GUTTURAL MUSE by SEAMUS HEANEY
A classic piece of observation from a hotel window ,in just three five liners .A view of universal everyday scenes from a 'detached 'poetic viewpoint with imaginative ,yet wistful digressions of the older observer 'poet'*
*Ulster poet Seamus Heaney
ever a favourite with me
In which nostalgic childhood shines through
to become a Nobel winner too
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
"Lose the acent Mister, I know it's you!"
What accent I say's, what accent?
The Altermate Red, yeah it's you!"
What you talking about Mister, Mi name is
Nuala, Seamus, Seamus being mi first, Nuala being
mi last: why do you say I have an accent?"
What's your Paw's last name< mi paw's Hondell:(interupting)
You heard me what's your paw's hondell?
Mi paw's is Hondell it's his name I tell ya!"
Cén blas atá ann? Is é mo fhíorghlór é agus a leithéid.
Is drong mianadóirí scrungaí muid
déanaimid mianadóireacht sna huaimheanna
agus treabhadh na bpáirceanna.
Whatever Mister, lose the accent when I'm holling at you.
Yes sir, but you sure are ignorant.
In referance to mi accent,
what accent it's mi real voice.
AD CAMPGAIN FOR ACCENT COLA BRAND
"WHAT ARE YOU DRINKING?"
Carneval in Spain? Big thing.
Break out your shiniest bling.
Both I and my friend Seamus
are sure they’ll never name us
‘rey momo’ – that’s ‘pagan king’.
We dress up and dance. The sting?
They make fun of the famous.
The universal yearning to be famous
or heap together masses of monedes
mean zip to me. My id’s an ignoramus.
So own your games of thrones, your maravedis.
Your Florida is Phobos, Denver, Deimos:
your Aspen’s asinine, your Hamptons, Hades.
The rutting writ no longer runs, to tame us:
Pam Blondie you can keep, and likewise ladies
who once manipulated that mandamus -
your Slinky Susies and your Sultry Sadies.
So what remains? It needs no Nostradamus!
The three of us, and Guinness, in O’Grady’s -
my friend and brother, Fighting Irish Seamus:
my little Spanish missus, named Mercedes.
Saints in Heaven Seamus O'Malley
What have you done to your gal Sally
And as the Irish say
Twas no luck on that day
He left her gin-soaked down an alley
Their next time out, he done it again
In Irish eyes, that's a mortal sin
This is our pub Seamus
So don't try to blame us
Cuz we won't be letting you back in
Then up popped the brother of Sally
You left my sister in an alley?
With revenge in his eyes
His sheleighly did rise
Say goodnight to Seamus O'Malley
The leprechaun trap wasn’t empty;
A toy leprechaun nestled inside
With a nice thank you note
That the leprechaun wrote,
So my granddaughter took it in stride.
If she’d caught one, she wanted some wishes,
Like a carousel built in her room
Or to meet Taylor Swift
Or a baby sis gift,
None of which she could get, I’d assume.
Her big brother, who once would have joined her,
Now knows Daddy left Seamus* behind;
He confirmed, with a wink.
Childhood ends in a blink,
With these memories etched in the mind.
*the toy leprechaun’s name, according to the note
Ulster poet Seamus Heaney
ever a favourite with me
In which nostalgic childhood shines through
to become a Nobel winner too
Said Seamus to his wife, with a wink
Since I cannae go out for a drink
I'm sure me and you
Can find something to do
Let me hug you, while both of us think
envision
images of
jesus but when
speaking every
other word
is F&#@
(Enjoy retirement Dooley)
Off, Seamus marched with a swagger,
Yet, soon, he slowed, that sly lagger.
Then, not very far,
He snuck to a bar:
By noon, his march was a stagger.
March 17, 2017
Luck of the Irish Limerick Contest
Kim Merryman, Sponsor
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.
There once was a farmer called Seamus,
who had an incompetant anus.
When out on a date with girlfriend Kate,
he blamed his dog when he farted,
to prevent her being startled.
...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.
...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.
...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.
Sub Categories
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.