Best Dublin Poems
Dublin city
Along the quays
Over the bridge
Across the liffey
North and South divide.
W.A CHOLT. Copyright Fergal O Reilly. 2018.
30th September 2018.
‘Tis lucky me father lies in the grave,
Than t’see the havoc I have wreaked
In the name of actin’ bold and brave,
My misadventures dastardly peaked.
In this musky gaol I am wasting away
While me life passes before me eyes
Chaplains teaching me how to pray,
Give up with their lugubrious sighs.
Long since I no longer wish for home
Before the blazin’ fires of the hearth,
Cedar sizzles and marshmallows foam
My children giggle at songs of mirth.
And me here so cold behind these walls
I no longer dream of freedom’s will,
While me sentence spurts and stalls
I swallow punishment’s bitter swill.
SEVENTH PLACE WINNER
Written October 17, 2022
Submitted to "2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 18" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Here I sit alone,
So far away from my home,
City is alive.
Choice made long ago
Fades in clinging airport hugs
Exile1 heart strings tug.
DUBLIN GALLOWS
DowN from Grafton Street near St. Stephen's Green,
I'd hear her cry sometimes til first of dawn,
the love o'me life, me lassie, me queen,
an' every blow that brought her cryin' on.
I'd give me own life to make her me bride,
but she married a scabber fit and mean,
from courtin' the lie an' winnin' her side,
though the truth was known near St. Stephen's Green.
Jack lent his strap in his warped state of mind,
to her back, and I'd feel it, every blow,
an' all Dublin knew, I was hard to find
reason why I shouldn't let me rage go.
They hanged many men in St. Stephen's Green,
not one of them more fittin' for the tree,
than Jack with his strap, for beatin' me queen,
but who hanged Jack's not part of history.
Sleep gently, me lassie,
tonight there's just the breeze
we'll hear til the comin o' dawn.
Sleep softly, me lassie,
I'll whisper through the trees,
I couldn't let your beatin' go on.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
hostel life
you never know with whom
you'll share a room
a cappuccino
or
a piece of life
Fatima is not her name
just what she goes by
in Turkey if you're Kurdish
it's safer to be a Fatima
in Dublin she can be (her Kurdish name)
it's just something she doesn't
want to get used to
in Venice, Kaldoun asks in Arabic
what I think about the war
In the phone we share
I tell Google
I hope it's the end of Putin
he reads my words (in Arabic)
and replies
many children will die before
the end of Putin
gives me pause
there needs to be talks
a political solution
he says
I agree
but is there any talking to
a malevolent tyrant?
we must try he says
a little sidewalk cafe where
for most of the morning
we fill the Venetian air
with Arabic/English conversation
striking deep chords
about humanity (and inhumanity)
a young Jordanian chemist from Munich
an old school teacher from Arizona
and Google….
where would we be
without Google
Ah, the Irish city of Dublin!
Sure 'tis always bustlin' and rumblin'!
And, at times, when it rains,
folks try not to complain,
in spite of the puddlin' and bubblin'!
Two days in,
Me and you,
Hard celtic
Strays betray
No truth, stone,
shrine or statue,
Viking hearts and
Weathered youth,
Healing green eyes,
How i love you.
Your streets lure me
Like arteries to heart,
Through our Troubles,
Together, home.
Church bells forged in the
flames of Irish history
Reign down in a full-circle ring
on crowded streets
Echo through soul worn cobble
stone half lit alleys
Bringing the gap where the
past and present meet.
Rat rat tat rat of archangel
wings
Puffed grey streaks buzz masts
of anchored boats
Being gently rocked to sleep by
a rising tide.
An island rises wrapped in a
cummerbund cloud
Shoulder high above a soft
dissolving mist
Raises its head to bask in a
warming kiss
A high speed ferry slips
through the mouth of the
harbor
With a cargo of fresh dreams
waking the days of famine
A solemn nod to a flag
drenched in sacrificial blood.
Irelands capital Dublin, it's a beautiful city
Famous for its Guinness and Jameson's whiskey
The Temple bar area for music and the 'craic'
Many say on departing "one day I'll be back".
Molly Malone can be seen, with her wheelbarrow
In busy Grafton street that's so bustling and narrow
The silvery grey water's of the river Liffey
Flows right through the city and into the sea.
Busy O'Connell street with its giant spire
Had troubled times with the sound of gunfire
The spire now stands where Nelsons column stood
A reminder of British rule that's now gone for good.
The symbol of self rule the G.P.O. stands
So peaceful now all you hear is the bands
The Halfpenny bridge is a wonderful sight
Even more impressive when lit up at night.
So come on over to Dublin, do come and see
Do indulge yourself, with some Irish hospitality
When the time comes to leave after your stay
You'll promise yourself to comeback one day.
16 May 2018
A bright star shines
To the exalted constellations
May I present this debutant?
A poor man sleeping
Wrapped in golden tinfoil
In a doorway
It’s so cold tonight, outside at least
Beneath the splendid sky
I wonder is he dreaming
While I walk by
©dbyrne dec 25th 2013
Dublin is Irelands capital city
On the river Liffey
It is at the seashore
With mountains galore
Viking settlement
With many more to come
Bringing changes
Throughout the ages
Diverse and welcoming
Humorous and serious
Dubh Linn meaning Black Pool to those in the know
Continues to grow
Home to many
Workplace for some
It is never hum drum
To those who have never been
There is so much unseen
Including our forty shades of green
Dublin
NEXT STOP : DUBLIN
Glad to leave the stonefaced Russian labyrinth of passports small
And stamped documents for every footfall
A bureaucrat’s wet dream - checking each other’s bureaucracies
No walking on grass, no stepping over invisible fences,
No original thinking, no whistling indoors please.
Engines start to turn and whistle and whine
Soon be back in old school for a while, unmissed, decadent
Teachers like old Rogers, often boozed-up in class, or that arrogant *
Upstart McCabe, getting high on his minority skills, his sacred Irish language.
( Mustn’t say Irish, say Gaeilge.) Important to an ant or midge.
I have met them at close of day, coming with vivid faces **
Flushed with the triumph of outdated, set-in-stone values
Elation gets them higher than smoky inhalation
Their dreamland is a small island, a Gaeilge nation.
I dream of stepping from frying pan to fire
And life begins to seem a hoax
And tiny ants seem large as folks
Their fragile egos higher float with every puff
Tiny magic dragons never seem to get enough
And from their caves they need a coax
East is east, and west is best - but in the final analysis
Maybe not enough in either one to miss
And the caves are filled with fragile ants
Afraid to be seen with ants in their pants.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTES
*These are of course fictitious names.
**This is the opening line from W. B. Yeats’ poem EASTER 1916.
Yeats is probably one of the 20th century’s finest poets in the English language.
We would run in a race to Dublin
The way we were, we could not begin.
From the start, we were through
Mack only had one shoe.
Me, I was stuck in mud to my chin.