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Tomás Ó Cárthaigh Poem
In Iran they march
"Where" they ask "is my vote gone?"
Answered by truncheon
God, Allah, they call
In His name, holy, oppress
Gods weakest children
Other news shall show
Western television screens
But we wont forget
Hundreds dead now
We only know one name, one face
A prayer for them say
Copyright © Tomás Ó Cárthaigh | Year Posted 2010
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Tomás Ó Cárthaigh Poem
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Poems written on a trip to Prague
in 2009
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Sailing Neath the Charles Bridge
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Such history flows beneath this bridge
And all that have walked on it
So many pass its statues walk
And think so little of it.
Germans, Russians and the Slav
Have at times been masters here
And yet none was ever master
So from history it does appear
An Irishman beneath it sails
As slowly the Vlatava flows
And everyone goes about their lives
And no one of me knows
And a poem that I have written
As many have done before
And indeed in years to come
So will many more.
So I dance on the wild waters
Neath the Charles bridge in a boat
And others in a day to come
Of it will read the words on it I wrote...
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Merchants at the Pinkas Synagogue
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They sell their wares on open stands
Trinkets, postcards, and stuff
They are everywhere that I can see
The senses it does rebuff
This place is sacred is it not?
Where the story is told
Of mans inhumanity to man
Not a venue to trade for gold?
I feel I think like Jesus did
Of those merchants which I passed
And wished I could do as He
And from the synagogue them to have cast
You cannot take pictures inside at all
And so others cannot see
The scale, the beauty and the horror
Of those names in front of me
Or the pictures of those children
Hanging today on a wall
To see the blind and fain hopes of returning home they held
When they had no hope at all.
But a photo can be taken in the courtyard
But not for free by you
But for €40 or so
It seems surreal, I ask is it true
It tells the story of the holocaust
But its memory it does smear
By selling of trinkets on the strength of spilled blood
To the visitor it does appear
That money is indeed the God
And they will be content
With every misery they endure
If from its memory they can turn a cent.
In cynical mood I write these words
I feel about stands at Knock the same
They do not belong there where they are
That they are is a shame.
Cast the merchants from the Temples
Hold whats sacred as sacred inside
Have a love in your heart for the Lord your God
And in your heart Compassion, Remembrance, and Pride!
Copyright © Tomás Ó Cárthaigh | Year Posted 2010
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Tomás Ó Cárthaigh Poem
From the sea they came open, not sneaking by stealth
And they came for to parley, fosterage for wealth
As silver was spied, and its wealth was understood
And greed it brings war and also spilling of blood
And so a son was given, so they'd not be harmed
Or for harm to cause their hosts, who by him were charmed
Was given three forts, within each a prophet dwell
One called Fithecc, as were the other three as well
There they lived neath the setting and the rising sun
Stars danced the skies and maidens hearts were lost and won
Until our friend bid one of the prophets to say
What was to unfold in times after that day
What the future that was to come for them did hold
And an identical story by the others was told...
A famine great was to strike in a mere three years
The silver must be sold to keep away grief's tears
And to buy much food the people hungry for to feed
Coming times are to be tough, great is the need
And this came to be and as the famine took hold
Irish chiefs with armies strong came by force to hold
A truce of just three days not to fight he did seek
After which they could not attack, them being too weak
Then the nobles he brought inside to a great feast
The multitudes were fed with grain and slain beast
In thanks they then made his son Alill as their king
Praises of the generosity they did sing
The name Eoghanacht was given as they did feed
The name it meant the Family of the Good Deed.
Copyright © Tomás Ó Cárthaigh | Year Posted 2010
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Tomás Ó Cárthaigh Poem
Last night, this canal bank was home
I see the tossed newspapers blow
And a solitary brown blanket lie
Where not all that long ago
Someone slept... but they were not camping
This was home last night
And, as I approach the bridge
I see him sitting there... on my right...
Hes old and weezened, lights a cigarette
Or at least his best to do so he does try...
And I ever the Christian full of compassion
Keep my distance and hurry by.
Copyright © Tomás Ó Cárthaigh | Year Posted 2010
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Tomás Ó Cárthaigh Poem
There is no time for art
Where bullets fly
And screams of fear replace song
Even the birds are quiet
But to an artist, this is an ever evolving gallery
Where the shells, explosions, fires and bullets
By the craters, bullets holes and charred buildings
Become one abstract sculpture
Carved by destruction
As if to say
The soldier is an artist
Who paints in blood
And war itself, is art.
Copyright © Tomás Ó Cárthaigh | Year Posted 2012
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Tomás Ó Cárthaigh Poem
There is no time for art
Where bullets fly
And screams of fear replace song
Even the birds are quiet
But to an artist, this is an ever evolving gallery
Where the shells, explosions, fires and bullets
By the craters, bullets holes and charred buildings
Become one abstract sculpture
Carved by destruction
As if to say
The soldier is an artist
Who paints in blood
And war itself, is art.
Copyright © Tomás Ó Cárthaigh | Year Posted 2012
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Details |
Tomás Ó Cárthaigh Poem
There is no time for art
Where bullets fly
And screams of fear replace song
Even the birds are quiet
But to an artist, this is an ever evolving gallery
Where the shells, explosions, fires and bullets
By the craters, bullets holes and charred buildings
Become one abstract sculpture
Carved by destruction
As if to say
The soldier is an artist
Who paints in blood
And war itself, is art.
Copyright © Tomás Ó Cárthaigh | Year Posted 2012
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