Views for the Deaf
Exclusion at gatherings is what we all fear
We think we’re ignored but that’s just paranoia
What and pardon show the impaired hearer’s pain
We ask to repeat again and again.
Mis-hearing will always be good for a laugh
We thought you said Thursday I’m going to the flicks
But you really meant thirsty I’m going for a drink
Again and again, over and over, more and more.
Sometimes we hear and sometimes we don’t
Lip-reading can help but you will not always be heard
Especially if the speaker is wearing a beard
Again and again, over and over, more and more.
We lower the telly so that it is mute
And we only watch sport until alone in the house
Then Fools and Horses comes on with a roar
Again and again, over and over, more and more.
A thought for those who are Mutt and Jeff
On hearing a joke we can never laugh
As we always miss the punchline and ask to repeat
Again and again, over and over, more and more.
By Eddie Duff
Heavenly Blue
Out of the ocean comes
The purity of your dreams
I watch the mystery of you,
Swimming innocently into heavenly blue
Suddenly magical colours appear.
Now enter into the
Seawomb of mystery
And leave behind,
Then leave behind
And face your new destiny.
Your troubled aching heart
Will suddenly dissolve
Into the ether.
Then a new cycle of love awaits you.
Now transcend,
Enter into the flame of love-
It will bring you into the epicentre.
At last the journey
From the mind to the heart
Is complete.
By Jack Lawlor
A Rail Journey
To Mary of mercy, to Damien of dreams,
Come memories of rattling-over-points trains.
Looking from windows smeared with the dust
Of chemin de fer, among forests lost,
All of the saints and children along
The tunnels through coaches their heartbeats fling.
Damien, dying, remembers his life
And coffee machines that trickle his grief,
And a mad journey along the dark Seine
And dandelion meadows that flock through the Green.
And Mary, living, gathers her wool
And knits her a cradle and crochets a stall.
Away in a manger she lays Jesus down
And shelters His head in the shade of her ruin.
Over a hurdle. Over a ford.
He’s on His way back to Gare du God.
He rams through the railyards, God’s unicorn,
And rides on the mainline, bound for Toulon.
Out stretches un carnet of lavenders high.
Out bursts one carnation where wed night and day.
Sunset. Horizon. The young moon abroad.
Each starry syllable loosed from his word.
Damien’s grave is all covered with flowers
That have seeded themselves and outblossomed the tares.
Mary in wheatfields is wandering on.
How sweet her singing, yet how her tears run.
By Peter Kay
Ode to Walking and Singing
Someday I’ll set off
walking and singing a Holy Name
and never come back
because there’s nothing like it,
small body under a great sky,
walking stick and hat
and the path-ribbon stretching out or looping
as far as you want to go,
no good reason, really, to stop,
especially when you sing
because the human voice
is a bird in a cage
and song allows it to soar,
and when at the top of its arc the bird
finds the sky is only another cage
a plaintive wail enters its voice,
the longing to go still farther, knocking itself against
the door beyond.
Amazing what the human voice can do,
this bellows of air transmuting longing
into a golden bird of song!
You have to walk and sing
to know what I’m saying.
Melody is a choice every second,
and if not a choice, a wild heart-stab;
timbre and rhythm, all improv, too,
every step’s unique
signature in the air.
Sometimes for awhile the eye takes over,
soothed by green, gathering in spring’s sprigs,
passing them deep to keep
against future drought;
or looking at water or distant hills,
or watching the slow meditation of the clouds
as they follow deliberately, gracefully
their invisible shepherd.
Passing a conference of chickadees
and doves, gathered like fruit on a tree,
I playfully unfurl my song to them.
Some of their friends fly over to join in.
Are they singing my chant in their language?
No way to know. The fugue winds down. They
begin their winged departures and I
move on, still wondering.
Cares have been flying off the whole time,
first the ones that always come
at work or in traffic or even at home,
those small, silent freeloaders,
then, after a while, the bigger cares,
more deeply buried,
cranes or geese leaving on migration.
I’m again the pilgrim
I was at twenty,
pack tied on a stick over the shoulder,
steadying staff in the other hand
and even the next step
a letter as yet unwritten
by the Moving Hand
By Max Reif
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
Love Love Love
Searching round every corner
Likes waves awash the sea
Love love love
Is what you mean to me
The brightest star in the night sky
That where you said you’d be
That’s where I look for you at night
Love is what you mean to me
I never thought it would happen
To a mere someone like me
But then a stranger came my way
And love came to greet me
And you brought love love love
When I lie in your embrace
Love love love
When I gaze into your face
Love love love
When your eye bore into mine
Love love love
That I never thought Iíd find
You do something to me
I just can’t explain
You make me feel so warm inside
Bring sunshine after rain
Your body close to me at night
Shared secrets in the dark
Waking up close to you
The magic of that spark
To feel your breath upon my face
Stroll with you hand in hand
To know that you’re forever mine
To know that you’re my man
And you brought love love love
When I lie in your embrace
Love love love
When I gaze into your face
Love love love
When your eye bore into mine
Love love love
That I never thought I’d find
Lyrics written just for me
As we dance side by side
Laughter in the daytime
Though sometime we just cried
Magical moments,
crazy wild and free
Love love love
That’s what you brought to me
Love love love
Wish I’d found you long ago
But now that you’ve come my way
I’ll never let you go
Love love love
By Audrey Healy
(Charlie McGettigan has just made this into a song)
The Poet
The poet is always blessed
By holy intuition
that gently grows,
taking him to new depths
Of innate, ever changing wisdom.
His grasp of nature’s ways
Propels him to converse
With the holy beggar-
The poet may never
need to write a word
but is spiritually inclined.
By Jack Lawlor
As always, we welcome contributions to
The Poetry Place, which can be sent to the
‘NewsFour’ offices at 15 Fitzwilliam Street,
Ringsend, Dublin 4. Or Email: newsfourscs@eircom.net |
