Long Lough Poems
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A misty morning in Donegal.
My sheep are scattered over bog.
Must wipe the sand man from sleepy eyes.
Put on the kettle when I rise.
Rex is already outside half door.
He senses mist may rise some more.
No delay on this most Irish day.
Drink my cup and let's be away.
The little windey road ahead
leads to bridge then gap in hedge.
Where they escaped once before.
Those silly sheep now over Barnesmore.
At brow of hill I see Lough Eske.
The view always takes my breath.
Away Rex, lets get started.
At the escape hatch through which they parted.
Staff in hand I guide them in
Whistle to Rex what a good dog he's been.
This time ensure gap is closed.
Home in time to enjoy repose.
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping hunger and abuse of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
Without doubt a small isle but one of natural beauty
Such a tranquil emerald place, the Isle of Innisfree
Set in Irelands Lough Gill in the County of Sligo
And holds for me fond memories of so long ago.
I met my first love at the loughs shore, a pretty colleen
Grace Ann was her name and she was just sixteen
And that first long hot summer that we spent together
Still plays on my mind and the love we had for each other.
We'd row across to the Isle often and stay all day long
And spent many hours talking and singing our song
A pact we both made, that we'd be together for life
I as her loving husband and she as my loving wife.
We'd dream of building a house there, just her and me
And later we'd have children, our very own family
We would have a laugh about that, it was just fantasy
But I knew that we'd be happy wherever we'd be.
We finished school in September and were waiting to see
If we'd been successful in our application, for Dublin Uni
Sadly, some of our friends, had their application's rejected
But Grace and I'd been lucky because we'd been accepted.
The week before our departure , she went with some friends to town
And as they crossed a busy road, a drunk driver mowed them down
Two of her friends were slightly injured but Grace died at the scene
Her young life taken from her; she'd just turned seventeen.
I became very withdrawn and just wished it'd been me
And lost interest in everything and even a place at uni
I went to the funeral home to see, one last time her pretty face
And there in a white coffin lay an angel; my beautiful Grace.
I blamed myself for her death; she'd wanted to stay in with me
But I said "Go out with your friends and have a farewell party"
After her funeral I left for England and joined the merchant navy
In the hope I'd leave behind memories of that awful tragedy.
I couldn't face going back home and its now been thirty years
Just the thought of going back there would fill my eyes with tears
In my free time I'd go up on deck and just stare out to sea
And my mind would drift back to that summer, with Grace and Innisfree.
Written 11th December 2020.
Inspired by The Lake Isle Of Innisfree by Irish Poet W. B. Yeats
Tak oor grund from beneath oor hurdies
Burn oor birches aside the lough,
Besmirch hard fecht fur freedom,
Dictating oor days tae come,
No from the pint o a gun,
Fae laws an promises broken.
Lees an lees spout forth like watter
Lives expended as if they dinnae matter,
Feel the Jacobite spirit again,
Ready tae fecht like scotsmen again,
Like warrior poets risen from the glen,
Fae the mists o the past remember,
Oor freedom wis wun sending Edward hame,
Yon wis the past a new war begun noo,
No wi claymores ,targes an guns,
This time its ideals an Eton buffers,
Those who wid sell oor birthrights
Tae mak us slaves an servile peasants,
Using stealth ,treachery an unco ither weys
Rogues they be crooks ,cheats and thieves
Seeming beyond reproach wi things hidden
Frae us puir mortals aye they wull dae us doon,
Sic a time as this tae fecht fur whit is oors
Naw mair begging fur aa few scraps
Fae a table fu wi guid things ,
Scraps urny fur us we ur free loons
Burthit free an deeing we wull be free,
Ur ye ready tae rise yince agin?
Andrew P mcintyre 14/09/2020
daft colleen from precipitous Clare
bold like the Burren, grey bedrock stare
turloughs flowing, born and bred
banner county, father Ted
Cliffs of Moher she jumped for a dare
floaty accent, wayward man of Cork
culinary city, knife and fork
horizon dreams he was fed
Cobh harbour past Mizen head
around Kinsale then off to New York
bad tempered Kerryman lost his ring
by the Killarney lakes he did fling
butt of jokes, very cruel
Dingle berries, Carrantouhill
his MacGillycuddys reek and sing
Limerick poetess made you think
five lines she wrote then, ran out of ink
first, second and fifth must rhyme
shorter third and fourth are fine
but must keep their rhythm all in 'sync'
Tipperary jockey rode with pace
sure she won the Grand National race
cheered from lough Derg to Cashel
from Nenagh down to Clonmel
loud bells were rung for her steeplechase
Waterford witch, many followers
her crystal glass, many swallowers
toast to the oldest city
viking girl, very pretty
velvet voice. plenty polymers
Far out to sea in the great expanse of water an island lies
Shaped like a crescent or bulls horns called the islands of the moon.
White sands blown by gentle winds and washed by azure sea
Lush forests filled with abundant shrubs and every fruiting tree.
Animals roar and squeak some crawl and slither by
The cool thermal air with everything that can fly.
The outer ridge is like a sheer cliff wall where gannets dive,
While within the crescent is calm and peace as gentle breakers roll.
Clear green water with no weed clog shelter exquisite reef
Where turtles come ashore at night to lay their precious eggs.
Sea maids stretch out on the sands and sing their wandering song
And passing whales reply with notes ponderous and long.
Butterflies in glorious colour, cloud and gather in flittery throng
While hummingbirds buzz and sup sweet nectar juice all day long.
Caterpillars smoking hooka pipes sending smoky tendrils high,
Moths both small and mighty trying to be the best in the sky.
Within the central island a lough spreads and expands,
Where waterfowl of everykind swim with nests close at hand.
There is a mountain tall that towers over them all,
Caring and protecting from stormy weather squall.
His name is not known to mortals like you and I.
His children alone know to pronounce it you would die.
The islands of the Moon lie far out in the great sea,
Tales alone are all we know as no eye has ever seen.
Sailors, pirates and all who sail the mighty seas of the world,
Under darken sky and myriad star all tell of something odd
When on a misty night as the doldrums have taken hold,
Sometimes can be heard the song of sea maids bold.
To search all the seas would take a lifetime or more,
Better to be safe asleep in hammock till ye snore.
(C) Andrew Mcintyre
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
Strange sedition stealthy sets
cloaked in artificial greening phiz
some by prejudice inquiring,
“Where are you from”?
others in feigning frame avoiding,
finding paths away from you,
Though harmless your looks.
There be those secluding,
choosing space dodging.
deliberate speed the drama,
of Conceited Bias unspoken,
The loss of childhood innocence,
Deprivation infinite,
miscarriages of Justice,
preferential treatments innumerable,
spites and Obvious denigration,
strange glare on nature's kiln,
The sun made me shine little mind,
I don't envy You in this cold.
The spite, multitudinous,
The Jeers, unprovoked contumely,
At work,
The Bus,
the Malls,
The elevator,
the peevish looks,
uncertain repudiations,
Even in Church secluded,
The brief suspense at the “sacred” ground
Exclusivity,
We see it, watching in silence.
Some time too Obvious,
Unspoken Nepotism,
“We first”, You Last or voided.
The denigrating use of “Minority or Others”
As though the described are less human,
I am African, NOT "minority" or "others"
we know these sieving schemes.
In civility we ignore,
A better knowledge Leads
This dying carcass a mere container,
We are not inferior,
we are not a threat,
We are beautiful ,
We observe,
We lough at these ,
And when the manacles of Justice is snapped by the creator of colors
then shall you know,
We are all sojourners here.
OLD BELFAST
No hooters belch and screech in the mornings anymore
Industry has disappeared from the City’s working core
The Factories have all closed their gates a long, long time ago
Now silent shadows fill the space where workers used to go
Steam cranes bow across the lough, an entry on a page
Decayed tired buildings line the Docks, relics of an age
Rows of broken windows where he silence trickles out
As nature now takes over where grass and nettles sprout
The workshops have been stripped and only carcasses remain
Moss grows on the floor where the roof lets in the rain
Miles of red brick walls which somehow now look grey
Blackened muddy puddles where singed old timbers lay
Grand imposing structures, much too big for modern use
Now crumpling and eroded from dereliction and abuse
Spectres from a Victorian age now roam these soulless lanes
You can hear their whistles on the wind. Their presence still remains
Grey clouds dispersing above the Lough,
Grey geese skeining to winter fields for from arctic chill,
Rainbow colours reflected in water still and deep,
Chill and cold in the depths along with bream and Roach,
Amongst the weed and silt lie Pike waiting patiently,
For some small unassuming stickleback or baggie
To fill its ever hungry belly.
Arching rainbow across the hills leading to a pot,
But the gold is in the town and its deep cold lough.
Do Kelpies run off the hills finding refuge and rest,
Down the burns they skelter unseen ,unknown,
Only by frothy white water bubble and hear their ,
Unearthly whinnie amongst the crannies of ancient hill.
On dark nights when water is high will you hear the Kelpies cry.