuss the rising
price of sewage. Even

the Social Democrats must come clean
about the continued non-existence
of their army council, and what role precisely
Fintan O’Toole plays in its
military high command.

A mature democracy like ours
needs parties whose manifestos
political correspondents
with excellent haircuts (and none) can safely
spread across their living room floors
and roll around naked on
without fear of being interrupted
by men and women wearing
illegally held
balaclavas.

Kevin Higgins

Previously: Drew The Same Conclusion

Rollingnews