Irish Poetry

3

The Disillusioned Citizen

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The disillusioned Citizen

As I sit in my cold, cold house

Sticking bubble wrap to my single glaze,

The slap of the letter box like a slap to the face,

Cold as the air, in an unemployed haze.

s

Each day the horrors of my future lie in suspension

No letters of job offers, hope and acceptance; its beyond comprehension.

Dangerous ground the post man dictates,

My mood, my emotions, my worries, my fate.

s

Plenty of bills though, they keep rolling in,

Unwanted, unopened and thrown in the bin.

For their demands just cannot be met,

It’s a number of weeks till my house is for let.

s

Never have I experienced such rejection,

Something is wrong with this country, a malaise; no, an infection.

A glitch in the system, an error of ways,

The dismissal of citizens through their ivory tower gaze.

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roll

An Taoiseach’s Ode to Self

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Four years ago, I took charge

of a country that had forgotten

how to tie its shoe laces; a nation

that no longer knew where

its undergarments were;

the saddest little great country

on this small part of the planet

many of whose people

had woken up to find

themselves on lavatory seats

not of their own making,

and those who hadn’t

could feel something

cold against their faces

and, on opening their eyes, discovered

it was the pavement. With policies got

from the late Herbert Hoover’s crypt

to encourage a flowering of

pound shops all over the country,

we taught the people of Ireland

how to properly wipe

their own rear ends again.

_

Giving people the confidence

and security to clean themselves

in the privacy of their own bathrooms

is what this Government is all about.

I’m glad to say that some people

are experiencing this as I speak.

Many more don’t yet

have the confidence

to tear off the toilet paper

themselves, and still need our help.

_

And as my government enters

this new phase of

final collapse, I want to pay tribute

to our workers. Despite waves

of economic incontinence,

they went out each morning,

on anxious and galling days.

_

We have learned from our ridiculous past

only to make sure we repeat it.

When I look at myself

in the giant gold mirror

you bought me, I still

can’t quite believe I’m here,

And know very soon

I won’t be.

_

KEVIN HIGGINS

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bogco

The Blue Moon Women

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Sing bog cotton carols, speak
in soft whisperings,
blow cool wind  to calm summer’s  heat,
clawing gloopy smells of faded day.
 f
Their suitcases laughing,
filled with cruciform spinning tops
songs and incantations
a flock of giggling  goats.
 f
They frighten  indoctrinated bombosities
shiny political pomposities
yellow beasts wandering
whose  paws choke the night
 f
To de-indoctrinate them
from that cronied  sycophant in them
they’re impaled on Celtic Crosses
and left swirling on the bog.
 f
The Blue Moon Women sing to them
soft and sweet they sing to them
and the goats circle round
nibbling at their toes.
 f
Till they squeal out all their vanity
return to normal sanity
and serve the people properly
walking humbly down the roads

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road

The Road To Ireland & The Water Thief

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I would like to live in the West, at the edge

of the world, on a small holding,

walk my cow each day to the milk shed

and see which hen I am beholding to

s

for laying an egg. I would change

wheat into loaves, fill my plate from the field,

stack turf like gold bars for the kitchen range,

and conceal my distillery in creels.

s

Instead, I have stood at the town’s crossroads

and listened to who is ‘Wanted’ across the border,

who is being adulterous on the old bog roads

and who sprayed ‘Ireland is out of order!’

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joan

A Brief History of Those Who Made Their Point Politely And Then Went Home

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this poem is rededicated to the protesters in Jobstown, Sligo and elsewhere

On this day of tear-gas in Seoul
and windows broken at Dickins & Jones,
I can’t help wondering why a history
of those, who made their point politely
and then went home, has never been written.

Those who, in the heat of the moment,
never dislodged a policeman’s helmet,
never blocked the traffic or held the country to ransom.
Someone should ask them: “Was it all worth it?”

All those proud men and women, who never
had the National Guard sent in against them;
who left everything exactly as they found it,
without adding as much as a scratch to the paintwork;
who no-one bothered asking: “Are you or have you ever been?”,
because we all knew damn well they never ever were.

KEVIN HIGGINS

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minofthirst

Look How Our Leaders Tremble When They See Us Together

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Our leaders would like to inform us
that they are fine with protest
in fact they really respect us
so long as we follow their rules and do it
without any disruption of business, (preferably
at home in our own bedrooms where no one can see us,
and without any unnecessary shouting
that might upset the neighbours)
they’re fine with it then,
so they are.

Our leaders would prefer if we fought with each other
and if we absolutely have to protest in public they’d rather
we did it in the form of a strongly worded letter to the paper
or a phone call to Joe which their straw men could deal with
by saying they’ve launched an inquiry that’ll never be finished
and that they agree with us about whatever it is
that should never have happened,
haven’t they’ve always said it,
sure?

If the worst comes to the worst and, despite them warning us
that we should have due consideration
for the inevitable, unspecified but extremely sinister consequences,
we mount a demonstration against them
they’ll counter by saying that some of the people out marching
are reported to have once been spotted by someone
eating ice cream in Bangor which everyone knows
is north of the border
and you know what that means
or don’t you?

Our leaders would prefer if we’d focus our anger
on the unemployed carpenter who put up some shelves
for his mother when he knew full well that accepting
more than two biscuits counts as a nixer-
he’s the type that has ruined our country
they call him the benefit scrounger,
who was fully employed until 2009
but now has managed to squander something something million,
yes that exact figure, would you like to report him?
Click here please…
oh yes your call is important.

Our leaders would love us to whinge about the imaginary asylum seeker
who is rumoured to have left a thousand prams
at a thousand bus stops in every single city, small town and village
you know the woman? No, me neither,
because no one has ever actually met her
but it’s rumoured that her skin was darker than yours is,
or so they’ll tell us, our leaders,
because they’d love us to fight with each other
over any small difference and leave them alone while we’re doing it,

they’d love if we picked on the gays instead of the bankers
they’d love you to get riled up about Panti Bliss who wants
to come into your house and ruin your marriage instead of wondering
how the hell they themselves put us in bondage
to repay 60 billion to loan sharks we never did business with,
and they’d love if those in negative equity
squabbled with the people from council estates
and if they in turn would fight with the renters
who’d pick on with the travelers
and they’d rather you made like a fascist
and blamed the Roma who, they are happy to tell us
are the cause of the economy collapsing
and were somehow involved in causing global warming
I mean have you not spotted the sea levels rising
did you not see the floods in Cork like?
Of course you did, they won’t stand for it,
or something.

And it’s nothing personal that our leaders have
against any particular ethnicity,
it just that they hate to see us united and mobilised
they are afraid we might compare notes
and realize that the same things affect us all the same way,
they’re afraid we might lose the run of ourselves
and run them the hell out of office,
and what should we tell them?

That we’re in this together?
That every person of every class, creed and race
who wants something better is welcome? Is one of us?
Or should we tell them that when 85 individuals own more
of the wealth in the world than three point five billion
the problem goes deeper than skin colour, deeper than factions
deeper than their strategies for permanent growth on one tiny planet
should we tell them that our system is broken?
Or should we just say nothing
and watch how they tremble,
when they see us all sticking together.

Sarah Clancy
spacer

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1t

Stability

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Stability

 

I walk a country lane,

hedges stripped

by the Council machine.

Branches, briars,

torn and crushed;

hawthorn trees,

          decapitated.

d

Brown, grey tangles

crucified on stone walls.

Bare, wounded limbs,

salted by raw winds.

d

I fear

not all our people

will grow back

again.

d

Marion Cox

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1T

Irish Air: Message from the CEO

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Irish Air: Message from the CEO

with thanks to Padraig McCormack for the inspiration

Every day under the sky

in this teeny weeny country

they think belongs to them,

people kick football, jog

up and down promenades;

run red faced for buses

on wet mornings; days off they climb

hyperventilating briefly

up shaky looking ladders;

they drive miles through countryside

to attend funerals of people

they never met, and roll

car windows down. They give

others who’ve collapsed gasping

in the street

amateur mouth to mouth.

When everyone else is out,

they make obscene phone calls,

pant down lines at women

they think live alone.

Come the six o’clock bell,

those not trapped in traffic

or enrolled in evening classes,

slob on a bewildering variety of sofas,

play until bedtime with remotes.

All the time taking for granted

the luxury: breath

which, given the cost, we can no longer offer

free. Much as we all enjoy

breathing, our current funding model

is no longer sustainable.

Every country in the OECD,

excepting Ireland, levies

a small charge for breath.

Air is important.

We must stop disrespecting it

by failing to give it a price.

As of October, Irish Air

will begin attaching meters

to the side of each adult’s skull.

No eighteenth birthday party

will be complete without a visit from us.

It will be an offence,

punishable by a law made up yesterday,

to tamper with, or remove,

your personal meter.

There are no exemptions

for the disabled, the elderly, or the insane.

Air will still be available free

to children and the deceased.

When you smother your spouse,

inform us here at Irish Air,

and we’ll reduce your bill

by the appropriate amount.

The cranium of every tourist

will be fitted with a temporary meter,

to be removed only on their exit

from the country. Those whose bills

remain unredeemed will not be allowed

leave. Diplomats are exempted.

Resisters will have their air flow

reduced to the occasional puff,

every half hour or so.

If you have reason to believe

your personal air flow

has been erroneously reduced,

call our office

and speak to one of our staff.

It is an offence

to tamper with, remove, or shove

your personal meter

anywhere obscene.

Our arses are important to us

and we will not tolerate them

being interfered with

by citizens  of this teeny weeny country

you think belongs to you.

 

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bs_t2

Sewage Babies

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Put on our Sunday best for Mass.

Let on we haven’t heard

about dead babies in Tuam.

Eight hundred infants,

bunkered in human filth.

Bones tossed like old coins,

dump of dead currency.

white

To those who defend

servants of God and state:

‘They did the best

with what they had.’

What have we?

White

Garrison church.

Proud, complicit government.

Blessed well of

indifference.

White

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localel_thumb

The Little Elections

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after The League of Gentlemen

 

Unlike all other candidates,

 I’m very much in favour of dog shit;

have it with everything;

am especially fond of the sort produced by

frightened Rottweilers.

I have the energy, enthusiasm and necessary

sexual appetite to properly

service the people behind doors

I’m knocking on locally.

I’m for more traffic jams

and overweight policemen called

Frank.

I won’t be diverted into talking

about abortion or world war four.

This is a little election for little people.

I’m against nasal congestion

and political reform; have lived locally

for the past half hour.

DDD

Our eight year old, Cian,

will support whatever football team

you want him to. I’m against

adverse weather conditions in Salthill;

okay, in theory, with the continued

existence of black people.

I’ve studied transport systems

at Mauthausen, Belzec, Vorkuta; think I know

how to ensure two Ballybane buses

never again come along at once.

DDD

KEVIN HIGGINS

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1_2thumb

Zugzwang

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Zugzwang

 ss

The last frontier

is a turnip

under frozen mud.

 ss

As this

generation

of journalists

brush up on their Russian-

 ss

the spelling of Simferopol

and Sevastopol

,will for a time,

be known

on Twitter

- people will gaze down

on the Crimea

through Google Earth,

surprised that there is

somewhere

more east than the Balkans

in the West.

 ss

A place

soon to be forgotten

like South Ossetia, Abkhazia,

or Sudetenland.

ss

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s

Jesus, Mary & Joe Duffy

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        ssss

I was sitting in my kitchen

listening to the bithchin on the radio

my head was wrecked ya know;

people moaning down the phone

about the taxes on their homes,

(which in fact the banks own)

and the greedy seed was sown

by the Dail’s C.E.O.’s

who couldn’t give a shit

about the people being hit

by the cuts……..

     ssss

Children going hungry in our schools

whilst there clearly are no rules

for the bankers run around

with their heads in the clouds

an untouchable realm

don’t you know they’re at the helm?

Under the influence

high on affluence

they’re gonna sink this ship

then hop, skip and jump

with a tidy lump sum

upon a safety boat

and off they will float

to a far away land

letting go of the hands

of the Irish population

drowned by inflation

don’t forget the creation

of a blockbuster film

yes, FILUM!

     ssss

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banAm

Becoming an American

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The Depression

“I would rather play roles that carry conviction.
Maybe it’s because they’re the easiest and yet
the hardest things for me to do.”

— Peg Entwistle, Oakland Tribune, 05/05/1929

n

Sprawled across a teak and brass rail bar,

suppose it’s September 1932
and you haven’t worked since Broadway.
n
Wouldn’t you sit and just get drunk?
Tell your folks you’re meeting friends
in a drugstore on Beachwood Drive
n
then beeline up the trail to Mount Lee?
Imagine the black fry of manure
and gardenias. All them crickets.
n
L.A.’s bristling dark and yellow
like a bumblebee’s fur.
Downhill through hosiery and scrub
n
to HOLLYWOODLAND and up the first
few rungs of a workman’s ladder,
you see your face in a small ravine.
n
Do you fall backwards or forwards
off the ‘H’; prefer it for its sigh—
in some quarters, not pronounced at all—
n
or simply jump? One day vies
against the next and for every kernel
of untruth, you’re just like a rosary bead.
n
Your own ghost calls it through
and two policemen make the find. Face down.
Well-dressed. Shoes and jacket in a parcel.
n
n

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PC_CP_thumb

Pantoum for Limerick National City of Culture 2014

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I will be taking stock of resourcing requirements

in the light of everyone else having resigned.

I am determined to hit the reset button.

I am moving on in a calm and deliberative way.

sdsdsd 

In the light of everyone else having resigned,

I’m absolutely satisfied we have the capacity.

I am moving on in a calm and deliberative way.

I would like to thank those who ran screaming from the building.

 sdsdsd 

I’m absolutely satisfied we have the capacity.

It’s been a challenging start but we need to draw a line under this.

I would like to thank those who ran screaming from the building.

I may turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

 sdsdsd 

It’s been a challenging start but we need to draw a line under this.

I am humbled by what I’ve heard here tonight.

I may turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

This is a lot more complicated than what actually happened.

 sdsdsd 

I am humbled by what I’ve heard here tonight.

I am determined to hit the reset button.

This is a lot more complicated than what actually happened.

I will be taking stock of resourcing requirements.

sdsdsd 

Kevin Higgins

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