My Father`s Garden
I stand at the start of The Lilac Walk,
the sense of you here so powerful.
I fool myself that I can smell Major
on the evening air, I see you sportsjacketed
and pondering, measuring by eye.
Your managerial hands halfgloves of clay.
You purse your lips, the inner quiz finishes:
We`ll put the fuschia over there,Mick.
Forgive me.I had no inkling.
But, yesterday ,in your garden ,
I finally saw the breadth
of your imagination.
The colour blend more perfect
than that of any old master,
the symmetrical shaping
of different plants a petalled mosaic.
This plain beauty overseen
by the willow who has known
thirty years here. Rooted.
A description unsuitable for both of us.
Circumstances and choices rendered us
as transient as tumbleweed.
Here, far from your resting place ,
is your green memorial.
My loss grows. Unchecked.
Michael Herron ©2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Seven Days
The Seven Days
The townland a green desert
of raged,ragged dreams,
womanless cottages meander its length,
every day a grey bale of empty time.
Soft words heard here only by an early lamb
or a worthwhile collie,
a tome of unsent lovenotes on the oil-cloth.
Embered nights of perfected repartee,
creative excuses to linger longer
with the Post Office woman.
A monologue of imagined sweet talk,
a coarse poem of love,pencil-carved on lined paper
and no rhyme for gorgeous.
Longing wailed to the night wind,
the crystal jig of rain on glass,
and the moon diverted.
Then,the bright day of new hope.
The closest of shaves,the brylcreem anointing,
the smile inserted and the suit pressed.
The gabardine coat folded on the handlebar,
gleaming shoes are mirrors of industry,
jacket pockets rattle with heavy washers.
His bicycle purrs a silver aria,
while he murmurs his winning words
to the rhythm of the spinning road.
2
Delayed by a laneway encounter with Francie McBride,
he concedes his place in the queue to Reilly and Brady.
Listens,flint-eyed,as they stutter invitations
to Kernan`s Barndance or to the bingo at Tullyroan.
How gentle the woman is,their rueful smiles scream defeat.
At the counter words and courage leave him,
his love talk coagulates as her smile holds him.
He talks of the heather purpling at Derrycoosh,
how the rowanberries are clustering by the half-road,
how the waterfall is now a satin loom of mercury and gold.
She counts out his allotted weekly wealth and wishes and wonders.
In redfaced shame he sighs,the unopened poem burns.
On Main Street,Reilly and Brady wait anxiously for news.
Up the laneway,old Francie anticipates his brewed payment.
The seven days begin,again.
Michael Herron
The townland a green desert
of raged,ragged dreams,
womanless cottages meander its length,
every day a grey bale of empty time.
Soft words heard here only by an early lamb
or a worthwhile collie,
a tome of unsent lovenotes on the oil-cloth.
Embered nights of perfected repartee,
creative excuses to linger longer
with the Post Office woman.
A monologue of imagined sweet talk,
a coarse poem of love,pencil-carved on lined paper
and no rhyme for gorgeous.
Longing wailed to the night wind,
the crystal jig of rain on glass,
and the moon diverted.
Then,the bright day of new hope.
The closest of shaves,the brylcreem anointing,
the smile inserted and the suit pressed.
The gabardine coat folded on the handlebar,
gleaming shoes are mirrors of industry,
jacket pockets rattle with heavy washers.
His bicycle purrs a silver aria,
while he murmurs his winning words
to the rhythm of the spinning road.
2
Delayed by a laneway encounter with Francie McBride,
he concedes his place in the queue to Reilly and Brady.
Listens,flint-eyed,as they stutter invitations
to Kernan`s Barndance or to the bingo at Tullyroan.
How gentle the woman is,their rueful smiles scream defeat.
At the counter words and courage leave him,
his love talk coagulates as her smile holds him.
He talks of the heather purpling at Derrycoosh,
how the rowanberries are clustering by the half-road,
how the waterfall is now a satin loom of mercury and gold.
She counts out his allotted weekly wealth and wishes and wonders.
In redfaced shame he sighs,the unopened poem burns.
On Main Street,Reilly and Brady wait anxiously for news.
Up the laneway,old Francie anticipates his brewed payment.
The seven days begin,again.
Michael Herron
JUMPERS
Jumpers
The frowning silence interrupted only
by the soft clack of her knitting needles,
and the random spit of a cracking log.
His latest letter, promising a homeplace summer,
now furred by her nightly caress,
thumbs tracing and re-tracing the rough x`s
of his three crude kisses.
His account of London life entrancing her.
The Irish citadels of Camden and Kentish Towns,
Tufnell Park,Archway and Upper Holloway glossed to glamour,
more characters and chancers than in any of those Fit-Up shows.
The irony. No living to be hewn from local ground
but,over there,his skill with pick-axe and shovel
guaranteeing selection when the green Transits
patrolled landmark pubs or Tube stations.
On Fridays, paper wedges tossed to muck-gloved hands,
dust-lined throats soothed by Watneys and Fullers.
The cold truth of an unwary sub granted on Tuesday
biting hard,a showband in The Gresham too redolent
of home to miss.
Another month,another lovingly made jumper.
Such care she took in the folding and wrapping,
unaware that her crafted efforts were destined
for bartered drink. Several fellow-drinkers
on notice to never wear her creations
if ever she visited.
Michael Herron
The frowning silence interrupted only
by the soft clack of her knitting needles,
and the random spit of a cracking log.
His latest letter, promising a homeplace summer,
now furred by her nightly caress,
thumbs tracing and re-tracing the rough x`s
of his three crude kisses.
His account of London life entrancing her.
The Irish citadels of Camden and Kentish Towns,
Tufnell Park,Archway and Upper Holloway glossed to glamour,
more characters and chancers than in any of those Fit-Up shows.
The irony. No living to be hewn from local ground
but,over there,his skill with pick-axe and shovel
guaranteeing selection when the green Transits
patrolled landmark pubs or Tube stations.
On Fridays, paper wedges tossed to muck-gloved hands,
dust-lined throats soothed by Watneys and Fullers.
The cold truth of an unwary sub granted on Tuesday
biting hard,a showband in The Gresham too redolent
of home to miss.
Another month,another lovingly made jumper.
Such care she took in the folding and wrapping,
unaware that her crafted efforts were destined
for bartered drink. Several fellow-drinkers
on notice to never wear her creations
if ever she visited.
Michael Herron
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Spell
Spell
Over Furbo,
every star was a gin tear
while I etched your name
on midnight sand,
accepting my truth
that you are a page
I can never turn.
Witchmagic has touched you,
no one else comes
remotely close.
Over Furbo,
every star was a gin tear
while I etched your name
on midnight sand,
accepting my truth
that you are a page
I can never turn.
Witchmagic has touched you,
no one else comes
remotely close.
A bit about me
Moved to Dromod in April 2009. Have to say that Leitrim is the most beautiful county in Ireland,great green scenery and very relaxed,creative vibe throughout. Been writing for last 15/16 years,work widely published. Won ten national poetry competitions,broadcast on RTE. Busy compiling collection.
Transported
Transported
Her accent was murmured rain,
softening the summerbound city.
“A single to the Gresham Ballroom”
lilting him from parched Holloway Road
to a green, Leitrim lane.
So long a stranger to those quiet roads,
returned once only,for the mother`s funeral,
buried the woman and his past together.
Settled on a soft price for a fast sale
to a land-starved farmer from the next parish.
Even then,back amongst his own,
that easy air of belonging displaced.
Stood old class and team mates a final drink,
shared one last chorus then faded to the Dublin train,
the Dun Laoghaire-Euston night ride yawning.
He cranked the ticket-machine,gave change.
Held her smile,moved along,moved away.
Her accent was murmured rain,
softening the summerbound city.
“A single to the Gresham Ballroom”
lilting him from parched Holloway Road
to a green, Leitrim lane.
So long a stranger to those quiet roads,
returned once only,for the mother`s funeral,
buried the woman and his past together.
Settled on a soft price for a fast sale
to a land-starved farmer from the next parish.
Even then,back amongst his own,
that easy air of belonging displaced.
Stood old class and team mates a final drink,
shared one last chorus then faded to the Dublin train,
the Dun Laoghaire-Euston night ride yawning.
He cranked the ticket-machine,gave change.
Held her smile,moved along,moved away.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Poem to a redhead
Your hair: 6
My vocabulary: 0
(after extra time)
There`s something biblically sinful
about the redness of your hair,
sumptuous,almost carnal.
Roget has failed me,
my PhD in bartalk insufficient.
I`m running out of midnights,
howling by the adjectival waterfall,
my image harvester run aground.
For you,I will be il tuo primitivo ,
a hewer of wood,a fisher of seas
and all that pagan stuff,
cavemannish in my wanting.
I move your name about my mouth,
your spell of seven syllables entrances,
I drift in dreamfilled sleep,
tracing the meander of your curls.
My vocabulary: 0
(after extra time)
There`s something biblically sinful
about the redness of your hair,
sumptuous,almost carnal.
Roget has failed me,
my PhD in bartalk insufficient.
I`m running out of midnights,
howling by the adjectival waterfall,
my image harvester run aground.
For you,I will be il tuo primitivo ,
a hewer of wood,a fisher of seas
and all that pagan stuff,
cavemannish in my wanting.
I move your name about my mouth,
your spell of seven syllables entrances,
I drift in dreamfilled sleep,
tracing the meander of your curls.
Piera, a torchsong
Piera
Piera holds court on a red, plastic chair
outside Bar Emilio,whiskeying the days along.
Her handbag a trove of his letters
and their marriage photographs,
dressed only in black, she mourns a man still living.
And her old beauty still there,
sallow skin disguising alcohol’s ravages.
Sunblonded ponytail,
exquisite hands and a knowing smile,
she rides the memory trapeze,
thinking only of Mauro and their ten years.
In her apartment on Via Bertola
shopwindow mannequins take his place
in the bedroom, kitchen and livingroom,
each dressed in his discarded clothes.
Each night she cooks him pesto
pours a glass of his favoured vino patria,
reads his letters in the waiting.
Brushes out her hair, for he likes it that way,
drifts away with Gigli and Jack Daniels,
waltzing the weddingsuited model.
Her widowed sister and Mauro
seldom remember.
Piera holds court on a red, plastic chair
outside Bar Emilio,whiskeying the days along.
Her handbag a trove of his letters
and their marriage photographs,
dressed only in black, she mourns a man still living.
And her old beauty still there,
sallow skin disguising alcohol’s ravages.
Sunblonded ponytail,
exquisite hands and a knowing smile,
she rides the memory trapeze,
thinking only of Mauro and their ten years.
In her apartment on Via Bertola
shopwindow mannequins take his place
in the bedroom, kitchen and livingroom,
each dressed in his discarded clothes.
Each night she cooks him pesto
pours a glass of his favoured vino patria,
reads his letters in the waiting.
Brushes out her hair, for he likes it that way,
drifts away with Gigli and Jack Daniels,
waltzing the weddingsuited model.
Her widowed sister and Mauro
seldom remember.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday
Clouds roam the bald fields,
the tractor cools under corrugated iron
and workclothes waltz the wind.
Dinnertime, in the town,
an unseen, unheard gong is answered.
The Central Bar Diner’s Club assembles,
every face rented or borrowed
from the sepia photographs
that meander the rough wall.
A pint called by thumb or wink –
the semaphore of the accepted –
a half-one cradled and hidden
in a work- horned hand.
Field talk and parish banter
flow as fluently as the Yellow River.
The first real food and friendship
since last Friday,
that fragile weft of belonging
unravelling after the hour.
A reassuring rattle of small coins
and the long smile of the
red-haired woman in the Post Office
diluting the italic rain,
shortening the home road.
Clouds roam the bald fields,
the tractor cools under corrugated iron
and workclothes waltz the wind.
Dinnertime, in the town,
an unseen, unheard gong is answered.
The Central Bar Diner’s Club assembles,
every face rented or borrowed
from the sepia photographs
that meander the rough wall.
A pint called by thumb or wink –
the semaphore of the accepted –
a half-one cradled and hidden
in a work- horned hand.
Field talk and parish banter
flow as fluently as the Yellow River.
The first real food and friendship
since last Friday,
that fragile weft of belonging
unravelling after the hour.
A reassuring rattle of small coins
and the long smile of the
red-haired woman in the Post Office
diluting the italic rain,
shortening the home road.
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