seductive Galway gal would not stay
such savage beauty she went astray
whether Corrib, whether Mask
Connemara man to ask
to Inishbofin she played away
Leitrim lout took drink by the flagon
very short coast, very short wagon
went inland to buy a boat
all-aboard, beer for his goat
so raised a glass, Carrick-on-Shannon
wild west playboy from county Mayo
did for his dad, very own say so
holy mountain, dreaming star
left the pub at Castlebar
shoe hanging out his Ford Mondeo
Roscommon culchie, gangly and rare
hung out near Boyle with spindly long hair
web below her knobbly knee
bank to bank across lough Ree
wrapped up her men, eight legs in the air
our Sligo boy, no good at countin'
he spied some girls down by the fountain
one, two, three, how many more?
his favourite to adore
he chased her up Benbulben mountain
“Dammit,” he cried
“I’ll never get you clean”
For what he had seen
Was nothing but mean
“Come on over, now, here’s your feed”
As the pony ran over
With a great deal of speed
Her leg limped
Over a hard patch of ground
That was by no means good
At least the rest were sound
She was covered in dirt
From head to toe
She rolled in the soiled grass
All that mud was a foe
The majestic white coat
Hid deep underneath
The only thing bright
Was her freshly cleaned teeth
The show is tomorrow
And there’s no time for fun
“My Connemara filly,
What on earth have you done?”
Anastasia: a crazy name for an Irish woman,
but actually, quite common
in the long-buried book of Celtic Memories.
When she in a reverie came to me
- her 80 year old hair
flying on countless dove-gray moonbeams,
I sensed a pitter-pattering of soft rain
redolent of the green hills
of Connemara falling into my mind.
“I am not dead, and you are not dead.”
She said.
I should have been afraid
but fear takes much more energy
than I had at that moment.
I heard myself ask:
“Then you are alive”?
The soft rain continued to speak
in its gently lyrical brogue.
"The living have no beginning or end,"
she whispered over the raindrops,
"and the dead never were."
I thought about this for a while
as I watched her fly a slow silver sky
over her shoulders.
Then I, in much joy,
thanked her for being forever
my crazily named
aunt Anastasia.
Now...
The pat-down at O’Hare is intrusive.
I don’t look at the probing hands
or the dead bored eyes.
Schools of out of depth aliens,
are funneled through small holes
in an invisible net.
Then...
The Ellis Island cop is also bored.
He speaks ponderously,
as if the boy had no more wit than a fish.
Now...
I carry a man-bag over my shoulder,
it holds my documents.
The customs officer talks to me
in a sign language made audible
through pursed lips.
Then...
Sean looks up from his low-brow cap.
He dares not speak
least his tongue reveal
a patois of Connemara peat.
A crumpled birth certificate
is produced and stamped.
Now...
He studies my papers,
thrusts them back without a glance.
Then...
Sean keeps moving;
waiting to be pulled back,
not knowing
that the future will pull him back anyway.
Now...
Outside the terminus, Americans depart
in checkered cabs for Atlantis,
and other undocumented places.
~~~
They came from all over - Manchester, Derby
and. Connemara - icons, O'Toole, Bates and Finney,
who would believe the power of future stars,
although they spent their time fighting in bars.
RADA was a dream, a long way from country,
Reed and Marvin muscled in with Shaw and Connery,
Caine gave a sleepy-eyed look for mystery,
while Mitchum was instructed in English history.
Imagine King Henry sending 'Alfie' to the tower,
whilst Connery, Reed and Bates began to cower,
although the former pair wrestled in front of a fire,
If you didn't enjoy 'Women In Love,' you were a liar.
When Reed had his nose in a variety of *****,
O'Toole was enthralling us as Lawrence of Arabia.
Castlebar
Connemara marble seems plain
when held in a young boxers hand
Coming alive when touched by his father
Alive with green-ness
Alive with time
-no longer on the old mans side
looking down now
at cut granite hands
that once set him free
Free to leave Castlebar
the beach at Roundstone
the beautiful Anya Quinn
and a mundane life
And the white handkerchief?
the one she waved from the dock?
until it became a
dot,
a speck,
then a memory
shared with others in her Eulogy
UNFINISHED IN CONNEMARA
Small drizzle - or sea spray?
Wets the face - not enough to teardrop.
Above a cold damp brow,
Beads edging down the black wool -
Not heavy enough to run, nor wet enough to drip.
Tiny Atlantic turbulence in my hatted ear :
Flurrying, blustering squalls.
Buffets of whetted wind
Bring back Connemara
When she was there.
As in a seashell.
............................................................
Note.........Connemara is a bleak but beautiful remote part of Ireland - always rainy and windy
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.