Pasta
No art, no exaggeration.
Hereʼs how it happened.
Last evening, we returned
For pasta. La Casa Italia,
Of course. Slack night Monday.
Two tables occupied out front,
Inside just us. ʻEl Jefeʼ left
His portable t/v to greet us,
Called the waitress, then
Settled smartly back before the screen.
Now this is it.
He was watching (sheʼs my witness)
A spaghetti western.
By Daniel P Stokes

The Second Wife
Late Spring that promised Summer
I hung out the washing as he cleared
A border for replanting.
A shirt half-pegged, I paused
And felt how lucky, our enclosed oasis,
This rectangle of nurtured green
Breasted on three sides by shrubs
He soon would front with flowers.

And as I chirped on, I saw
(I wasnʼt spying) him lift, examine
(As if heʼd found a skull–
A buried pet whose site he had forgotten)
A glove, half-rotten, small,
Too small for me, black satin,
With one pearl on its wrist
And without expression, drop
It in the weed-box.

I stared at him,
Behind a row of towels that hardly fluttered,
Robust and beautiful, stretching, stripping
Back whatever Winter wizened,
Too absorbed to notice that I watched.
By Daniel P Stokes

The Snail
Outside, the snail in rain,
Transparent muscle, vacillates
Purposively on my window,
Tentacles searching, reaching
Drawing all across this sleek expanse
Toward an end that scorns
The safety of underside of stone.
By Daniel P Stokes

The Leaving of old Irishtown
The Mailboat sails across the sea,
Across the oceanʼs foam,
It took him far from Dublin,
To seek a distant home.
A lonely exile driven ʻneath
Misfortuneʼs coldest frown,
from his loved home and cherished friends,
and dear old Irishtown.

Whilst there upon the deck he stood
And viewed the fading shore
What thoughts arose within his heart
Of friends heʼd see no more?
Of the happy times and pleasant smiles,
At last the tears flow down
When thinking now of friends who dwell
In dear old Irishtown.

Shall he no more upon that spot
Over yonder seas so wild
Or walk along the Dodder where he played as a child
Or watch the sun in Ringsend Park
Light up the turf so brown,
Or sing once more a farewell song
To dear old Irishtown.

If when the years have rolled away,
And he comes home once more,
To see some old friends he shall be,
As welcome as before
Among the old remembered streets
To wander up and down
Then love and kindness greets him,
As before in Irishtown.
By Joe Lindsay

A Stroll through Ringsend
As I stroll over the bridge and into the heart
of Ringsend,
You can be sure it wonʼt be long before you
meet an old friend.

I turn left at the Church and pass by the Yacht,
Where a man stands smoking with beard full of froth
I meet people coming from mass on this
fine Sunday morning,
The old praising the service while the young say
it was boring.

I head up by York Road and pass by the Tech,
I think back to the times we made the teachersʼ
lives a wreck.

I lean over the wall and stare out at the bay,
I remember back to when it was Ringsend
Regatta day.

The tension was high between St. Patʼs and the
Stella clubs,
And long after the race it would extend to the pubs.

I continue my journey down Pigeon house road,
And on to the new houses which are over
30 years old.

A short cut through Lego Land and into the park,
Where I spot some graffiti saying ʻStacy loves Markʼ.

I sit on a bench and think back of the joys,
Scoring my first goal for the under 10s
Cambridge Boys.

I pass by the GAA pitch and remember as a boy,
Playing Gaelic and Hurling for
Clannna Gael Fontenoy.

A scrap would break out at every single game,
It put fear in our opponents when they hear
the Ringsend name.

I come out on to Bath Street where I stop to mourn,
At the house were my wonderful mother,
Maureen was born.

Down through Irishtown and my stroll near its end,
Past Clynes, the C.Y. and the Library on the bend.
Now itʼs into Sallyʼs for a one pint or more,
Then home for Sunday roast please God about four.
By Patrick Walsh

Untitled
Come visit a while in Ireland
A green and welcoming place
Wherever you go you will always be met
With a wonderful smiling face

Come stay a while in Ireland
With its literature music and song
Youʼll feel at home wherever you go
Itʼs as if you really belong

Come look around in Ireland
With its emerald cool green grass
And be amazed as its people
Blessed with humour, kindness and class

Come listen and learn in Ireland
Find the culture creation and charm
And feel the buzz of the city
And the countrysideʼs peace and calm

Come– be entertained in Ireland
By the blarney and smiling eyes
And learn that this race of people
Are giving and loving and wise

And when you return to your home land
And get back in the old routine
You will think of Ireland and know in your heart
Itʼs the best place youʼve ever been
By Joseph Flood