The green and yellow of the season render
the music to a symphony of dreams;
not a good year for daffodils, it seems,
but those that grew show off in perfect splendour.
The waves caress the shoreline in a tender
embrace, the propagating grassland teems
with merry birds, rejuvenating beams
of a forgotten sun awake the slender
daisies who had been sleeping for so long
in Winter’s black and unforgiving shade,
the brambles that were dead are twice as strong,
and where the poet’s viewing spot is laid
he calmly listens to the skylark’s song
- these are the days when tragedies are made.

When they told me the girl was a tree witch
I ran off to the forest and shinned
up a birch for a glance at her cleavage
and her purple hair in the wind.

Like the dewdrops adorning the heather
in the morning when all things remain,
I enjoy the most turbulent weather
with her purple hair in the rain.

How I long for a happy tomorrow
and the peace I can never find
with the weight of this planet’s sorrow
and her purple hair on my mind.

She is the lady of my thoughts.
In all this planet’s towns and ports
there is no woman I could find
so captivating heart and mind.

Her hair is blacker than the crows
Chowpatty lodges, and it flows
with mystically enchanting grace
around the world’s most comely face.

Her eyes are darker than the night,
and yet their sparkle is so bright
that all the rocks she looks upon
turn into temples of the Sun.

Her touch is softer than the kiss
of butterflies in vernal bliss,
who rest upon your arm and then
playfully fly away again.

Her smile and presence give me wings.
If I knew girls at all the kings’,
sultans’ and maharajahs’ courts:
she’ll be the lady of my thoughts!

A wagtail sat upon a stone
along the river bank and sang;
though ignorant, I’m sure he chose
the sweetest bird parole and langue.

Before too long, a wagtail girl
perched on a stone not far away,
and as he serenaded her,
she chirped to let him know she’d stay.

Another wagtail came along,
swooped down beside her, and without
stopping ascended to the skies:
of his success there was no doubt.

Without a thought she followed him
into the air, as if she’d known
him from the days when they were eggs,
and left the singer on his own.

He kept on singing to himself,
as if he’d done that all along.
I left him sitting on his stone –
it’s far too well I know that song.

Why shouldn’t God play dice? How does he pass
the idle hours in between creations,
after his angels went to sleep or work,
and he desires some adult entertainment?

Why shouldn’t God play dice? It is a vice
to gamble when relying on the outcome,
but here’s a man who couldn’t lose at all –
and if he did, he’d have no trouble paying.

Why shouldn’t God play dice? Has he no right
to improvise whenever he’s creating,
can he not do whate’er he wants to do
without requiring scientists’ approval?

Once buffalo roamed through the plains
who grazed there, peacefully
living amongst their families
as far as one could see.
Those herds, no matter how we try,
will not be seen again:
I hope God kept a backup world
when he created man.

The forests teemed with many birds
of every shape and size
who with their colours and their voice
delighted ears and eyes.
Their songs, no matter how we try,
will not be heard again:
I hope God kept a backup world
when he created man.

The beauty of this planet is
a pleasure of the past,
and we are told that on this Earth
nothing is meant to last.
But if indeed there’s this divine
creator’s master plan,
I’m sure he kept a backup world
when he created man.

I came not to send peace, but the sword.
Matthew 10:34

‘Twas the nightmare of Christmas, when all through the West
the bonfires were lit for the feast, and the best
of the harvest and cattle that plentiful year
had produced were brought forth, since a new one was near.
But their sun god had died, and the nights became long,
and he had to be wakened by fire and by song,
so he’d generate day light and warmth for each field
which it needed another harvest to yield.
And after the people had eaten their share,
they prayed to the sun god to make him aware,
and worshippers danced to the song of their priest
when Christians with torches approached from the East.
They beheaded the dancers and slaughtered the chiefs:
‘We must put an end to your pagan beliefs,
barbarian customs and godless ways!’
With this they mowed through the crowd to praise
the Lord who had brought them eternal life
by massacring children, husband and wife.
And they heard them exclaim as they killed with delight:
‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!’

The few who survived became Christians by force;
their descendants now follow tradition, of course,
and celebrate Christmas for all it is worth
when Jesus was born to bring peace to this Earth.

In Killyvale there stands a thistle.
In sunshine and in rain
he still recalls the joyous whistle
he heard from many a train.

Oft he would ponder: ‘I can’t take it,
life in this barren land;
I’ll take the train with which I’ll make it
to Crock or Ballysand.’

Yet he had second thoughts and faltered
each time the train went by -
thinking of home, his plans were altered:
‘I’ll give it one more try!’

But this time he’s determined. Humming
a tune (though lacking skill),
he swears: ‘I’ll take the next train coming –
honest to God, I will!’

Now that was fifty years ago. The
conductor’s evil streak
made sure he never got to know the
line was shut down that week.

And if you pass the Killyvale way,
in sunshine and in rain
you’ll find him standing at the railway
and waiting for a train.

As Paddy labours in the churchyard,
he thinks of all the cash he spent –
it’s rent day, and he won’t be able
to pay a quarter of the rent.

He minds the poet’s grave. The silence
of dawn is broken: he can hear
a busload of American tourists
arrive, which gives him an idea.

Under their watchful eyes he slowly
kneels down as if he were alone,
prays for the soul of the straying poet
and puts a coin upon his stone.

Not heeding all the tourists, Paddy
goes back to work some yards away,
only returning to the poet
after he’s finished for the day.

There he collects the coins the tourists
have left; the poet’s statue winks,
and after Paddy pays his landlord,
there’s still enough for several drinks.

Straight after she gives birth, her folk
welcome the little Don
to his new home while mother cooks
and puts the kettle on.

And when he brings a girlfriend home
he calls his pure white swan,
and talks of business plans with her,
she puts the kettle on.

And when, to help them get a loan,
his dad puts, slightly wan,
the house up as security,
she puts the kettle on.

And when at last they realise
his partner pulled a con
as Gards come in to search the house,
she puts the kettle on.

And when the bailiff’s at the door,
and everything is gone
that they have worked for all their lives,
she puts the kettle on.

The bells of St Columbus
have tolled for me: I burn
the bridge of Life, becoming
a pilgrim of no return.

The halls of St Columbus
are teeming with the seeds
of philosophic flowers
nobody ever heeds.

The yard of St Columbus
is haunted by the shades
of those who once were human
and now are renegades.

And if you keep on doing
the things your teachers do,
the bells of St Columbus
will soon ring out for you!

At dusk, when the shadows are falling
under street lights in Doorly Park,
you pause as you hear someone calling
your name through the trees in the dark;
turning round, you will notice the funny
physique of a pitiful rogue
who asks for a smoke and some money
at the banks of the Garavogue.

The wind picks up breath, and you shiver
besides the stream and stand still
near the islet astern of the river
where the waters approach from Lough Gill.
A boatman is cursing the weather
and casts out his homemade drogue
as the ominous storm clouds gather
o’er the banks of the Garavogue.

In the distance you hear the fright’ning
thunder rolling to mark his domain,
accompanied by the first lightning.
In seconds you’re drenched by the rain,
and as the thunder comes nigh, go
as quick as you can in your brogue,
and return to the shelter of Sligo
from the banks of the Garavogue.

A moment of compassion
led John, at Life’s last stage,
to take his little bluebird
out of his little cage.

And at the open window
he held him in his hand:
‘For many years you’ve served me,
a singer and a friend.

‘But I have been too selfish
and can no longer bear
to see you caged’, he whispered
and threw him in the air.

The bluebird hit the pavement,
splashing some passers-by;
caged for so long, he couldn’t
remember how to fly.

Like a windswept old tree in the wilderness,
with his scraggy long arms in the sky,
with his bark a bazaar for the elements
and his roots undisclosed to the eye,

Who was guarding his plain throughout centuries
when our forefathers crawled from the caves
and established the rule of humanity
and first put the dead into graves,

We all stand in this world with our loneliness
for some decades with nothing to do,
to be cut with a chainsaw in wintertime,
and to burn for an hour or two.

In the days of Seamus McLaughlin
we would wait in the back of his bar
till the man himself was descending
to sit with us and tune his guitar.
And he'd carefully stick his burning
cigarette between peghead and strings,
and soon his plectrum was flying
like a hummingbird spreading his wings.

Every night was a musical journey,
and through space and time we would fly,
from the Hotel California
to the Fields of Athenry.
And he'd pass his guitar on to others
who wanted to play. We'd hear songs
sung in Basque, Swahili and Irish
at our cheerful singalongs.

Towards the end he would ask the young poet
for his Ghost Riders in the Sky
(or at least the few lines he remembered),
and as the evening rushed by,
he might call for a poetry reading,
so the pipe would be put aside
as the writer took out his collection
of poems and gladly complied.

Close to after the closing hour
two Gardai wandered in one night,
and, thinking the place would be raided,
Seamus' guests got a little fright.
But they went to the counter and ordered -
they had only come in to stay
for a Guinness, went back to their squad car
and quietly drove away.

And on Tuesdays the Trad band were playing -
the guitars quickly followed the call
of the bodhrán, and soon they were joined by
the most sensual flautist of all,
by the fiddles and pipes; the musicians
and the punters got caught by the beat,
and, with or without taking notice,
everybody was moving their feet.

When the music was over, we chatted
about neighbours or life's hectic mode,
till the bell rang out for last orders:
one more smoke, and a pint for the road.
Then we slowly got up and returned to
a world of a different kind -
in the days of Seamus McLaughlin
we went home with a song on our mind.

When the Euro came in, I once mentioned
that I needed a mobile; with perked
ears he said he'd sell his for a tenner,
and I gave him ten Euros. He smirked:
'When I said it was yours for a tenner,
I meant Pound'. - I just should have known,
so I gave him another two eighty
and owned my first mobile phone.

And as soon as we laughed at first rumours
of a ludicrous smoking ban,
Seamus sold his wee pub, and we'll never
come together like that again.
Today he is playing at weddings
or in pubs round the Point, and I meet
him in town now and then when I'm shopping,
and we stop for a chat in the street.

Then we talk of the present and future,
how things should be and how they are;
but when I meet one of the others
who used to drink in his bar,
we both, caught in a spell of nostalgia,
dig up many a memory
from the days of Seamus McLaughlin,
when life was the way it should be.

‘I command this family, right or wrong!’
Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) in The Godfather III

They call me Don Aherno
(I don’t know why they do):
I never condemn wrongdoing
and expect the same from you.
I am this country’s Taoiseach –
in English that means chief,
the German word is Führer,
and I shall never leave.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

The public keep on whining
they can’t afford their bread,
but if they starve, why don’t they
rather eat cake instead?
No more he roams these forests,
the tiger of the Celts,
and it is time our people
learnt tightening their belts.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

Worldwide no man is dearer
as head of government,
and I have just awarded,
with all the best intent,
myself another pay rise
that has the public rage
and equals twenty incomes
on national minimum wage.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

A man in my position
sure needs no bank account:
my cash is in the attic
where it is safe and sound.
And if I give positions
to business friends on plates,
it’s not because they paid me,
but just because they’re mates.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

An anorak of Teflon
serves as my royal cloak –
though stuffed with large backhanders
it looks like I am broke.
I’m such a lucky fellow:
who else could ever say
they’ve highly paid positions
where tips outweigh the pay.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

I’m telling all my subjects
what and what not to do –
they won’t turn from their master
though they complain, but who
would dare to disobey me?
I tell them who gets fed,
and how to heat their houses,
and when to go to bed.
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

I’m a self-righteous tyrant,
and yet the voters see
in me the undisputed
head of the family.
They fear the raging despot,
the grump who tolerates
no question – the unjust father
who everybody hates!
I am the boss of Ireland,
and I get paid up front,
and I can do whatever
the bloody hell I want!

or

How the Celtic Tiger Became Extinct

A long time ago, when the Taoiseach
once again didn’t know what to do,
his advisors came up with an answer
and brought him to Dublin Zoo.

At a cage which he thought was empty
they stopped. ‘Now here’s our surprise:
he’s called the Celtic Tiger
and can only be seen by the wise.

‘Just look at his beautiful pelage,
his clear eyes and strong sturdy neck -
you will see that in no time or faster
he’ll get things on this isle back on track.’

And people came from the four corners
of the world to see and festoon
the Tiger that came out of nowhere
and was to return there quite soon.

‘How he’s grinding that bone like a cupcake!’ -
‘My gosh, what a beautiful brute!’ –
‘Watch, he’s dancing the tarantella
in a skirt on two paws; ain’t he cute?’

And the Tiger grew bigger and stronger,
and soon he came of age.
‘He’s been growing a lot’, said the keeper,
‘and he’ll need a bigger cage.’

‘He is right’, the advisors admitted.
‘I think I will give it a miss’,
said the Taoiseach. ‘He’s only a keeper,
what the hell would he know about this?’

But then, on the following morning,
the keeper was hanging his head,
and he went to the Taoiseach and told him:
‘I’m afraid the Tiger is dead!’

‘That can’t be’, cried the Taoiseach and hurried
to the cage where he asked for the key
and leaned over his pet and caressed him:
‘Quick, bring me an AED!’

The keeper looked slightly bewildered
and lit a cigarette:
‘With his head being cut off so neatly,
I can’t see much point in that.’

The advisors soon found a solution:
‘If you wear his fur as your new
cloak I’m sure you’ll convince all your voters
that his power has passed on to you!’

So the Taoiseach called tailors and watched them
sew, gather, embroider and soak
it in spirit of turpentine, anxious
to try out his amazing new cloak.

He first wore it to Mass on a Sunday
where some loyal supporters did perch
on the wall, donned their heads and saluted
as the Taoiseach entered the church.

But as he sat down for the service,
a girl pulled her mother aside:
‘Look Mum, the Taoiseach is naked!’,
and everyone laughed till they cried.

At the weekend the family goes to the lake
with their lunch boxes, soft drinks and snacks,
and the children spread out to play at the beach,
and the adults sit down and relax.

You wish you were either but know you are neither:
you’re invisible through and through,
and the ones most unlikely to understand
are the ones in the same boat as you.

The pubs have closed their doors, and people stay
at home. The town is still, the streets deserted,
the daunting silence echoes from the hills:
none dare disturb the calm before the storm.
The storm would come? It always came before,
this time will be no different. – One holds one’s breath
and quietly prays behind drawn curtains.

The town awaits a funeral tomorrow:
a man whose death will waken vengeful spirits
and bring to life the demons of the present,
the future and the past. Today arrives
the violently grieving family.
He will be laid to rest tomorrow morning,
the town to unrest in the night.

Dawn breaks. One listens to the news: last night
an empty house was burnt, and there have been
a few small fights. - The funeral, however,
is yet to come; the Gards have seized some weapons
that had been hidden in the cemetery.
Still, all is passing off without a battle:
this time, one thinks, we got off lightly.

But this is not the end of it. Give it
a week or half a year, and we shall see
another funeral; for everyone
they kill, two of the others have to die,
continuing the cycle of death, tradition
of two large families who have no purpose
save that of killing one another.

I love dark corners. Though they say
the creatures of the dark
are evil, and to stay away
is best, I seek their spark.

They told me that all darkness hosts
a gathering of sons
of Lucifer of whom the ghosts
are the most harmless ones.

‘The dark is where I’ll always roam –
I’m not afraid’, I sneered,
‘because dark corners are my home,
and I’m the one who’s feared.’

When at dusk your shadow lingers
in the forests where we wait,
we, the sombre Stygian singers,
sound the hollow note of Fate.

Zeus remains our trusted drummer
as the force of Day takes flight:
we’re the birds of little summer,
we’re the harbingers of Night!