Biography of Bernard Kennedy
Born Rathfarnham, Dublin, Ireland of Waterford Chemist father and Longford mother
Educated De La Salle College, Churchtown, Dublin.
Holy Cross Seminary, ordained 1979.
Taught Religious Studies in Schools, Sallynoggin, and Balbriggan, Dublin.
Trained as a Freudian Psychoanalyst, Holds M.A. University of Sheffield,2000, and,
M.Sc.School of Psychotherapy, University College Dublin (2002)
works at Beechwood Parish, Ranelagh, Dublin. www.beechwoodparish.com
Has written Essays for
The Furrow (thefurrow.ie)
The Letter (The letter.ie)
Intercom, Studies, (www.irishstudiesreview.ie) and other publications.& Lacanian- Psychoanalysis (online)
Bernard Kennedy's Works:
Context Reality Poems.1988.
Leaves of Autumn: Poems (1998)
The Poet's Tower & Love Poems. (2000)
Berlin, Berlin, (2001)
online at www.mourne.net (guest poet)
Bernard Kennedy Poems
Old Faithful Dog
I never thought him dead. Only running in the park, and sitting stretched by fire, or with his paw,
Gypsy Dance Of Love
We danced like gypsies in the heat of day, and matched our colors bright and gay, and music strings brought tears of love, and bands of strolling players moved above,
Summer is brought through this lemon zest of colour- reflected under the chin,
I met my father, on the hill of the road, at kilmashogue. he was striding down from
Traveller From Afar
I met a traveller from an antique land, and saw beneath that turbaned head not a visitor but brother too, though lineage was but black and white.
A Birthday Celebration
A joy rings out, throughout, family, neighbourhood and clan, 'thou art here', born, now, joy is ours.
July Morning Mindfullness
The summer morning, it rises to the sound of dogs greeting day, in garden near, and Fuschia, waking in the morn
from where? For Who? Coming out? Of What? If we view from the window we see a limited and framed
Pierre Loti Looks To Sligo Bay
From my eyrie, my high up, Eyup eyrie, at Ladies Brae in Skreen, at my hermitage, Patrick to Tara, I look down to Sligo Bay.
A Dream From My Self -new-
Tiredness, like Morphia, assists me, as I descend into that state, where the narrative of self, like on a cinema screen projected,
From main roads through the pass and there, beneath, as if a mountain gate over a valley, lake or bay
A Green Meadow
Easter brings up for me that old medieval hymn about 'now the green blade riseth, out of the buried grain'.
Antigone: La Lecon De Charcot
Cry out once more, Antigone, cry out, until the sentence is lifted, the sentence that keeps the feminine,
It has to be the warmest of feelings.
You have been away, and seen exciting scenes,
and eaten foods you never ate before,
and tasted delicacy.
And walked a stranger kind of street.
Then, near the end, of that nomadic path,
you know the tickets booked,
the train leaves prompt at nine,
and down you go,