They are all gone now,
Heaney, Mahon and Longley
the last to go.
Their words speak
to these troubled times
with a lasting humanity.
Thanks be
to poetry's Irish trinity.
Categories:
heaney, poets,
Form: Free verse
Ulster poet Seamus Heaney
ever a favourite with me
In which nostalgic childhood shines through
to become a Nobel winner too
Categories:
heaney, people, poetry,
Form: Clerihew
After Yeats and Heaney,
you wonder when the new one
will come galloping
out of Dublin or perhaps
from yet another farm
but you won’t know
until you read the lines
and hear the music by someone
you have never heard of.
If no one else is around
you’ll shout to the sleeping cat,
here’s the new one!
and then sit back and listen
to the words roll out, knowing
a new world has been found.
Donal Mahoney
Categories:
heaney, poetry,
Form: Blank verse
He keeps himself confined,
to bluster now, and remonstrate
the struggle being more than he can bear.
Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from
the sweat of his own making to a glimpse
of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not
the crowning glory.
So many vestiges, heros in the making,
but a careless chip, an errant slice,
consigns them to the beggars pile,
without that patina of agelessness.
Never ready, never groomed to wear
that sacred halo on his head,
the crowning glory.
Once in a while a piece emerges,
bursting from the cold, defiant marble,
his fingers work, so resolute,
to fabricate this work of art,
fingers, limbs and face in perfect symmetry,
they become eternal,his reward a wreath,
the crowning glory!
Author's Note
...inspired by the poetry of Seamus Heaney.
Categories:
heaney, writing,
Form: Verse
...inspired by 'Goodnight' by Seamus Heaney
From dark to black they staggered,
felt for familiar surfaces,
they groped, until the lantern flickered,
faint glow resurrecting shadows.
Cold and flaggy, floors uneven,
up and down they skittered
like two drunkards on a binge,
finding legs, orientation.
Gaslight blue-flamed 'neath the kettle,
blanket grabbed, the bed was ransacked,
tea was swallowed gratefully,
with a pinch the lamp gave up the ghost.
From dark to black, not even starlight
gave relief to weathered eyes,
huddled 'neath the self-same blanket,
wide-mouthed yawns and muffled sighs.
Categories:
heaney, writing,
Form: Quatrain
...inspired by 'Fireside' by Seamus Heaney
Flashlight tracings trap and dazzle,
dancing in the twilight. Children hurry
through the meadow, flip-flops flapping,
eager beavers chasing dreams.
Quick the flow, the stream blinks
back a hint of moonlight,
and the torches' criss cross
patterns scatter 'til the beams converge.
Nets are plied, and mason jars
are dunked beneath the rippling surface,
small fish wriggle in confinement
midst excitement and delight.
Safe and snug, imaginations settle,
tucked in as they say goodnight.
Categories:
heaney, kids,
Form: Verse
...inspired by 'Goodnight' by Seamus Heaney
From dark to black they staggered,
felt for familiar surfaces,
they groped until the lantern flickered,
faint glow resurrecting shadows.
Cold and flaggy floors uneven,
up and down they skittered
like two drunkards on a binge,
finding legs and sturdiness.
Gaslight blue-flamed 'neath the kettle,
blanket grabbed, the bed was ransacked,
tea was swallowed gratefully,
with a twist the lamp gave up the ghost.
From light to black, not even starlight
gave relief to weathered eyes,
huddled 'neath the self-same blanket,
wide-mouthed yawns and muffled sighs.
Categories:
heaney, writing,
Form: Quatrain
...inspired by 'The Railway Children' by Seamus Heaney
Memories as sharp as diamonds,
keen as knives, the smell of
train smoke burns my nostrils still.
Chilly mornings, misty, magic,
gleaming rails so full of promise,
lumbering Leviathans,
wheezing, roaring, bound for Scotland
or the local seaside towns,
holiday makers reveling.
Dewdrops glisten, hush and listen
for the storied 8:09,
ready with our pens and journals.
Now steam and smoke are long forgotten,
flashing wheels and majesty,
except for old men who once were young
with memories as sharp as diamonds.
Categories:
heaney, adventure, children,
Form: Verse
He keeps himself confined,
to bluster now, and remonstrate
the struggle being more than he can bear.
Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from
the sweat of his own making to a glimpse
of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not
the crowning glory.
So many vestiges, heros in the making,
but a careless chip, an errant slice,
consigns them to the beggars pile,
without that patina of agelessness.
Never ready, never groomed to wear
that sacred halo on his head,
the crowning glory.
Once in a while a piece emerges,
bursting from the cold, defiant marble,
his fingers work, so resolute,
to fabricate this work of art,
fingers, limbs and face in perfect symmetry,
they become eternal,his reward a wreath,
the crowning glory!
Last Modified: July 18, 2015 at 09:05 am
© bickerstaffe - all rights reserved
Author Notes
...inspired by the poetry of Seamus Heaney.
Categories:
heaney, art,
Form: Verse
...inspired by 'An Artist' by Seamus Heaney
He keeps himself confined,
to bluster now, and remonstrate
the struggle being more than he can bear.
Pieces of him pulverized, fashioned from
the sweat of his own making to a glimpse
of the immortal, just a glimpse, but not
the crowning glory.
So many vestiges, heroes in the making,
but a careless chip, an errant slice,
consigns them to the beggars pile,
without that patina of agelessness.
Never ready, never groomed to wear
that sacred halo on their heads,
the crowning glory.
Once in a while a piece emerges,
bursting from the cold, defiant marble.
His fingers can't work fast enough
to realize this masterpiece,
fingers, limbs and face
in perfect form become eternal,
the promise of a wreath, the crowning glory.
Categories:
heaney, tribute, writing,
Form: Verse
...inspired by 'Goodnight' by Seamus Heaney
From dark to black they staggered,
felt for familiar surfaces,
they groped, until the lantern flickered,
faint glow resurrecting shadows.
Cold and flaggy, floors uneven,
up and down they skittered
like two drunkards on a binge,
finding legs, orientation.
Gaslight blue-flamed 'neath the kettle,
blanket grabbed, the bed was ransacked,
tea was swallowed gratefully,
with a pinch the lamp gave up the ghost.
From light to black, not even starlight
gave relief to weathered eyes,
huddled 'neath the self-same blanket,
wide-mouthed yawns and muffled sighs.
Categories:
heaney, tribute, writing,
Form: Quatrain
(for Seamus Heaney)
as if the pale stones
share the warmth
between two sides
sea and field cut
early light and full morning
the path weathered and slow
Categories:
heaney, death, dedication,
Form: Elegy
What an opportunity.
A blank piece of paper.
I am a poem, I can fill this white void,
My words will spill over the page.
Will they tumble with joy or sorrow?
Will I make you laugh or cry - perhaps both.
I will have form and rhythm.
I will have meter and rhyme. Rhyme?
Perhaps not this time.
My language may be of flowers, of love,
Partings, meetings, endings and beginnings.
I may be Shakespeare, Heaney, Larkin.
I may be epic, haiku, long or short.
But where to begin?
Will the pencil glide over the paper
In a glorious outpouring,
Or will it stop and start like a train on a branch line?
So may words, so many emotions .
How to put them into coherent lines,
Make sense of them, or perhaps non-sense.
When I reach the bottom of the page
Will there be more? Turn over, keep going,
Or will this blank white sheet
Be an opportunity crumpled?
Categories:
heaney, poetry, writing,
Form: I do not know?
A HEANEY EKPHRASIS
Lyrical in beauty,dug from
the depths of the past.
A storyteller, articulate in
elegaic stanza writing words
to last.Of farm life and childhood,
deep in Irish terra firma in
which he and his poetry stood.
A delightful imagist quality
of 'as is moments' once
frozen in memory,and now
released for our delight .His
triplet,quatrain and quintain form
brings a succinctness of thought
combined with the commonplace
A Tribute to Seamus Heaney 1939-2013
Listen to this ekphrasis of mine recited on youtube under the pen name ichthyschiro
Categories:
heaney, poets,
Form: Ekphrasis
Poets
in literal meaning
are not responsive
to normative rules of dying
moreover
just like the Saints
they do not fit into a
written conventions
of the existence
of the survival
at all costs
at the cost of their own greatness
they rather resemble
orphaned fortresses
which has to be taken
meter by meter - as in the past
with the severe blood loss
or permanently straining
among the yellow fields
mossy towers with no vaults
but with the ever-vigilant gaze
poet as gaper
windblown
caressed by storms
until he not falls
never measures
himself as the one
and then all fading behind
for life and death of a Poet
there is no proper time
he lives in himself
stirring up higher and higher
by the abandoned fortification
of horror of consequences
to the moment in which
he is taken - far far away
- In memory of
Seamus Heaney
Categories:
heaney, death, dedication, poets,
Form: Epitaph
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