Long Dublin Poems
Long Dublin Poems. Below are the most popular long Dublin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dublin poems by poem length and keyword.
My leather glove is missing - now I only have one
It’s useless on it’s own when all is said and done
These gloves were precious to me, I’m sure you’ll understand
But I can’t leave the house with a glove just on one hand!
I discovered one single glove on the front seat of my car
The other one has gone astray - surely it can’t be far
So I’ve hunted high and I’ve hunted low
But my taupe leather glove is still a no show
Now I’ve found some similar gloves on E-bay
They’ll be here soon and will really make my day
*The gloves were an absolutely perfect fit - mum brought me them when we were in Dublin in 2010 - I will always have the memories but I am so sad at losing one glove
Jan Allison
19th April 2016
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
The Luck of the Irish never fails,
Whether Belfast or the Dublin scene.
Their tried and true spirit prevails,
Dressed to the nines in emerald green.
Though past history seems so unfair,
When cursed by unforgiving rule.
Land and people fraught with despair,
And burdened by laws ever cruel.
Too many years they suffered the plight,
Till the day they severed the ties.
While rising tall for freedom's fight,
Cut their tormentors down to size.
Now one and all will surely agree,
Either standing or kneeling to pray.
Here's to an Ireland forever free,
So raise a glass on St. Patrick's Day.
Ma lied to me about using credit cards
she'd taken in my name, notices
told the tale. I let them repossess
my car to keep post-Uni plans
for the Emerald Isle, which I liked to consider
my homeland. Filed bankruptcy at twenty-four.
Felt like I could handle city streets and what better
way to find yourself after learning how little you know
those who love ya. The boy from Dublin English School
and I battled sticks at Stephen's Green, went on
to teach and I did my time at a school
in Waterford run by a Canadian lunatic, which
I now recall as one of those best of times, sniffing
good and hard at the marker board to cloud my mind
from fear, pints of Murphys before class some mornings.
Meant to say cans because ya don't walk with pints,
though I probably would have. So I made it through
and liked the authority. Fast-forward
and boy-man from Dublin English School said
come teach in Italy they've got space, and before
I could blink at the roses he'd shoved me
so hard to concrete for reasons unknown (pints actually),
that I absconded to a pal's in Leeds and started dancing
(fork in the road). Missing Dublin so I called myself Dallas.
A childhood friend came to Leeds at Christmas, later
married the pal who'd put me up (fork had potential). No need
to bother about cliches on meant to be's, anything
can happen. I went home with a multitude scattered on winds
forgave my Ma with a distance. Didn't know
which one to pick so I built a wall and started Grad school
for Counseling. But you could say I was haunted
by equivocal longing for that green place. Aced
my first exam in Intro to Pharmacology and ed off
to clouds of smoke for eight or nine years and they were good
ones and I let go of notions that things need finding.
Things come in curious ways to fall apart and come back
together. What better way is there?
Irelands' famine, England chose to ignore
The potato blight caused devastation
Michael stole corn from a granary store
To stop loved ones dying from starvation.
Arrested and charged with theft from the crown
Judge passed sentence and he got twenty years
Outside prison walls in old Galway town
His wife Mary and family shed tears.
Ne'er again see the fields of Athenry
Sent to prison thousands of miles away
He would ne'er again see the free birds fly
From that harsh prison in Botany Bay.
The ship sailed that day on the evening tide
His dreams for the future had all but died.
Written July 26th 2019.
Inspired by the song 'The Fields of Athenry ' The music and lyrics were composed by a Dublin folk singer Pete St John.
Ireland
It’s the land of Saints and Scholars
Shamrocks and Shillelagh’s too
Leprechauns, and pots of gold
And the foggy mountain dew
Of rebels and rebellions
Of a country split in two
By a church that is divided
Though both sides sit in Pews
Of Fishermen and Farmers
And high sea Sailors, with tall tales
Who regale with their adventures
between sips of whiskey, or dark ales
Of scenery like no other
With 40 shades of green
And many different accents
From Dublin to Skibbereen
From its music and it’s dancing
Mountains and it’s streams
This little place called Ireland
You can live there in your dreams
In the lovely Dublin theater
where dreams are fulfilled
excited spectators hushed
In the silence of the night
with avid expectancy,
Bucks Fizz entered the stage
his music is a hidden gem
waiting to be performed
In a lovely breeze
a mellow silk thread was spun
akin to the moon's silky glow
I have hopeful dreams.
In the song 'Making Your Mind Up,'
they sang with clear voices
the audience leaned in
ready to hear
words have hidden meanings
with significant implications.
a galaxy of splendor
It's unlike ordinary life.
and are held captive
within its seductive embrace.
With voices that soar
they danced and whirled
with every movement
a lovely expression displayed
skirts swung
In utopian harmony
A glimpse into the future
they were whirling
every rotation brought free flowers
a touch of cosmic charm
a trail of delicate silver threads
from sparkling strands
Into the waiting hands below
voices burst with delight
they showed me their weary souls
while others can't consume
allow yourself to cry
whether from pure joy
evolved from a deep well of sadness.
weary spirits found rest
from exhaustion after a while
amid Eurovision magical lure
time stood still
the brine singer gaze
large and tender
someone uttered a song
that aimed to unify hearts
and whisk spirits away from here!
"This song was crafted for you, my beloved,"
she sang with a sense of urgency
then it accelerated
It's as graceful as a waltz
under the dancing stars.
twisting and falling from
skies above, to earth beneath
bystanders were enthralled
they left me behind, lost in a daze,
their devastated feelings
the beat captures my attention.
Where the tides of time glide
as the final note reached the air,
they were aware of this peculiar world
Under the stars
Bucks Fizz was presented
beyond just their vocals,
they weaved their magical gifts
similar to fabric producers
creating something fascinating
Their skirts pointed outward
akin to arrows
To faraway places
Where love and aspirations exist
Let us reflect on the Dublin scene
Where music meets magic
We have always danced together
During ephemeral times of skepticism
Let us revive the ageless ritual
Where skirts swirl.
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
George Bernard Shaw, born in 1856,
Wrote plays and novels,
But for me the most
Important was he wrote many a poem
A quote of his “Write your sad times
In Sand, write your good times in stone”.
My poem ‘From Humble Beginnings’
Just the title mind you, is exactly from
Where Mr Shaw heralded, Dublin
Ireland, his fame was renown, no
University background, yet Literature
For Bernard was just thrilling,
And his quotes, plays and poems,
Always fulfilling.
“A life spent making mistakes is not only
Honorable, but more useful than a
life spent doing nothing”.
His winnings
Were numerous among which,
The Nobel Prize, and even an Oscar.
His quote “Life isn’t about finding
Yourself, Life is about creating
Yourself”. And, as such to be convincing.
His interest in politics was avid, he was
A true Socialist and joined the Fabian
Society, he became popular and
Enjoyed doing theater critics.
Started writing his own plays,
In so many different themes, the class
System, religion and the inequalities
In life. The public responded to his natural
Humor, Shaw's quote “The longer I live,
The more convinced am I that this planet
Is used by other planets as a lunatic asylum”.
For, said this wise poet,
“Progress is impossible without change, and
Those who cannot change their minds cannot
Change anything” and furthermore,
"We don’t stop playing because we grow old,
We grow old because we stop playing”
This famous Literary man George Bernard Shaw,
Was 94 years of age,
When he died in 1950
He wrote famous novels, poems
And plays for the stage,
But I will leave you with one other quote
Of his “Happy is the man who can
Make a living by his hobby”.
Language breathes. Dictionaries opened their doors to thousands: petrichor finally named, gigil crossing oceans from Tagalog hearts, morto carrying Irish embarrassment across continents. Each word a technofossil in reverse and not debris but seed. Where analog crumbles into digital decay, new phonemes sprout from chat windows and kitchen tables, from Glasgow to Manila, Waterford to Johannesburg.
After warm rain falls
petrichor naming something
we always had known
The mouse jiggler hums on desks where we WFH, pretending presence while bed rotting through Sundays, doom-scrolling until brain fog sets in. A chatbot asks if I'm still there. Ghost kitchens feed nobody's neighbourhood. We've made words for our hollow industriousness, our productive stillness, our illuminated solitude, each term a hard pass at something we cannot quite refuse.
Screen glow at midnight
even the AI wonders
if we're still awake
But listen: teenagers shout skibidi at nothing and everything, absolutely delulu with joy, their rizz and aura untranslatable to us, perfect in their imperfection. A girl shows her butter skin lewk and someone says she ate and left no crumbs, bet. In Dublin, they're morto over spice bags; in Kuala Lumpur, tapau your nasi lemak with kaya on the side. The mouth remembers before the dictionary does. Alamak, how we've been speaking new languages all along.
Grandmother's recipe
lumpia rolls carrying words
the page can't hold yet
Perhaps this is the burnt toast theory of linguistics: what seems lost makes room for what must come. The broligarchy names itself. Gen Alpha coins snackable for their fractured attention, honest about their inheritance. Climavores choose with conscience; we practice eco-minimalism like prayer. Generative AI makes prose while we make slang, both of us biohacking meaning from the ruins of the old world, both of us marvelling that anything grows at all.
Sharp-sharp, we greet
this shoogly train of language
hold on, enjoy ride
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman
think Monty Python's
Flying Circus skittering
on thin ice - Skidamarink
a dink, a dink...
hither and yon, to and fro
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, no spring chicken bro,
nevertheless oz offer friendship in toto
good day to thee with cheerful adieu.
Though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.