Dublin Deluge
You’ve heard about the Bible flood
The ark that landed in the mud.
The famous flood of Dublin town
That caused O’Connell Street to drown,
When only tops of trees were seen
By those who sailed on Stephen’s Green,
That was the time I steered my raft on
The street– now grand canal– of Grafton.
I saw Bewley’s. It was open.
I hove to and threw a rope in
Through a window three floors up.
Someone hauled me in. “A cup
Of coffee and cream bun,” I sighed.
“Right away,” a waitress cried.
“Wet today.”
“Yes. Bad for May.”
By Peter Kay

To The Former Occupant (for Annie)
Everything that is narrated here actually happened; nothing happened as it is narrated here– Goethe

It was your cottage
I now make my home.
I would have liked
to have met you.

Without written history,
I sift through your remains
like an archaeologist.

You left photographs
of nineteenth century
girlhood, neatly stored
in large cornflake boxes.
You painted wooden crates
for bookcases and seats.

You kept bottles and jars,
newspapers and clippings.
A 1932 paper yellows in
an empty drawer, headlining
the Ecumenical Congress:
‘Hooligans attack a train
while women weep and pray
in their seats’, and all
gather at O’Connell Bridge.

A box of unused gas masks
and an empty ammunition box:
was it World War One, or
the Rising, that brought them here?

A holy font still hangs
by the doorway of the room
at the top of the worn stair:
evil spirits stood warned
by Christ’s image; and a horseshoe
hung upright to hold the luck.

Here is a house where good things
have happened, where life
has been slow and thoughtful,
a place where good things may again
create a corner in the wide world
for peace to snuggle into.

The dog next door doesn’t trust
a soul he doesn’t know. He stood
in my yard and stared at me
in disbelief, dumbfounded suspicion.
Maybe he was looking for you.

I light the fire you set
in the grate months ago.
Like an archaeologist
I sift through your remains
and try to write your history.
By Glenda Cimino

Hosing Down The Pigs
Hosing down the pigs. Isn’t
It wonderful? They nuzzle
Up to the nozzle. They knead
The noisy noose of silver
That froths aurora splendours
Through the sun. Butt noses
Break the fireman-force of the
Jet-torrent into exploding clams
Of water pummelling the evening
Air into pearls. They are delirious
As dipsos sprayed with gin as
Shimmering beards and beads fall
From the grin of each chin. They
Bristle and bustle and shuffle each
Other sideways in a friendly banter
Before the exuberant decanter of
Delight that towards their raised
Faces makes flight from the
Hosepipe of life everlasting, amen.
By Peter Kay

Central Truth
Your life can seem a string of separate poems
Opening lines that are leading nowhere
Never letting their petals
Reach out to the full extent
Unfold to reveal that central truth
Around which all will centre,
It can be as if the knowledge
Of whom you really are
You own with even less certainty
Than you do the vague impressions
You have of whom
They are expecting you to be
Where minds behind eyes
With the tranquillity of concrete
Place everything into a
Pattern.
The prickling of the drizzle
And azure radiating
From above the disintegrating canopy
Of mottled grey
Its blue, you are used to it
As sixty years is to seeing
White hairs in the mirror
But smart enough not to
Mistake a mind’s forced assent
To inevitables for serenity
(when it’s just admitting truth), it’s not
And neither is this café’s
Canvas sheltered terrace
Paris.
By Tim Costello

The Pier
The pier with its long and winding pathway
A place I walk on from day to day
The pace of my walking some would say is too quick
But to end up behind the tourist trap would make me sick
I sit at the end of the pier to ponder on life
Hoping to speak to the girl who would be my wife
I still think that one day love will come my way
With a girl I have met on the pier I would say
The wind like my thoughts are sometimes blown into the sea
I wonder when the girls pass by, do they think of me?
The shimmering sun at times lights the way
An inhospitable place though when it’s murky and grey
The birds the winged wonders I call them
They twist and turn with effortless grace
Waves splashing and crashing, at times they do mock
And now I end this phrase with this heartfelt plea
If you see me on the pier, please stop and talk to me
Especially if you are young, female, single and free.
By Mark Jones

My Father
A man for all seasons there’s no doubt about that,
This man who married my Mother,
The love and the care he gave to us all,
He was our father and our extra brother,
The fatherly love and the brotherly care,
The generosity just poured from this man,
It’s impossible to put in to words what I write,
He was just a wonderful gentle man,
He worked very hard throughout all of his life,
And never once left the family in need,
He gave my mother as much as he could,
This man never suffered from greed,
Her took us out to the seaside, the circus and park,
And walks down the country lanes,
He carried us on the crossbar of his bike,
Down the docks to see the ships and the cranes,
He mended our shoes when they needed to be,
He made all ours toys out of wood,
And for my mother he made many things for the house,
Never complaining, not that he would,
He was often short of a few bob to spend,
But we never went short of our penny on Friday,
And my mother had always enough for the week,
Just enough for her next pay day,
A dad in a million far beyond compare,
Unselfish throughout all of his life,
He was just a wonderful father to us,
And a great husband to our mother, his wife,
He made sure we were well educated,
To face the future without any fear
And all that he taught us came up trumps,
As we all ended up with a good career.
This most gentle of gentle people,
We are proud to say he was our dad,
The best of the crop and the top of the pops,
We were lucky and were we glad,
When we all had married and had families of our own,
Grand children came along as time passed by,
Great grand children came too, quite more than a few,
Now he looks down on us with pride from heavenly skies.
By Sonny Kinsella

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