Based on an interview with a local man who wants (but struggles to) attract the Unionist community into his (Catholic) household.
invitations
what makes sense makes no sense in the shortest run
what’s in the longest run is in the best interest of us all
what makes the interest then is when we’re forced to do
what living’s says we should - mix up and call….
the path to the door is yours my friend
and the door on the path is wide
though wide is the gap between doors my friend
(and born on the other side)
and the door on the path is wide my friend
and the table is set for more
what’s laid on the table is yours my friend
and nothing is lacking (though poor)
and the table is set for more my friend
the road to the peace draws long
what steps we take - break down walls – my friend
we must learn each other’s songs
what’s laid on the table is yours my friend
what will not be taken’s not forced
the peace that we crave is more – my friend
than can be made without keeping score
and nothing is lacking (though poor) my friend
what’s lacking is you at the door
each word that i speak is yours (my friend)
and news that we share tells more
and the table is set for more - my friend
and the cloth is spread out for keeps
the craic that we’ll have is the joy that we’ll have
and the process will grow more deep
yes the process will grow more deep
two halves of a peach - further retrospection - Dave Wood
and once upon a time
the shape that was defragmented
now was real enough to draw pictures of
and once upon this age
the paths that split their cracks
believed their own distances
the generations spilt too much milk
cried and cried and cried until the
old stains couldn’t shift
one tune called the dance
the other called the names
and using magic broke many bones
the reel-ity took the pipes
and got stuck in the sharp bend
of communication cisterns
the fronts of the y
went under but never found the join
some found themselves embarrassed
one fire stoked its brothers’ cinders
waited for a response
was surprised to see the flames rise
the two spikes of the clock
one in reverse – one told the time
second hand living
the buttons couldn’t breathe
choked by the holes of the shirt
showing the chest wig
mercury couldn’t be
bothered to get up
someone had increased the price of postage
moses had already taken his walk
but somehow the waves
weren’t speaking to each other
the two halves of the peach
couldn’t decide
who suited the stone more
the book would never close
there were too
many creases holding up its pages
the bulldog clip would
never grasp the concept
its teeth were too slippery
because the sinews of
the shoulders had split
the head kept rolling off
the mountains didn’t
fancy each other anymore
they had other jobs to do
everyone stood in hope
things started to change
(though hope was a four letter word)
then someone stepped over
the line – made a commitment
painted a vision
time that was struggling
had found a way
to make an artist of itself
the two lanes
measured themselves
with new boots
the milkman
knew a trick or two
about getting rid of the past
the jigging feet
partnered up the
music with its friend – the mad moon
the plumber
took out his monkey wrench and
loosened his throat
everyone stood panting
the alphabet had
hitched up its underwear
the coal had cooled down by now
and let its biggest fan
get a word in
we didn’t need to guess when it was
but knew the minutes and hours
were round the corner - talking
the gaps in the cloth
didn’t seem too restricting
now that the itch had gone
there was a new design of stamp
cheap too
even the colours seemed to match
the red sea
dried itself down
and promised holidays for all
in the fruit basket
everyone was going bananas
laughing and joking
whoever it was – finished the book
and took it back to the library
now everyone could enjoy looking at the words
the bulldog got to grips
with the new taste
everyone patted it on the head
someone called the doctor
and he brought his kit
containing superglue
it had been a hard day at work
but one of the mountains
proposed marriage
and the circle
grew fatter
with other ideas -
someone added an
s to the word
hope
These are poems which have been donated by the public after my original visit.
I Heard It From An Irani
I heard about it form an Irani
Teherani to be precise
As opposed to a Shirazi
Actually the equivalent of Kerry.
I digress,
But the links exist
The land of the rewards for martyrs
Who never heard of the maze
Or internment
Or rubber bullets
Or Irish eyes are smiling
Or Great Victoria Street
Or the Belfast City Hall
Or the Mountain Road
Or Atticall
Have heard of Bobby Sands
And named a street after him
Rue de Bobby Sands
Downtown Teheran
In Iran
I heard about it from an Irani
H Block Locks.
Linda knew before anyone else.
They were in her garden,
And her neighbours
And the other neighbours
Across the street
Followed by the army
And then the police.
They went over the back
Leaving no tracks
And escaped the H Blocks.
You see she lived across the road
From the H Blocks
And thought like everyone else
There was locks.
Apparantly not.
The following are by Jack Gallagher
The fairest in the world
And I know well this Land of Mourne
Though why its name with sadness has a link
I cannot tell.
For only joy have these hills given me,
The Shimna, Bloody Bridge,the Rowan Tree,
When by them all I wandered free.
Their quiet blues and greys,
Whites,purples greens
Subtle ever changing scenes,
Sights of moving beauty
That shall not pass
Though Time a million times
Upend his glass.
C.D. 1918 Carved on a tree in the woods.
Were you a soldier come home from the war,
Drawn by the peace and stillness of this place,
Seeking once again to find
The foetal comfort of a childhood haunt
Whose memory you had carried in your mind?
Was it to ease some fever of the brain
That you were drawn
Into this ancient wood that day,
To carve your initials and the year
Deep into the bark of this great beech.?
What demons did you seek to drive away?
Did digging with the sharp blade once again,
Keep you safe and far beyond their reach?
Perhaps it was early in the month of May
You sought redemption in this placid solitude
Delicate bluebells dressing the woodland floor
In a pastel incense mist of petals massing,
Or was it deathly, dreary mid November
No song-birds calling
But gently without a sound
The last pale russet leaves
Like mournful salt tears falling ,
In soft and sad salute
To Autumn passing?
Perhaps the hills were virgin white with snow
As you made your solitary way
Those four-score years ago
On a brutal, grinding, harsh December day
With all the sombre world around
Granite cold and hard as cobbled stone
Sleeping below a marble shroud of ice and frost?
As you wrought, mind focused on the past
Did each sharp movement of your wrist
Remind you of wasted locust years you’d lost
Gouging deep furrows in fields and forests far away
Where reverently you buried brave comrade or brave foe,
And carved their names upon a simple cross.
Columbine
NATO celebrates fifty years of peace
Before today Columbine reminded me of shady woods
Conjured up images of sun light and showers,
Tranquil summer gardens,
Brimful of delicate, shy, scented flowers
.
Today in Colorado, blinded by tears,
Families struggle to understand
Why confused and bitter children
To exorcise their adolescent fears,
Have butchered their class mates
With guns and bombs.
From Kosovo comes other news.
The bombing of a TV station
To prevent dictators spreading propaganda.
No mention of the ethnic dislocation
Of a nation.
Another Final Solution ,
Another Trail of Tears.
In Washington,
Diplomatic centre of the world
With martial commands,
Great pomp and splendour
Flags wave; bands play military music;
NATO celebrates fifty years of Peace.
In Northern Ireland Burundi, Ruanda.
Cyprus Libya and Palestine
Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan
India, Kashmir, Pakistan
People have heard this tune before.
It has a resonance they understand.
Now Mr. Clinton speaks on CNN
To reassure his people
The President can be relied upon
To tell the truth and not to lie.
Tell your children, I hear him say
No one else must die.
Violence is not the way
Terrorism does not pay
Resolve your disagreements
By discussion
As he speaks , his ambassadors
The Blackhawk gunships
Land in Albania in the rain.
The Soldier
In Holywood, in County Down
Close to the heart of this little town,
On granite plinth
A soldier stands.
Symbol of all who died for us
In Ulster’s fields or far off lands.
Bayonet and rifle still in hand,
Stepping bravely forth he joins
That self-less band,
Whose names here cast in bronze,
Will live forever.
No questions asked
No wondering why,
A nation called its youth to die.
No holding back, excuses made,
But purest Gallantry displayed,
The Sacrifice so freely made,
Made for you and made for me,
Made that our lives might be free,
From Hatred, Strife and Tyranny.
So we gather each November
To bow our heads as we remember.
Stand in ranks in silence there
United in that silent prayer,
And in token of that debt,
That we must never once forget,
The hymns are sung, the lines are said,
The Last Post requiem is played
The wreaths of poppies,
Deep blood red,
With gentle reverence are laid,
In memory of our glorious dead.
Echoes of the Twelfth.
The band playing in my dreams
Would be playing still
When I awoke.
Shrill reveille of flutes
Staccato snares
Pulsing pounding Lambeg drums
Summoned me to the road
Lined with the curious and loyal.
In structured eucharistic obesiance
Children at the front
Knelt beside seated pensioners
Whose chairs placed there
An hour before
Now formed the limits
Of the marchers corridor.
“Here they come!”
As they marched past
My heart would beat in time
To the primitive rhythm
Of their shuffling progress.
I’d study the history of my religion
On the orange and purple banners
Flaunted at the breeze
And all the enemies of Freedom.
How I envied my contemporaries
Entrusted with a banner string
My collaretted sabre wielding elders
And the fluters,
Elbows raised shoulders hunched
And hearts -a-thrill
Their ritual rendering echoed in my ears
Long after they had passed
And echoes still
CAROL FOR THE MILLENNIUM
Shepherds in deep Winter night,
Heard Angels singing in the height.
Telling of a wondrous birth,
Jesus Christ had come to Earth,
To save the world from sin and pain,
Born to die then rise again.
They left the fields,
They left their sheep.
They found a little child asleep,
Safely in a manger laid
Just as the angel voices said,
Three wise men travelled long and far,
Guided by a wondrous star.
It told them of an oxen stall
Where they would find the Lord of All,
Born today the Prince of Peace
A King whose reign would never cease.
They gave him incense, myrrh and gold.
All happened as the star foretold.
Two thousand years have passed but still,
Like the shepherds on the hill,
Like those wise men from afar,
Following that magic star,
We must go to worship there,
Bow our heads in silent prayer,
For the gift of Grace he brings,
Praise our Lord the King of Kings.
Millennium Eve Party. 31st.December 1999
Our revelry had reached its height,
The moment that melded us together had arrived.
Some mental osmosis connected us.
In choreographed confusion
We spilled excitedly, irreverently, gregariously,
Focused by a sense of place in Time
Onto the broad stone terrace,
Into the cold as death December night,
It’s frozen breath a bitter contrast
To the mellowness and warmth inside.
The sky was a sea of midnight blue,
The stars confetti, crystal bright.
In unison we chanted away each second.
As mid-night chimed,
We knew one century had died,
A new one beckoned.
In intimate but strangely silent groups
Friends, families, combined, entwined.
Sensing the sadness in each unique tableau,
Young embraced old to hold at bay the pain,
Conscious as in the passing of a milestone
No moment ever comes again.
Suddenly the fireworks flamed and flared
Scourging the sky,
Each salvo bigger, better than before.
Increasing exponentially our expectation,
Each star-burst posed the urgent question.
How could it, would it end? There must be more.
Anxious to hold the enchantment of the moment,
Our cheers roared in the new, sang out the old.
Raised hands to join in “Auld Lang Syne.”
Then in submission to the cold
We retreated to the warmth,
Resolved to welcome whatever lay in store.
Through the window I watched a solitary figure,
A boy who lingered, lonely, looking
Searching for shooting stars up in the sky.
In tune with all the universe above,
He looked the Future bravely in the eye.
I wished him tomorrows filled with Peace and Love.
