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nico

Poetry Corner

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This thread is for the poets among us and to post the poetry you've penned yourself.

 

I'll get the ball, rolling. Here's some I penned myself, they're not the greatest but I hope to improve in the future.

 

Is mise, Nico.

 

 

 

The Flats

The sun slowly rises over the old crumbling concrete blocks,

Its yellow rays gently caress the walls a bleak view it unlocks.

Cats chasing pigeons while the pigeons flee the rats,

Through the grey and broken houses, through the worn-out block of flats.

 

Caretakers clean dark hallways from another night of shame,

Working on a minimum wage discrimination they proclaim.

Boarded up houses and eviction notices are something of the norm,

While men and women join the queue to fill out the dreaded claim form.

 

Children gather on the old tarmac pitch five a side they play,

Over broken bottles and empty beer cans, deprivation of today.

The ice cream van travels through the smoke come winter rain or shine,

Kids appear from every shadow, and chase their mobile shrine.

 

No more the coal man struggles on, his horse and cart now redundant,

No one needs him now he has nothing to sell, his merchandise is less abundant.

The milkman comes and goes each morning, he puts the milk outside your door,

While the loan shark lurks and milks his victims, he’s an enemy of class war.

 

Restless youths drink in gangs a stolen car screeches out of sight,

The elderly cower and bolt their doors the rosary they recite.

Gardai drum front doors in, it’s the lawless that they do seek,

But their far to late and out of touch, they’re on a loosing streak.

 

Politicians come by each year a favour to ask and support,

In return for your vote they say they’ll make a change, but we always come up short.

Buildings spring up overnight where once bare green fields lay,

New playgrounds for the wealthy elite like Apartheid walls they sway.

 

In the bursting hospital in Coomb St a single mother carries a heavy load,

Her rent is to high and she’s overcrowded who will respect her ethical code?

What joyous thoughts at this time should be are replaced with anxiety and despair,

Of a loving Mother with a brand new baby to be brought up on dismal welfare.

 

Church bells ring out load and clear, they pierce the silent air,

As the Elderly stagger by in ones and twos and whisper a little prayer.

Bless us o Father Mathew, our haunted souls for God to keep,

And pray for those who are blind to see they make our poor souls weep.

 

Plumes of smoke fill the air the cooper is burning bright,

When will the TD's ever learn salvation is our right.

Too long this degradation suffered, the homeless list at its peak,

Lets band together and make a mass and justice we will seek.

 

 

 

Remember

 

Smoke from chimney stacks cast a shadow

The frail silhouette of a lonely aul’man staggers by.

His tapping cleats stir an eerily rhythm

A haunting air no veiled ear can hide.

 

 

In by gone days he served his Country well

To his best abilities with joy and pride.

Discarded now like a worn-out tool

His fruits of labour thorn from his side.

 

 

His fixed abode hides a story untold

Like his failing memory falling into disrepair.

The landlord turns his head and smirks,

Satisfying his hunger for anguish and despair

 

 

A wireless radio chatters in the background

His only companion in despairing times.

He whispers matter with strong feelings of empathy,

No response to his resolve sounds the Angelus chimes.

 

 

The blanket of night approaches fast, the aul’man retires to bed.

As his failing memory runs back and forth again

To his gallant comrades and dear old friends.

Happier times where had by all, so saddened is he now,

His friend and comrades have long since gone, his life is full of woe.

 

 

The cock crows loud and clear piercing the morning air

But the only thing that rises that morn, Is the sun that shines so dear.

Alas, no mourners at his wake to bid his last adieu,

Only the haunting air of his tapping cleats remain, that echo through and through.

 

 

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This one's about old childhood memories of playing in the old remains of the "Chewingum Factory" or the "Gummer" as it was better known.

It used to be a playground for many of the children at the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Gummer

 

Where Wild dogs roamed the plains

That once was the old chewing-gum factory.

A pile of rubble lays there now

Testament to the workers memory.

 

Children build camps and stage mock-wars,

Nimble fingers delicately separate shards of glass from stone.

The butterfly-bush dances in the breeze

A Chinese invader has made its home.

 

Its roots now imprisoned within these grey walls

Its sweet purple flower wafts freely through the air.

The Tortoiseshell sips its sweetened nectar,

To the echo of the war-cry from the neighbourhood children

 

The wind gently carries a Mothers cry

Like a siren it beckons and ends the mock-war.

Children leave in their droves, scuffed, cut, bloody and beating.

 

 

The Hounds

 

Proud as punch hold the Saxons at bay

dawns glorious auburn beams illuminates our sway,

Rising up and tearing down

dilemmas penal servitude.

 

Momentum has a spring in its step

its time to reap what we sow.

Cursed armies control the floor

the hounds stand firmly by the door.

 

Night falls black the riffles crack

piercing eyes through a hazy glare,

Control takes armies to the floor

and mops the blood of strangers.

 

Deafening cries too loud to hear

Steel on steel by hands so near

Cries of defeat cries of win

Cries of not ever knowing again

Glorious cries of content galore,

 

The hounds stand by the door no more.

 

 

Tinted Rose

 

Rancid wretched twisted views

Bourgeois propaganda starts to transfuse.

Stumbling forth and back again

Poison starts to take its toll.

Dismal proposals scar like a knife

Deplorable actions burden our life.

Tainted spectacles rose tinted and sore

Love loss and hardship brushed under the door.

Desolate cries of yesterdays men

Bureaucrats spew bile signed with a pen.

Workers toil against the system.

Mass oppression escapes the schism.

Poverty starts to take its toll

Politicians grasp their lavish payroll.

Destruction rains down with hardened blows

Proletarian action begins to transpose.

photo-thumb-1504.jpg

The Plough

 

My seven bright stars plough through the night sky,

Wild chariots of fire emblazoned by the souls of gallant men.

Gargantuan mountains surge across black canvas rippling a perpetual feeling,

In its wake is the spirit of a nation.

 

Curious, wonder, starry eyed, I gaze upon its ancient wisdom.

In it’s stardust memories trickle like the flowing ebb of a tide,

Among the moons blue light.

It’s eternal flame etched in the mind of prying eyes the memories of old,

It’s heat sears the heart.

 

Time stands still as my seven bright stars plough the heavens,

Soon to be sowed with the seed of mankind.

 

 

 

I wrote this one from a prisoners perspective, whose courage, steadfastness and determination in the face of British repression continues to inspire us all!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ghost of Life

 

Barbarous wire meshed

Concrete walls

Around me.

Savage steely eyes peer

Deep inside me.

The blank stare from a

Screw seeks to

Discover me,

He finds its target

But does not shake me.

The will inside has not

Forsake me, I

Struggle on they

Cannot enslave me.

For the inner spirit is

Strong inside me, my

Comrades too who lay

Beside me.

Solitary confined they

Try to break me,

Inhuman strip-searches

They use against me.

For all that its worth

It does not deter me.

Incarcerated within my blanket

The ghost of life

Enshrines me.

 

 

 

For Maggie (Thatcher)

Once a tyrant always a runt,

 

Pardon my language, but I have to be blunt.

 

She never could reason and could only grunt,

 

Like the rest of the fúckers who dwell in Stormont.

 

On a quest to kill republicans and those she enslaves

 

Innocent men she sent to their graves,

 

They went down fighting like warrior braves.

 

In anticipation I listen,

for her death on the airwaves.

 

 

 

 

Here's another one I've been messing around with, its about childhood memories of the Grand Canal and its surrounding area.

 

Upon the Canal

Once the Factory whistle blows'

workers scramble igniting the

furnace along the way while

gazing deep inside as it

bellows into an auburn sunset.

 

Through a reflective window pane its

light-rays of warmth bursts forth and

illuminates South Circular Road.

 

like a rousing dragon

John Players' factory awakens

sending plumes of smoke gently across

Dublin’s blue sky.

 

Its deep scented aroma

startling along the way a

battalion of unsuspecting nostrils

throughout a therapeutic display.

 

Mitching from school down

cobblestone roads,

with a school-bag of

wallpaper covered books

in smoky grey uniforms,

as evoking memories

of a Mother's tenderness

is reflected through shiny polished shoes.

 

Upon the canal,

I hear a drunkard sing underneath

Robert Emmett bridge.

Reverberating sounds send a shiver to my spine

resonating through to an immaculate dream

where wild geese play and rivers flow free

and legendary unquite stones reveal

thousand year old secrets.

 

Beautified is the canal bank rush where

water-hens nest among the green grass lush.

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A poem I wrote to express my devastation on the loss of Brother Leader Muammar al-Gaddafi

 

 

D'aithle Leon na hAifric

Is trua liom timheal an tsaol

Is mairg liom clann na hAifric

Atá ag gol go goirt faoi néal

 

Fuil an Leoin sa chré

Is cuis chrá dod charaid

Bhíomar faoi dhochas

Go raibh tú i dtaillte na dTuarag

 

Sheas tú sa Bhearna Baoil

I gCathair naofa na Sirte

Ghlan tú náire na Libia

Le d'fhuil oirdhearc féin

 

Rinne tú an oiread

Ar son na héireann.

 

 

English translation:

 

 

Sorrow on the Death of Colonel Muammar al-Gaddafi

 

After the Lion of Africa

I pity the fading of the world

I sorrow for the clann of Africa

Who cry salt tears under cloud

 

The Blood of the Lion in the clay

Its a cause of torment to your friends

We had been in hope

That you were in the lands of the Tuarag

 

You stood in the Gap of Danger

In the holy city of Sirte

You cleaned the shame of Libya

With your own noble blood

 

You did as much

For the sake of Ireland

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This is another poem I wrote about the Ouagadougou Convention Centre, which was the last stronghold to fall to the Nato rats in Sirte:

 

 

Mórtheach Ouagadougou

Anocht go fothrach folamh

Uailleach an tsíon uaigneach

Ag caoineadh trí do rachta

 

Tionóileadh guth an Leoin

Na sluaite id sheomraí

B’ansa leat an guth sin

Dubhach sinn anocht dá éis

 

Do labhair laochra na hAifric

Idir do bhallaí marmar

Bheartaigh said forba a dhéanamh

Cumhacht na himpireachta a ghoin

 

As a aithle Briseadh Tripoli

Ghlac óglaigh an Leoin a bhforaire

Fordheargadh do mharmar

Trí foráil seirce

 

Cé gníomh laoich do ghní

Níor bheireadar bua sa chath

Bhí forneart na himpireachta ró-láidir

Is formad an lucht foghla

 

An t-olc a fhulaingíonn tú anocht

A Mhórtheach Ouagadougou

Do fraitheacha is fuinneoga á loisc

Is é sin an t-olc a fhulaingíonn Libia

Is atá i ndán don Afric trí chéile

 

A fhir is mná na Libia

Ná déan gníomh francaigh

An bhfuil eagna agaibh?

Má tá, gabhaígí chugaibh an Leabhar Glas

 

 

Translation:

 

 

The Great House of Ouagadougou

Tonight ruined and empty

Wailing the lonely wind

Which cries through your rafters

 

The voice of the Lion convened

The hosts in your chambers

That voice was most beloved to you

We are gloomy tonight for it’s lack

 

The heroes of Africa spoke

Between your marble walls

They planned to work a wonder

To wound the power of empire

 

After the breaking of Tripoli

The Volunteers of the Lion took their watch

Your marble was blood reddened

Through excess of love

 

Though a warriors deed was done

They did not carry victory

The violence of the empire was too strong

And the envy of the plunderers

 

The evil you suffer tonight

Oh Great House of Ouagadougou

That is the evil that Libya suffers

And is planned for all of Africa

 

Oh men and women of Libya

Do not do the deed of rats

Do you have wisdom?

If so, take to you the Green Book

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On Attending the Funeral of Óglach Alan Ryan, September 2012

 

 

The bell rings out from the Church of the Holy Trinity

The bell of mourning, the bell of remembering

The bell of warning and of calling

 

A vast ocean of solar blue extends above us

Unbroken but by lines of white vapour

Jets make their funeral arch around the moon

 

Oh, clear the streets of cars and busses

Look how the sun flames on white linen

Look how the flags flutter black and green

Today is no day for moneychanging

Let the greedy windows be quiet

Let the coffers be still

Today we bury a soldier

 

Straight you stood, a bud in bloom

Watered in the love of friends

And the songs of Pearse and Tone

Already you were a legend

Famed for noble deeds

From Áth Luain to sea

You carried Cú Chulainn’s spear

 

Oh men and women who are moved by beauty

Do not be ashamed to shed a tear

And mourn the passing of our gallent lad

Rank weeds stole him from us

They nailed our hearts to the flag post

Oh when again will we see such a smile

Or eyes so clear and true

 

Bandits at the head of Europe

Your death comes quick on the rape of Libya

And the ravage of Syria, the crucifixion of wounds

 

How different the streets look this morning

The sun burns my forehead

Is this Ireland still?

No, not that Ireland, not that Ireland anymore

So, let yee tie on the green masks of history

Let the shots ring out

as they did when Bobby died

 

In this auspicious weather

History warms the world again

After our winter of ‘89

 

Hairy knuckles clench truncheons made impotent

Mercenaries of the ruling class, they rage

They had hoped that you and your kind had left on ships

Listen! Flags flutter on the lamp posts

Listen! The guns of the IRA firing volleys

Listen! Volunteers marching on Dublin streets

The Legion of the Rearguard

 

On this September day

We should have been marching to the fields

And you leading the way

To save the Peoples harvest

Laughing in summer shirts

With golden cornstalks

Looking forward to the Festival of Samhain

 

A big house on the hill

With stately Georgian windows

Reminds us of unfinished business

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For my Gran

 

Sun kissed flowers, freshly cut-grass, fragrant roses,

allure the senses,

with all the majestic power

of the moons

gravitational pull.

 

Upon the trellis high,

the bright morning sun

peeks above its yellow head,

as Bluebells clamour in the breeze

for their daily bread.

 

Like a breezy tree you swayed softly on the air,

and danced through detangled winds,

as the sun unfurls your way of life,

and sings your name with enchanted beams.

 

Fadó Fadó in Ballymun,

in a land that time had all but forgotten.

Your life was hard and the union card,

still recur in the memory

of the many downtrodden.

 

I play a tune for you in the afternoons’ wind,

but my lament is carried away by the galloping night.

 

Tears soon begin to scorch my eyes as

beads of perspiration absorb my skin,

my drowning heart plunges into a sea of sadness,

but I remember you as you were,

with a clenched soul,

life’s embodiment, in your eyes, where all dreams begin,

Forever, on my mind.

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