Mweenish
Island
The weather changes in a flash
In the early morning the waves they crash
In between the silence
On this breath taken Mweenish Island
I look across and
there’s Medara
The tiny church of famine days
Where hundreds gathered to sadly pray
Willing this scourge to go away
As I sit on stones
of ancient times
What do they know as they gently wind
In bitter winters and summers of gold
So many stories to be told
At Johnny’s
cottage there’s the Galway hooker
The Morning Star she such a looker
She’s been in so many places
A winner in so many races
I’m proud to have met her if only for a while
As they fish these
waters round the West Coast
Looking so small in their tiny black boats
Their hands like shovels but gentle and thorough
With Salmon of silver and lobsters of blue
They’re coming home to you
A visitor to this
wondrous place
To a million stars I turn my face
Knowing as I laugh with glee
One day soon I will be free
This Island that I love so much
In time to come will belong to me.
By Mary Lou Dent
Ferry Ferry
Good morning Paddy not a bad day
As onto the ferry they made their way
Fifty men on a boat built for ten
Ah sure that was back then
As I stand on the
jetty and stare out to sea
Knee deep in water and wish it was me
Hard working men in caps of grey
Starting out another day
Ah sure that was back then
We’ll have
one in O’Connor’s first
This sea breeze gives us a terrible thirst
Sand boats cattle boats and boats from Japan
Come on Noely you’re in our gang
Waiting for the whistle
to blow
Along the north wall they would go
Staring at a lonely gull
He’s comin to take them home
They see him in the
distance
As down the steps go the button men
Tired and weary with hooks in hand
He ferries them back to Ringsend
Ah sure that was then
By Mary Lou Dent
I Had
I had some money
I was pleased with that
I had some success
I was pleased with that
I wasn’t the money
I wasn’t the success
What was I then?
I was some thing else
By Carmel McCarthy
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Why
Worry
There are only two things to worry about
Either you are well or you are sick
If you are well, then there is nothing to worry about
But if you are sick, there are two things to worry about
Either you will get well or you will die
If you die then you have two things to worry about
Either you go to Heaven or to Hell
If you go to Heaven then there is
nothing to worry about
But if you go to hell
You will be so darn busy shaking hands
with old friends
You won’t have time to worry.
By Anon
Opinions
“Opinionated as we are
We cannot see things, as they are”
“How do we see things then?” asked she
“We see things, as we are,” said he
“With tinted glasses on we go
Behaving like we somehow know
What others think and how they feel
As if ours were, the only real reality.
And in their turn and who’s to blame?
They perceive us, just the same”
By Carmel
McCarthy
The following
poem is based on all the poems from your last issue. It is my tribute
to the poetry place. I hope you, your readers and your poets enjoy it.
Yours Poetically Arron Noan O’Dythe
The Poetry
Place (June 04)
Who
owned my house? Asks Carmel Mac.
I be here now, You can’t have it back.
Granny Marie minds
a child
Who seems to me, be very wild
Nadine declares the
spire is fine
She’s very good for a child of nine
Thoughts in her head,
Ailish has many
For just one I’ll give you a penny
So many languages
what can we do?
My dear Mary, I agree with you
Jonny and India his
love affair
My envy of him is so unfair
Michael cries for
war to cease
As us all he just wants peace
Mr. Maher’s,
flowing black vein
Perhaps the Liffey, or our criminal domain
Ease her pain, a
pain so blue
Try and improve Doleres’ view
Be it gray or be
it green
Robert tells of all he’s seen
All the poets, so much talent
I sense
I do not wish to cause offence.
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Brigid
After her two bachelor brothers died, Brigid
Lived on her own, never
Went a place, feeding hens,
Milking cows, cooking daily
Meals, she enjoyed listening
To the radio, hearing the
News about other towns,
Other cities, other countries
And the weather forecast.
Walking around her small
Farm, wearing a round tam
Cap tightly covering her
Head, she lived quietly,
Close to the land, never
A cross word from her lips,
She never gossiped,
Borrowed or stole, living
Contentedly in her home.
Five people at her funeral
Her passing not worth
A mention, no politicians
No votes, no show-offs
Here, rushing to be seen.
Yet, it makes no
difference,
We all end up in the same
Grey earth and cold clay,
No matter how we live our
Lives or make ends meet.
By Mary Guckian
Melody Exposed
Where the path goes
Lively nature flows
Sun stroke stones
Heavenly tones
Yellow gorse explodes
A naked sun transposed
Soft green boughs
Sweet sounds
Nature’s map
a free pass
Great mass rolling back
Plants rocks open planes
Whisper names
Brown bark mustard
paths
Rising high in a tide of joy
Mature roots pretty blooms
Musical tunes
Gypsy blue crashing
Through silent force
A rugged coast
Melody exposed
By Imelda
Kearney
As always,
we welcome contributions to The Poetry Place, which can be sent to the
NewsFour offices at 15 Fitzwilliam Street, Ringsend, Dublin 4.
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