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Uploaded December 2015 (3 poems) Click for Readings
Trepidation
Not the singer but the song
Why should I want to appear
The expected baby said? Outside may be cold and hostile While now I am warm and fed. Likewise the poems within me Know that though nurtured there They may someday, if ever published, Face many a hostile stare. For style may change and develop But the things that I want to say Are there, to be loved or rejected Like the dog that would have its day. |
A Helping Hand
'I will never forget him - nor will I ever forget what he did', my father told me.
I can see him still' my father said,
'a big chap with rough clothing standing in the middle of the road with his hand raised to stop us'. It was around the time of the civil war and he and a younger brother were returning from somewhere in the far west of Ireland. An RIC* man had been shot and killed and they had taken his body for burial back to his place of origin. Afterwards they were advised not to stay, as the hatred some felt for this man with his service in the police force might well be taken out on them. So they left and had started back towards their home city of Belfast and were in a village in Sligo when the unassuming stranger stopped them. 'I saw you going through earlier today and was watching out for you in case you might come back tonight' he said. 'There's trouble farther down the road and it would be unsafe to continue'. 'Is there somewhere here we can lodge for the night?' my father asked, for the day was far spent**. 'Unfortunately the village hotel is closed by this time. I tell you what though. |
If you would like I will find somewhere safe
for the car and you can come home with me. We haven't much - there is only the old mother and I, but you are welcome to what we have'. 'I will never forget him - nor will I ever forget what he did', my father told me. 'He was a Catholic and knew that we were not, yet amid all the animosity of that bitter time he put himself so much out of his way to help us'. 'And they are marching in Northern Ireland today to perpetuate their divisions!' one person said after I had told that story at worship in the chapel of the beautiful Bield retreat centre near Perth, where people of commitment and vision have created a place of purpose and peace. In the quiet and calm of the centre I had forgotten that it was the twelfth of July and the height of the marching season, although I was once a junior member of an Orange Lodge in my native Belfast. 'Mother let you go with your friends, but I know she wasn't happy about it' my elder sister told me much later. Some sixty years and a short stretch of water separated me from that time, as I sat in that sanctuary of stillness and seclusion. And I was glad to have forgotten that martial day with its season of shared suspicion and insensitivity. * Royal Irish Constabulary ** Luke 24:29 (KJB) |
Finn McCool
The Irish can always be relied on to spin a good yarn!
An Irish giant called Finn McCool
Was big and strong as could be With a wife as clever as he was huge, A formidable pair you'll agree. The brawniest giant he was by far And none disputed the fact For defeated he had the others with ease And laid them flat on their back. He sorrowed as said of Alexander the Great And yearned for one fight more Then heard of another giant of fame Who dwelt on a farther shore. So keen was he to encounter at once This rumoured Scottish foe He bellowed across the straits between And a gale soon started to blow. So prolonged a challenge he uttered and loud It travelled through valley and glen Till it reached the other giant ere long Quietly ensconced in his den. His mighty kilt he pulled over his thighs For breeches he never would wear And strode over heather and bracken and gorse To darken the coast south of Ayr. Bestriding the Antrim coastline McCool Thought he had nothing to fear For the giant seen from a distance like that Was smaller than if he was near! |
Six-sided* huge stones on the Antrim coast
Are remains of the causeway he'd built To entice the Scottish giant across, But his courage then started to wilt. The nearer Fingal** came to the shore For that was the giant's name The bigger and bigger his stature grew Putting poor Finn to shame. Hastening back to the home he shared With his wife, he was quickly advised When she heard that Fingal was coming soon To comply with the plan she devised. His bathtub she used as a baby's cot Put a frilly cap on his head And when Fingal came to look for Finn She showed him the cot instead. Finn lay quietly sucking his thumb While Fingal was filled with distress; With such a baby, the size of the sire Was something he dared not guess! An urgent appointment he said he had made Before leaving his Scottish home And wrenching the stones from the causeway behind Hastened back the way he had come. Now Ireland's an island that's most beloved By its emigrants, who oft have impressed, But for wit and a kiss of the Blarney Stone Those remaining compete with the best. |
* The most symmetrical stones at the Giant's Causeway are hexagonal
** The giant Benandonner is called Fingal in the Scottish version of the legend |