Love Poem

Love POETRY is not familiar territory for me but we've all gone through the terror and awkward excitement of first love and the pursuit of love. Where have you been since when, first seen? in a pub, drunk and befuddled. on a pitch, wet, be - puddled, who knows ’til now, love's confusing signals, the…Read more Love Poem

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Wild Sea Waves

In Dublin I knew a woman, with flax golden hair Tressed like wild sea waves, her heart, her voice was Irish, her name, her vibrancy were Viking. She was Dublin. We lived, together, in The Liberties while both of us sought freedom, she, from youth and I, from bondage. The Viking Wall is behind my…Read more Wild Sea Waves

Perpetual Motion

In Dublin, a child’s spinning top was found, remnant from antiquity, the detritus of a Viking city buried by another city. In Baghdad, I remember, a Sumerian spinning top discarded through millennia find light and air amid the chaos and turmoil of war and plunder. Ninety years ago a spinning top was a Christmas gift.…Read more Perpetual Motion

Tosca’s Tale

As true and relevant today (maybe more)

https://youtu.be/V_pg-DKBeZ0

Postcard from a Pigeon

Seventy years since the survivors’ of Auschwitz were liberated, I was watching a tv documentary where six of them recounted their stories of survival and the terrible aftermath they’ve endured, of nightmares and tragedies. One Polish man, Dr Tadeusz Smreczynski, who became a doctor and practiced general medicine within ten minutes of the camp gates, has been forever haunted, not just by the memories but by his own physical proximity to the camps. One other thing that horrifies him, is an aria from Puccini’s opera, Tosca, itself a tale told against a backdrop of tyranny and oppression. He heard an inmate singing the aria. He said it was strange to hear such a thing in the surroundings of the camp. An S.S. guard heard it, too and ran to find its source. Our survivor asked someone, what happened? The singer was killed. His story moved me to write this poem.

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The Deal – #4 in the Taking Liberties Project

The Deal By a busy city street three men in a lane, between the Middle East store and Vicar St, bent in business, oblivious to the hub-bub, rush hour people, going home, intent on the share, the deal of their lives, this minute. Few words, hungry eyes, gaunt and haunted, slaves of the powder that…Read more The Deal – #4 in the Taking Liberties Project

Libertie’s, a poem

I live in The Liberties, one of the oldest parts of the city of Dublin, the outer suburb of the medieval walled city where the native Irish lived to trade with and serve the city's Norman rulers. It is an area rich with history and a strong sense of community. The Bells of St Patrick's is…Read more Libertie’s, a poem

The Bells of St Patrick’s

The bells, the bells, not Quasimodo’s old Dame, St Patrick’s on a Sunday morning, the bell ringers gather,  to chime and clang, layer upon layer, a resounding Dublin breakfast for a city waking to repent the night’s excesses. What joy, what horror, shut the bleeding window, have they no respect for the self afflicted? Bellicose…Read more The Bells of St Patrick’s