The South Quays 1945
If I had a penny for every time
I walked my dog along the Quay
No doubt that I’d be a millionaire,
Well that’s what I’d hoped to be.

As we passed on down through Moss Street
On the Quay corner stood Eckfords big store,
They were very well known ships chandlers
Who supplied many ships that came to shore

Now as we passed on by Eckfords
Towards the church on City Quay
The next in line was the sailors’ home
Then came The Banana Store Company

The coal merchant’s yards were not far away
And the ice cold storage there too,
We would stop to look at the ships that were docked
Facing old Windmill Lane, with no crew.

The gasometer stood out on high
Supplying gas throughout Dublin City,
But now this landmark is long since gone
Fell to progress more is the pity

Along the Quays and past the ships
The Eight Bells pub was on my right
And further on down were two more pubs
Where the locals spent many a good night.

There were the old post and oil well,
And they all looked out towards the sea.
But sad to say they are no longer there,
They have all faded into a memory.

The Custom House was on the north side,
With its clock high up in the dome,
And when you saw it from a ship
You knew you were almost home.

The steps that led into the river,
Was where my dog went into swim about,
He would swim the river in circles
Till I’d whistle him to come back out.

The trawlers pulled in at night with their catch,
With many boxes of fishes to unload,
And often at times we would get a free fish,
When some of them fell on the road.

In the summer the Liffey was a favourite place,
Where all the lads went in for a swim,
And the bravest ones would climb the crane high,
To out jump John Jack or Jim,

The younger ones went fishing,
Some for crabs and some for fish,
On all kinds of rods they made on the day,
A better past time you just couldn’t wish.

My rambles took me down to the Point
Where a lot of old sailors would meet,
Probably reminiscing about the time they spent,
On the high seas and not on the street.

My millionaire days never came to pass
But I’m none the worse of that pleasure
For the memories I have of the walks with my dog,
Along down the Quays I’ll always treasure

By Sonny Kinsella
(Just for the record my dog’s name was Rex, a border collie who was my best friend.)

Storms
The Winter Winds came roaring in
Across the sea.
They walled the waves,
They raised the tide,
They bowed the trees.
Danger in the Winter Winds.

“The river is high,” the old man said
“It soon will flood the lea
In eighty years I never did see such
Danger in the Winter Winds.”

By Carmel McCarthy

The Poet’s Party
The old red brick set back from the road
felt quiet, mysterious in the dark.
The metal sign creaked as it did a year
before, close to solstice when the winds
reached a pitch at night fall.
Solid stone steps, let up to the door
as old as the clerics who had gone before;
that time changed over to an oriental hall.
Elevated in comfort amid a lively fire
pure white walls and fresh wood floors
the familiar crowd cheered each other
with the best of humour, food and wine.
Poetry and song found a bard at home,
on pages laboured over at the midnight call.
Dark skinned men mingled, drifted through
the room bringing all that was required.
Unspoken words, soft eyes, worlds apart
found peace in bonded love and thought.
Christ’s call in the wild lives on.

By Imelda Kearney

The Nun and the Dentist
A nun went to visit a dentist one day,
For some of her teeth were in decay.
The dentist suggested she needed fillings,
And that would require drillings,
The nun said: “Drill, if you must,
In the lord I put my trust”.
The dentist: “I’ll freeze your mouth”.
The nun said: “No, I’ll do without,
The souls in purgatory need a sacrifice,
Even though it won’t be nice.”
The dentist warned: “There will be pain!”
“That’s all right sir, the souls will gain!”
The dentist proceeded to drill a tooth
And the nun gave him an unmerciful boot
Into the privates, man it was sore.
As he lay screaming on the floor,
“Give me an anaesthetic!” the nun did yell
“The souls in purgatory can go to hell!”

From ‘Flying with the Doves’ a book of poetry by Billy Nealon 2001

Routine Days
Black skies hang round
in November time
windows laced in frost
hot showers break the ice
essential coffee roasted black
small talk and gripe for breakfast
kiss the wife blurt out the usual tripe
dogs barking on the block
stone walled body clocks
the ‘Dart’ has too many stops
bored faces in routine spaces
hide behind their thoughts
gridlock in an overcrowded slot
the day cut short
a tragic waste of life.

By Imelda Kearney

My Girl
Into my dreams she came each night,
Oh, she was such a wonderful sight,
Her hair was gold and her eyes were green
And her body– Ah!– That I had never seen.

That’s the secret she kept from me,
And that’s as fair as fair can be,
I asked no more but that she’d be mine,
And for her love did I always pine.

Then one night she spoke her name,
My heart missed a beat but who can blame,
The name she whispered, so well I knew,
For I’d seen it written in the morning dew.

But where to find her if she be real,
The answer to that she did conceal,
Seen by night and yet by day– unseen,
Ever in my heart– she was my Queen.

And then perchance, one winter cold,
I glimpsed a girl, whose hair was gold,
And there she was in front of me,
There was no doubt the girl was she.

Sweetly she smiled as she softly said,
I dream of you when in my bed,
And I of you, was my reply,
I’ll love you ever until I die.

And so it was– at last we’d met,
Many years ago our fate was set,
Together now we’ve always been,
Her hair’s now white but her eyes– still green.

By A.E.Mouse 21st December 2006
(The shortest day– the longest night–
perchance to dream)

How can I ask you to forgive me
When I can’t forgive myself
How can I ask you to be with me
When you’re with someone else

How can I ask you to hold me
In these crazy lonely nights
How can I ask you to be the one
To make everything alright

I cannot and I should not
Ask these things of you
But there’s something about the things you say
And the simple things you do

Something about you draws me in
Like a moth unto a flame
Something stirs some thing within
And it will never be the same

How can I ask you to sing for me
When you don’t know the tune
How can I ask you to commit
When for you it’s just too soon

How can I ask you to help me
To heal the hurt inside
How can I ask you to be there
And hold me when I cry

How can I expect you to give up
All you have for me
How can I ask you to take away
The flaws that you can’t see

I should not and I cannot
Force you to come home
But something tells me I’ll hear your voice
Wherever I may roam

By Audrey Healy

As always, we welcome contributions to
The Poetry Place, which can be sent to the
‘NewsFour’ offices at 15 Fitzwilliam Street,
Ringsend, Dublin 4.