Cork
It was cold and wet
on French’s Quay
the day I left, the engine
still running and the car
pulled in as close to the kerb
as the port of a ship
docking at the pier;
punctured tyres
from the shut-down factory
scraped the quay-wall
where the rats
had come ashore.
In our submarine town
the river rained down
from above. A lifebelt
worked its way free
from a mooring-post
across the street
from
Forde’s
Funeral Home.
Corporation gutters
were choked with seaweed
and dogs
stowed away
in coalbags, flushed
out with the tide
through Passage West.
The back of the car
was warm as a kitchen,
watertight as a
fish’s arse
until a single swollen drop
fell on the windscreen,
trickled through a crack
in the reinforced
glass
and along the bridge
of our captain’s nose
where he sat
impervious
to all in the front seat.
When the riverbanks broke
behind my father’s eyes
tears gushed
through the eye of a needle
and Jesus wept over
my submerged head;
tin buckets and gallon cans
couldn’t bail me out,
as church-spires
and railway-lines crumpled,
millstones, milestones,
and hearts like stone
gave way to the rising water.
I couldn’t wait to get away
from the insubstantial earth
that
made me,
before the last drop
was squeezed
from my bleeding heart,
before love
wrapped itself
round my neck
and my sinking heart
went under.
Gaol Cross
It was threatening rain all day
when my father left his
father’s house,
my grandmother clutched her handkerchief
on the palm of her hand
so the
broody sky wouldn’t wet her cheek.
His Sunday best was pressed
for the journey, heart shut tight
and
a
double knot on the twine
that kept him and his cardboard
suitcase
together. When he checked
The knot on his wrist
the eyes in the back of his head
saw Tomás Óg Mac
Curtain
marched in front of the house,
head and shoulders above
his escort as the greatcoat
of the Free State hid the handcuffs
that
chained him to the future.
He heard again from the walls
of the
old
gaol a volley of shots
like a flurry of windfalls, a day
he was out with the boys
in the orchard behind the Western Star
a man was shot in the river-field,
on the run from his place
in the history books. He heard
the shouts of all their mothers
loud as
a clatter of binlids,
calling the boy-troop home,
his own name sworn
like an oath
for all the world to hear.
He turned a deaf ear to the old
woman as he
tightened the knot
on his wrist and placed the stamp
of the immigrant
on his case,
the woollen rug that marked him
more clearly than his thick Cork accent.
The day my father left
there was an orange glow over Sunday’s Well
as if Easter bonfires raged again
or mattresses burned above the prison-gates.
A silver trout, bright as a spinning coin,
abandoned its element
under
Sacred Heart Bridge
as I crossed over
in my father’s footsteps
making for Shannon Airport.
When I looked back across the water
the last light was dying
in my
grandmother’s eyes
as she stood like a statue in the dark
looking after us from the foot
of the Cross.
About Time
She was always late
as if someone had taken
a part of her time
and then mislaid it
in the back of a couch
or a crack in the wall
behind the fireplace,
she couldn’t go on
till she found it again
in the gap between now and then.
Her husband corrected the fault
he thought was part of her nature,
turning the house upside down
to make up for time lost
between the
measured stroke
of his watchful heart
and the irregular beat of hers,
never on time in a world
run down like clockwork.
She’s late again
and we’re packed
in the back of a car
in disarray, like the inside
of a broken watch,
on our way, I imagine,
to eleven o’clock Mass.
In a clamour of bells
and blowing horns
rainwater spits
on the windscreen
and wipers smear their sleeves
across the blinking window.
The driver stands
at the foot of the stairs
in the hall, constant
as a
line from the Bible
as the sun goes down
on his left wrist.
His prayer is quiet
as the leaves
of a missal
as he waits
for the clock to strike.
Silk of the Kine
I remembered my Grandad
back in the stone age
in that prehistoric shed
coaxing light
from the hard teat
of an old cow
when flight number El 32
turned its dripping snout
for home, slow
as
the white-backed heifer
that took one last look
at those faraway hills
that will never give milk
before climbing the ramp
of the old brown truck
to the slaughterhouse.
Oisín
As soon as I climbed
from the sky-horse
and set foot on the ground
I
saw my reflection
brought down to size
in your narrowed eyes.
My breath quickened
as you wrapped
your arms around me,
bones became
straw
under the weight
of your welcome home.
By the time we reached
the revolving door
your shadow was too much
for
my puny shoulders
and the world without end
I’d left behind
on the
runway
gathering speed
overTuskar Rock.
Corcach
Bh
í s
é
fuar fliuch
ar French’s Quay
is m
é ag triall aris
ón mbaile, an chairt
ina seasamh chomh dl
úth
leis an gcos
án le bord soithigh
buailte le caladh
is seanbhoinn stractha
ón
monarchain d
únta
ag scr
íobadh
falla na c
é
san
áit inar th
áinig
na francaigh i dt
ír.
I gcathair na gcuan
is an abhainn ag titim
ón sp
éir
bh
í f
áinne
tarrth
ála
scortha d
á chuaille
trasna na sr
áide
ó theach na sochraide,
bh
í sclogph
íopa
í
an Bhardais
á dtachtadh ag feamainn
bhruscair
a bhr
úcht an
íos
sa tsruth faoi th
ír
is madra
í b
áite
á dtabhairt chun si
úil
i m
ála
í
guail
tliar farraige amach
i dtreo an Phas
áisteThiar.
Bh
í c
úl
na cairte
chomh cluthar le cistin,
chomh d
íonach ar uisce
le
bund
ún
éisc
n
ó gur thit
deoir mh
ór amhain ar a grua,
shil tr
é scoilt san fhuinneog
is dhoirt thar dhroichead
sr
óine mo
chaipt
ín
a shuigh gan chor
sa suioch
án tosaigh.
Nuair a bhris na bainc
taobh thiar de sh
úile
m’athar
ni thraochfadh buic
éad
n
á
gal
ún st
áin
an r
áig
a bhris tr
é pholl
sa bhfirmimint
ar mo cheann b
áaite.
Bhi stuaiceanna eaglaise
is b
óithre iarainn
á
l
úbadh,
cro
íthe is br
óinte
muilinn
á smiotadh, falla
í
is leacacha sr
áide
ag tabhairt uathu,
an talamh ag bogadh
is giorran
áil an phortaigh
in uachtar ar
ís ionam fh
éin.
B’fhada liom go dtr
éigfinn
an chr
é r
óbhog
dar di m
é
sara bhf
áiscf
í
an deoir dheireanach
as an gcloch im l
ár,
sara gcuirfeadh an gr
á
a dh
á l
ámh
timpeall mo mhuin
íl
dom tharraingt s
íos
go t
óin an phoill
abhaile.
Gaol Cross
Choinnigh mo mh
áthair chr
íonna
hainceas
úr br
úite
le cro
í
a dearnan chun
nach bhfliuchfadh
racht na sp
éire
a leiceann t
íortha
mar bh
í
b
áisteach
air
ó
mhaidin
an l
á a d’fh
ág
m’athair an baile.
Bh
í
a bhalcais
í
Domhnaigh
nua-iarn
áilte, a chro
í
f
áiscthe
is snaidhm dh
úbailte ar an iall
a cheangail a ch
ás cartchl
áir
chun nach scaoilf
í
an gad
a choinnigh
é
i dtreo chun imeachta.
Nuair a chuir s
é
a bhais i nglais l
ámh
an r
ópa
chonaic an ts
úil i gc
úl
a chinn
Tom
ás Óg Mac
Curt
áin
ag si
úl
ar aghaidh an t
í,
a cheann go hard thar ghuaill
í
an Gharda is c
óta
an tSaorst
áit
thar chaola a l
ámh ag ceilt na slabhra
í
a cheangail an cime don todhcha
í.
D’airigh s
é
ar
ís
ó bharr na sr
áide
rois na bpil
éar chomh fras
le cith
úll, l
á
d
á raibh s
é
f
éin
Embun creiche san
úllord
laistiar
de R
éalt an Iarthair mara
íodh
fear
a chuaigh ar a choime
ád
o gheibheann na leabhar gabh
ála
sa chlais le hais na habhann.
Chuala s
é
uaill na m
áithreacha
go l
éir
ón l
á
sin sa tsr
áid
chomh garbh le claib
ín
í
bruscair
á ngreadadh,
ag glaoch abhaile ar an macra,
a ainm f
éin
á fh
ógairt
amhail
m
óid dilseachta os
comhair an tsaoil.
Thug cluas bhodhar an tarna huair
don tseanbhean, rug greim ar a ch
ás
is chuir pas coitianta na himirce
os a chionn, an ruga olna a
d’fh
ág
s
éala
na himpireachta chomh follas
ar a l
áimh lena thuin ramhar
Chorca
í.
An l
á a d’imigh
ár
mbuachaill b
án
bhi solas flannbhu
í
sa
sp
éir
mar a
bheadh tinte cn
ámh
ar lasadh go hantr
áthach
n
ó
tochtanna leapan
á
nd
ó
ar bharr falla
í an phr
íos
úin.
Chaith breac geal scilling in airde
faoi Dhroichead an Chro
í
R
ónaofa
á
scar
úint
f
éin lena n
ád
úr
b
áite
nuair a shi
úla
íos
an droichead ina dhiadh ar mo shl
í
go haerfort na
Sionnaine
bh
í an ghrian ag dul faoi
i s
úile mo mh
áthar
cr
íonna
a d’fhan ina staic sa doircheacht
ag f
éachaint im dhiaidh
ó
cheann na croise.
Thar Am
Bh
í
s
í
deanach ariamh is cho
íche
mar a bheadh smut d
á
candam ama
abhus
ar iarraidh i gc
úl
an ch
úits
n
ó
i bp
óca deannaigh
taobh thiar den matal
is gur lease l
éi
dul ar aghaidh
gan dul siar
á chuardach
sa scoilt idir
anois is anall
ód.
Cheartaigh a fear an dearmad
a bh
í
inti, dar leis,
ó
n
ád
úr;
chas an tigh chun cinn ar an gclog
le breith ar ais ar an am a cailleadh
idir buille Eilbh
éiseach
a chro
í
fh
éin
agus buille m
írialta
na mn
á
a bh
í
d
íreach
an m
éid
sin
as alt i dticteach na cruinne.
T
á s
í
deanach i gc
óna
í
is t
áimid br
úite
i gc
úl na cairte
chomh m
íshlachtmhar
leis an dtaobh istigh
d’uairead
óir
briste,
ag triall.n
í
fol
áir,
ar Aifreann a haond
éag.
T
á cloig ag bualadh,
adharca
á s
éideadh
is uisc
e
ón
sp
éir
á
dhoirteadh
ar ghrua an ghaothsc
átha.
T
á cuimleoir
í
basctha
mar chiars
úr linbh ag smearadh
deor le s
úil an ghluaiste
áin.
Seasann an draibh
éir
ag bun an staighre sa halla
chomh righin le l
íne
ón mB
íobla,
is an ghrian ag dul faoi
ar chaol a chiot
óige.
T
á monabhar a bh
éil
chomh ci
úin
le siosarnach na leathanach
i leabhar
urna
í,
a chro
í
buailte
ag buile an chloig.
Sioda na mBó
Chuimhn
íos
ar m’athair cr
íonna
i r
é
na clochaoise
sa seid r
éamhstairi
úil
ag sniogadh gile
as sine righin na seanbh
ó
nuair a chas EI 32
a smut tais
ag sm
úrtha
íl
i dtreo an bhaile
chomh malltriallach
leis an ndroimeann sheasc
a d’fh
éach
thar n’ais
ar ghlaise na gcnoc
n
á t
álfaidh
s
í
cho
íche
ina lacht
sara gcuaigh isteach
i dtrucail donn
dilis an tseamlais.
Oisín
N
í
tuisce a thuirling
mo chois den sp
éir-each
is theagmhaigh ar
ís
leis
an dtalamh
n
á
chonac mo sc
áil
giortaithe id sh
úil,
craptha i dtoirt
n
ó
go bhfillfeadh gan dua
i gcaol do mhac imrisc.
Chiorraigh m’
ánail
nuair a chuiris do l
áimh
im thimpeall,
lagaigh mo
chn
ámha
faoi ualach do ch
éad
f
áilte romham ar ais.
Nuair a ghlanamar
doras an aerfoirt amach
bh
í
do sc
áil r
ómh
ór
dom ghualainn
is an ts
íora
íocht
a d’fh
ágas
ar thonnta an aeir
ar mo shl
í
isteach
ag scinneadh amach
thar Tuskar Rock.