Donegal Daily’s successful poetry series in association with Poetry Ireland comes to a close today with eight reader submissions.
Throughout April we brought you daily features from 31 local poets, celebrating a rich range of themes, styles and subjects. We’d like to thank every poet who took the time to send in their work.
Today, we bring you eight unique poems penned by Donegal Daily readers who were inspired by the series.
We invite you to take a few moments and enjoy these contributions:
TURLOUGHS
by John Siberry
You can find one as the orphaned child of a lake
Abandoned in a makeshift bed in a hollow
Found in the lowest depths of a field;
Like a scrap of hard-to-defeat snow.
A mistake in the calculations of elevations
Across eskers and dents in the primal land.
Treeless pasture for sheep hemmed in by walls
Bleached from being bare too long. Abandoned
Like this tear-drop of water in an emerald eye,
Shrunken down to dimensions you grasp
In the micrometer’s gap of your finger and thumb,
Held up in a breeze as you stand in grass
That slides its carpet beneath the surface,
Luring plantain and clover into its flood.
Something not natural has bent the rules,
In the way it contracts down to mud
Dries to dust after weeks without rain,
Only to re- appear one dawn, phantom bright
As a distillate of the faltering skies.
Then lingers silently, night after night.
The Chords of Motherhood
by Kay Ward
Lying awake in depth of dark,
Listening to the rapid rise and fall.
The drizzle has dampened the sky light.
These are the night time notes,
Of the chords of motherhood.
Your pale skin,
Has a feathered fringe on furrowed brow,
You sleep in your seventh year
But you’ll always be my wee man.
Suddenly, fully awake,
Bolt upright on sweated pillow-
“Mammy I can’t breathe!”
Your shallow panic breath plunges fear to
The depths of my guilt.
These are the night time notes,
Of the chords of motherhood.
A hurried drive at dawn
To the familiar silent waiting room.
The sleepy doctor indicates we can follow
Him in. “What seems to be the problem?”
His self assured tone like a balm
To my worried exhaustion.
The rhythmic guttering of the nebs machine-
These are the night time notes,
Of the chords of motherhood.
Colour brushes your sullen face
And you wink at me
from beneath the mask.
Never questioning,
your complete trust
Breaks my tired heart.
A stamp on our prescription,
Exclaims we are free to go.
The birds herald us towards the dewy car.
Your blanket clutched and
cocked behind your head,
a calmer breath invites a welcome sleep.
Inhale deeply, exhale worry as
The sky blushes pink and pale blue
and cracks open a new morning.
These are the night time notes
Of the chords of motherhood.
Everyone’s Hearts Were Clapping
by Owen Gallagher
Everyone stood outside their front door.
As the clock struck eight they began to clap
slowly as if someone was coming on stage
but as more in the street joined in, they clapped
louder and louder as if they were freeing
something within, perhaps a patient who never
had the opportunity to thank everyone
who looked after them when they were ill.
Everyone was clapping all over the country
banging lids, pots. Fireworks lit the sky.
Their spirits zoomed. They felt how a patient
must feel when administered good news.
Their hands will never finish clapping.
Everyone has been a patient.
Everyone’s hearts are clapping.
As long as hearts clap, hands will too.
Children
by Michael De Ward
They simply fill that special place
Beaming joy upon your face,
Inwardly, outwardly they infect with a smile
Mischief often disguised by youthful guile.
Time flies on, ye are getting big
Out with friends, away to the gig,
Never find till yer grown women and men
But loved always you’ll be, our children.
THE BATTLE OF CORONA
by L. Sweeney
A bigger plan may lay ahead
Than agile minds can comprehend
An uncertain time we now face
A pandemic sweeping through the human race
Forced indoors to isolate
Unknown we cannot foresee our fate
Social distancing to flatten the curve
Oh corona you have hit a nerve
Time in a sense now stands still
As the birds chirp on our window sill
The speed of the world spinning out of control
Forced to slow down in different no more
Across the globe our kin unite
The candle of hope burns a new light
Reminded of our gentle soul
Kindness now a world-wide goal
Replacing selfishness and greed
Consider what’s important, stay safe, god speed
Taking notice, the error of our ways
As we now appreciate simplicity these days
Caring and compassion for the young and old
Health more precious than diamonds and gold
Doctors and Nurses Healthcare Workers and more
Their importance recognised like never before
The mighty will fall as they extend a hand to all
A message of solidarity looking ahead
Facing this battle together now instead
New perspectives and appreciation
As we fight this virus engulfing our nation
Wildings
by Margaret Gordon
I remember the days of childish joy
Those long days when we’d roam
As one, in nature’s wilderness
Just a few fields from home.
When we were wildings
We ran with freedom on all our days
Running amok on nature’s canvas
Oh how I miss our childish ways
Searching for frog spawn
Collecting it in pails
Observing then with wonder
As eggs grew tail
Little hands, purple and red
Carefully plucking from blackberry beds.
With precision, through thorn and nettle
A full bucket to demonstrate our mettle.
When we were wildings
We ran with freedom, on all our days
Running amok on nature’s canvas
Oh how I miss our childish ways
Paddling in the river
Fishing, with worms and line.
Skipping over stepping stones
Basking in the sunshine
And Saturdays, from morning til dusk
When we played the long game,
Fighting for the bragging rights
Before our mothers called our name.
When we were wildings
We ran with freedom on all our days
Running amok on nature’s canvas
Oh how I miss our childish ways.
Climbing the Goliath of trees,
Swinging on low lying branches,
Sometimes we were cowboys,
Camping out on ranches.
Or hunkering in the long grass
Where we tracked and stalked our foes
Like Apache from western movies
We ambushed, with arrows and bows.
When we were wildings
We ran with freedom on all our days
Running amok on nature’s canvas
Oh how I miss our childish ways.
If I had the chance to go back in time
I’d lay in those fields with bugs and bees
A child, immersed in nature’s tapestry
My long hair tousled in the breeze.
For I was once a wilding, and
I still miss the freedom of those days
Running amok on nature’s canvas
Oh how I miss the wilding ways.
Down The Winding Road
by Agnes Murray
Down the winding road I found myself today
So I made a wish as I crossed the bridge of The Gweebarra Bay
My heart lies in The Rosses, a place that I call home
I always long to go there and wander off alone.
Along the rocky coastline is heaven here on earth
The peaceful pier in Burtonport in my youthful days I’ve spent
As I gaze across at Arranmore, a beautiful sight I see
The forgotten Island of Rutland and the Island of Inishfree.
The boats all gently swaying to the rhythm of the breeze
A melody only they can hear between the skies and seas.
The gulls cry out above me, I think they call my name!
I wonder as I leave the pier will things remain the same?
The beautiful beach in Arlands, Keadue and Cloughglass
The village of Kincasslagh, I’ve finally reached at last.
As I turn another corner, Mount Errigal appears
A large and glorious mountain I took for granted for years.
It stands so tall above them all, blindfolded by some clouds
Dunlewey falls below it, so humble yet so proud.
This beauty is never ending, Glenveagh I stumble upon now
The sound of twittering birds on these most tranquil grounds.
The trees surround the castle, protective like a mother
The gardens all so heavenly looking forward to the summer.
My wish was surely granted, as I have told you so
The sky has drawn its blinds for the night
So off to sleep I go.
William Mannell
(1916-1947)
by Mícheál McCann
The ten metres you can see is the unbearable part
I argue At least above water you’d see things coming
knowing I’m wrong knowing sight is no pal in a knife fight.
The real trouble is being bone dry and the Man of War
somehow sneaks up on you and for no reason your form
just full of light calls Come in to the overly motherly jellyfish.
Your diving stopped while I was still swimming, after
a fashion, but your eyes lit like rose glass recounting
how brilliantly fired a wreck looked in the failing summer.
Hull plates and decking have rotted into the sand
so only rusted ribs, framework, mooring bollards resist
your body – neoprene-smooth – entry to Atlantis.
You descend slowly from a world of clamour into one
of deep fruiting silence. The late afternoon uncovers the furore
of red and purpling anemones; dead man’s fingers waving back.
In the warm-blue darkness of the hull the silty floor
is alive with lost jewels scintillating slinking past each other
on the hull floor: light peeks from rotted holes above your head.
As you slow to a still float, a theatre of silt takes its turn:
head pivoting from wing to wing. This place, like Earth, but flipped.
I smell your father smoking in the captain’s plush cabin. Door? locked.
And the giant probably blue lobster you heard rumours
about is nowhere to be seen or heard clack clack snapping
but you do see two claws reaching kindly from a hole in the wall.
A dinner plate of a crab, fallen in when it was smaller, sprightly,
nooked, and grew and grew too grand. In its trapped rest it felt
like God. Now it has outgrown its haven as you have this adrenaline fix
and you rise to the surface despite your limbs’ nitrogen ache.
Do you mourn the passing of your underworld? I’m so sorry
it was the first way I made things difficult. I suppose this poem
is me trying to resurrect the beneath. You say one pitch night
that you might take the notion to dive again and I am haunted
in sleep by purple waves broiling with talk. And you’re smiling:
coul-pinched face, your suited feet first break the beach waves.
A diving knife in one hand, the other slashed bloody from a sharp,
wise coral. You’re on the wood boat with both oars, bone-hilts, accounted for.
The last thing my eyes remember before I surface
into the unbearable: a flat, strong hand, pointed to me.
Rising up and down, meaning Stay calm. I’ll be okay
#WeAreThePoetsDonegal – Click here to read the full series.
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