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Best Poems Written by Tadgh Quill-Manley

Below are the all-time best Tadgh Quill-Manley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Life of 'AE'

On a mild Spring’s night
In the heartlands of Ulster 
A prodigious child was born 
For Ireland, to save her

A man of modest means 
Yet formidable wit
The mystics he joined 
A cause to commit

In poems and paintings
He found self expression 
Yet through a noble pursuit 
Would leave his impression

He traversed the country
On a campaign of recruitment
To free the impoverished through Unions 
And the Co-operative movement

With Horace Plunkett and Connolly 
He struggled for justice
Yet the Gombeens and the bosses 
Outweighed Caesar Augustus

Though Russell did not stop 
In this quest for social reform 
From misery to prosperity
One sought to transform

But the inconsiderate dogma 
Of the Irish Free State 
Meant to delay his mission 
As “Labour, must wait”

George William Russell grew older 
Crippled by usury
To wretched cancer, succumbed 
Rest in peace, ‘AE’

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The Grand Town of Macroom

Along the Muskerry Light Railway
One can watch the flowers bloom
It will not be much longer now
’Til the old town of Macroom

Arriving at the station
Collecting bags from overhead
To depart I am too keen
After all it is just not
The train letting off steam

The cattle mart’s in action
I better not be late
As a deal on a good Dexter cow
In the next lot I await

A good time to grab the paper
And some salted butter too
The Urban District Council is convening
I wonder what they’ll do

Sods of turf are being loaded
On a cart they’ll set their course
Up the dirt road to Clondrohid
The little donkey’s tour-de-force

I ask for the donkey’s name
“Father Peadar,” I am told
“A good writer he must be,” I said
A decision rather bold

To my lodgings, I head forth
Owned by a local businessman
No need to pay ‘till signing out
That sounds like a plan

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The Olde City of Cork

At the Butter Exchange
Is grand commerce in motion 
Yet be under no illusion
Of the merchant’s potion

‘Clip, Clop,’
Go horses’ shoes
On the cobble stones of Lancaster Quay 
From nearby office windows 
Proprietors observe with glee

The little children of Sunday’s Well 
Are taught a well-known adage 
That they must hold their balance 
Whilst traversing Daly’s Bridge

Great ships unload boxes of tea 
Outside the Customs House 
Bringing Ceylon’s finest
To the financier’s spouse

When evening strikes
The Savings Bank closes
And across the river
An alderman’s motion proposes

The Corporation tram 
Carries the workers to dinner
Their journey brightened 
By a passing street singer

Yet throughout the city
Lies an abundance of misery 
A reminder of poverty
And economic bewitchery

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Freedom for Some

In the Mansion House
On a January day
The framework of the nation 
And its future did lay

Deputy Johnson
Brought forth his brand-new assignment 
If the Democratic Programme did pass 
T’would alter our social alignment

Yet, Johnson and Labour
Were met with strict opposition 
Economic democracy
Was not the Gaelic League’s mission

Instead, fix the language 
And paint the letterbox green 
To feed the bootless children 
They were none too keen

A state of ‘freedom’ being 
Rhetorical and flowerful
All that changed was
The colour of the flag
And the accents of the powerful

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The Cork Solicitor

Carrying their brief to Washington Street
Ready to present before the court
A solicitor’s compelling case
Based on the law of tort

The judge arrives on the circuit
Yet in his ways he is hardwired
To let this case run on forever
An efficient ruling, anything but

An hour later, the judge cries
“Time to break for lunch”
Soon, we’ll find the defendant’s motives
About which I have a hunch

Across the street lies there
A sandwich and hot tea
Although those desperate junior counsels
Will beg for soup from you and me

Come evening, sessions close
There’s a bus home from the quay
Emails from the Law Society
Ask us to record our CPD

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Blarney Day

In Cork’s old heart
As poetic whispers play,
This district thrives
And tales hold sway.

Oh, Blarney, 
A place for words to craft and flow,
In the realm of stories, 
As hearts jump and glow.

Upon a lofty fortress 
Ancient and grand,
The rock of eloquence
A boon to the land.

Brushed by the daring
With audacious finesse,
Bestowing silver tongues
Through arresting address.

Mists caress the hills
And folklore breathes,
A dance with the arts
Inspiration seethes.

Whispers of fairies
Their muse in the air,
Guiding hands in crafts
With a tender care.

Within the tavern's haven
Here friendships ride,
Consuming fish and chips
Verses by the fireside.

The Blarney Stone's magic
In the artist's refrain,
This symphony of creativity
An unbridled domain.

So here's to Blarney
Where poems takes flight,
In the domain of crafts
Setting imaginations alight.

With Irish spirit and a steed's gentle neigh,
Blarney, in every charming stroke
Forever inlay.

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Baby Swallow

The time had come
For the swallows to leave 
Travelling to South Africa 
Over the Pyrenees

One chick in particular
Was not ready to go
Despite being urged by its siblings
In a to-and-fro

Into the stable
Its mother flew 
“Tswit-tswit,” it sang 
There was one thing to do

Using her claws
She picked up her chick
What she was about to commence 
Would make it think quick

Over the orchard
This mother carried its chick 
As it was time to use
That age-old trick

Down the chick went 
As the mother let go 
Its new found talent
It was about to show

Out stretched its wings
In the nick of time 
Gliding over
The wild mountain thyme

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Dear, Ballyvourney

Located deep in the Muskerry Gaeltacht
The old village of Ballyvourney
Seen from atop Mullaghanish
One better not leave prematurely

Walking through Ballymakeera
I see the Holy Well draw near
Down here in green Ballyvourney
Where Gobnait found nine white deer

I look over the bridge
Gliding to me 
Is a gentle black swan
Not an unusual sight
On the River Sullane

The mist drifts above the roadway
At the gates of the graveyard
Old relatives, re-acquainted
Memories no longer jarred

In the fields, on the outskirts of Coolea
The cutting of turf can be seen
Yet as the day moves to nightfall
Hear songs of Poitín

Again, I emerge from the hillside
And turn off at Slivereagh Cross
Then take the path north to Millstreet
Too much time on the doss

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CONIFEROUS TREE

Embracing the countryside 
Made some ecstatic and glee 
But one feature in particular 
Was that old coniferous tree

‘Conifer,’ a Latin word
Means one that bears a cone
But did Nero study the outdoors 
When he was in charge of Rome?

One Emperor’s word against another 
The other, Mother Nature
A lovely scene along the hills
Was better than portraiture

The gentle breeze juxtaposed against 
The needle pinaceae
But with their sheer beauty alone 
Would make one want to stay

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DD Sheehan

Raised in North Cork
A man who received widespread adulation
It’s D.D Sheehan, B.L
Of the Irish Land & Labour Association

A poet and wordsmith
Who build the branch network from scratch
To protect those tenants burnt out
From cottages of thatch

Charles Tanner’s death
Left a hole in Mid-Cork
Then up stepped D.D
Which gave political breadth

One great achievement
Was the Act of 1911
Model homes around Blarney
Brought workers closer to heaven

For Home Rule, he tried
To give the poor Irish their governance
Despite a role in the Great War
He found that the Crown had lied

Off to South England he went
To re-assess his fate
A forerunner to Attlee he served
Worthwhile to emigrate?