Ophelia's Nun

FinsburyParkCarrots

Years on, years on,
Granny's irises roar in the deep rush
rocking winded fire, an orangeblaze
on the ditchbank from where foxeyes flash
under an Atlantic ocean thunder sky
in blue and gold.

Years on they light the contours
away on Slievemore mountain.

FinsburyParkCarrots

I shall kiss the hands
Kona bee caressed
that made plumeria leis
in an azure shade

ISN

Finsbury....I love your thread.....:)

FinsburyParkCarrots

Thanks, I was just checking, you know.

ISN

it's awesomely wonderful......like a box of personal treasure in the attic that you stumble upon one day and keep as a secret.....and sneak up and peek in every now and then.....hehehe

(Maggie Tulliver and her fetish.....ah the ghosts of yesteryear)

FinsburyParkCarrots

John Cafferkey's red tractor, streaked with gold
mane mud, beats the greeny boreen like a stick
upon a bodhran, and it rattles old
rhythms with its wheels, blur spinning, thick
with tumbling jumps and yelps from Rex the dog
who loves the chase of rubber on the road
of irises and orchids by the bog
of black Doona, deep rushing, heather broad.
And I laugh, in the tractor bucket, rust
reddening my hands that hold the edge
of my groundbanging shuttle pounding dust
and shuddering in tune as we hit hedge
upon big hedge on taking corners. How
the music of my land is made, here, now.

FinsburyParkCarrots

"This is where you were the day it happened,
This is what you saw, this image here,
and this is how you felt, and how you said
the world would never be the same again.
This is when you feared the world might end,
this moment that we captured on our lens
of you. You say the picture's been touched up?
We say we'll tell you what you thought and felt
that day and all the days that followed. Right?"

FinsburyParkCarrots

You and I will rise, one mountain flower
beside ten thousand years of standing stone:
a hidden bay's unbroken ocean tower.
Here we'll bloom when cities are undone.

FinsburyParkCarrots

If I fluff my feathers, that one there
with her nose flat up against my bars
will say "It's gonna rain!" If I share
my perch with that big plastic thing, there's "ahhhh"s
and "Oooooo, he thinks that toy's his girlfriend." Tut!
if I pass time headbuttin' at the mirror
that one again goes "Awwwww, now look at dat!
He thinks he's found a pal!", and wipes it clearer
for me - - AHHHH!!!!! :eek: Nahhhhh!!!!!! :eek: What's that!!! Awww not.... a cat??????!!!!!!
What???? Just an china ornament???? Oh my!!!!!!!
Watcha tryin' to do to me, what's dat?
You cage me with a plastic tweety pie
beside a china cat with too real eyes?????
You fakkin' humans ees some tweeeested guys...

Still Here

this is by far the best thread...amazing.

hope no-one minds if I post my own thoughts...

Still Here

Wherever there are scars and cuts,
there lies a piece of me inside.
Wherever cries for attention are ignored,
I hear but can't do a thing.
Whenever we are apart and angry,
I'm happy just to stay together.
Whenever I can't take the hunger,
I feed my face with angst.
Whoever told you I was here,
was just a part of me escaped.
Whoever went for broke and jumped,
was only me falling off the edge.
When I hit the fucking bottom,
whoever saves me deserves to die.
How will I ever learn the ropes?
Sometimes can't find my face.
Whoever thinks I can handle this,
you don't think worth a shit.
Where will I end up when I live?
When will I live where I end up?
Who can practice what they preach,
when they preach to hear themselves speak?
Why must I ask all these questions?
When will I find all the answers?
Where will I go when I get home?

FinsburyParkCarrots

I enjoy the clarity and directness of your voice in this poem very much. It's a gift to be able to speak clearly in a poem.

Thanks for the comments on this thread, by the way!

ISN

John Cafferkey's red tractor, streaked with gold
mane mud, beats the greeny boreen like a stick
upon a bodhran, and it rattles old
rhythms with its wheels, blur spinning, thick
with tumbling jumps and yelps from Rex the dog
who loves the chase of rubber on the road
of irises and orchids by the bog
of black Doona, deep rushing, heather broad.
And I laugh, in the tractor bucket, rust
reddening my hands that hold the edge
of my groundbanging shuttle pounding dust
and shuddering in tune as we hit hedge
upon big hedge on taking corners. How
the music of my land is made, here, now.

the music of this land is everywhere
it's in grafton street and stephen's square
it's in the soles of my feet and pushes me
it's in the plushy soft bog and the hare hanging in the shed
bleeding (not speeding), the smell of shit in Monaghan
the purple and the brown and green of Donegal
the sheen on the farmer's head and his broad teeth
it's in the queer fear that grips you when you go home
and know there is no home now
it's in the soles of my feet and it takes me everywhere
it lands me level where I stand
and makes me want to dance
my son has it in his soul
and in his eyes - it can't be disguised
I hear it in my heart

Still Here

very very good flow...:D

ISN

blame Ireland.....blame Ireland....hehehehehehe.....thank God....

(thanks....btw.....:) )

FinsburyParkCarrots

Originally posted by ISN
the music of this land is everywhere
it's in grafton street and stephen's square
it's in the soles of my feet and pushes me
it's in the plushy soft bog and the hare hanging in the shed
bleeding (not speeding), the smell of shit in Monaghan
the purple and the brown and green of Donegal
the sheen on the farmer's head and his broad teeth
it's in the queer fear that grips you when you go home
and know there is no home now
it's in the soles of my feet and it takes me everywhere
it lands me level where I stand
and makes me want to dance
my son has it in his soul
and in his eyes - it can't be disguised
I hear it in my heart

Ah, you know how it is.

Barroom Hero

Originally posted by ISN
the music of this land is everywhere
it's in grafton street and stephen's square
it's in the soles of my feet and pushes me
it's in the plushy soft bog and the hare hanging in the shed
bleeding (not speeding), the smell of shit in Monaghan
the purple and the brown and green of Donegal
the sheen on the farmer's head and his broad teeth
it's in the queer fear that grips you when you go home
and know there is no home now
it's in the soles of my feet and it takes me everywhere
it lands me level where I stand
and makes me want to dance
my son has it in his soul
and in his eyes - it can't be disguised
I hear it in my heart

Wow, beautiful interpretation. It feels like I traveled through Ireland in a minute, but came away with the important aspects rather than the glamor.

I like the way you think.

FinsburyParkCarrots

A choir's kyrie skies
in steeping arching stone;
A candle shadow flies:
Three tongues in one.

And when the echo falls
Below the window light
Will pity greet the calls
enflamed in flight?

olderman

This thread is awesome.. the poetry here blows me away.. i will contribute whenever i feel it, but you jammers are the best!!

FinsburyParkCarrots

"Why am I me?", he asked.

Then he asked,
"Am I me?"

Then he asked,
"What is an 'I'?"

Then he asked,
"What is a 'me'?"

Then he asked,
"Is 'me' merely
an objective personal pronoun
relating to the 'I'
or is it imbued with different meanings
of social and individual ontology?"

Then he asked,
"What are the meanings of 'social'?
What are the meanings of 'individual'?
What are the meanings of 'ontology'?"

Then,
"What is meaning?"

And,
"Is 'meaning' different from 'meanings'? How?"

And then,
"How can language reflect meaning or meanings?"

And then, then,
"What is language?"

But then still,
"What is a question,
if not language,
which may
or may not
reflect meaning,
or meanings,
which we must question
the meaning or meanings of?"

Then, then, then,
"What is 'why'?"

And then,
"What is 'how'?"

After which,
"What is 'what'?"

To which some bright spark replied,

"Eh?
What?"