Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
Biography of Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
Poet, and Musician from Dublin Ireland: born 1968, graduated UCD 1989, postgrad COCR 1990: worked in Advertising, Publishing and finally the family music business. Sings/composes Irish traditional Music, plays cello, mandolin, bodhrán: Editor/founding Editor of the Pagan Poetry Pages www.paganpoetrypages.com: the pagan poetry movement explores our humanity through our relationship with nature and this physical reality.
Blog: http: //www.geraldinemoorkensbyrne.com
Published in Anthologies, magazines and ezines: full list available
Geraldine Moorkens Byrne's Works:
Anthology: 'where the Hazel falls' The Electric Anthology www.electricpublications.com 2006
Jane Raeburn 'The Pagan Muse: songs and poems of ritual' Poem; Beltaine
Anthology: 'Poems of Nature' Poem 'Small Things'
Anthology 'Sacred Tree' Selection of Poems
Ezine: Prarie Poetry, Poem 'Irish Cowboys'
Ezine: Prarie Poetry, Poem 'The Homecoming'
Print Publications: Poetry Stream, poem 'Saving Sylvie'
Anthology: 'Poems of Life' Poem 'Open House/Blood Fetters'
Magazine 'Where once Stood Tribes' in Asian Geographic, No 55 Issue 5/ 2008
Geraldine Moorkens Byrne Poems
Green Party On
I walked Tara as a child on ramparts ancient paused, while parents stared at vistas far beyond our youthful minds.
Death Of The Hero
One note rising on the wind: piper play, the lament is called for: lower him down and softly keen Cu Chulainn's going to his rest.
If I should die tonight and my bones laid in the earth would my voice not be the wind and the sun my smile?
The Madness Of The Woman
You see black I see a spectrum of invisability the myriad shades of the dark rainbow like the spread of raven's wing
The Commitee For The Formation Of Pagan ...
The scene: a darkened amphitheatre, the centre stage bare but for the lone poet, the spotlight his at last. He raises soulful eyes to heaven and quoth he
In Nomine Patre who art encountered in the skies on clouds with harps
Pooka In The Summer Sun
A pooka grazes peacefully where the river meets the sea In the ruins of a castle,
Across the last plains under leaden skies, the ground peat-brown beneath; Turf cutters pausing to point
The wild west for us was never the stone walls and fragments of land between them the ragged, wild, bog-spawned
Secrets Of The Dead
When I couldn't bear it anymore the nurse pointed to the glass door and said: the grounds are lovely
On A Midsummer's Day
Pale Dawn Blushes As a raven flies a black speck against the morning skies
January Is Freezing
Cold light seeped in, through misted frames Casting a golden glow over smoke rising from the cigarette in my hand and hanging over the grill; tobacco and bacon and fried eggs.
Do not awaken slumbering beasts; They are guarding secrets
Cliona By The Shore
I let myself in with the key of the kings and wrapped red ribbons around my poor head.
The wild west for us
was never the stone walls
and fragments of land between them
the ragged, wild, bog-spawned
west of Ireland
It was a topography, a dialect, a code
as familiar as our parents
or our national tongue
gleaned from Television, old movies