Keith Moynihan O' Brien
Biography of Keith Moynihan O' Brien
Keith started writing poetry at the age of 11 until he was 22. Predominantly seen through the prism of teenage life, his poetry dealt with the usual mix of love, questioning the self, emotion, and a gradual maturation.
His works went largely unnoticed until some were posted online by some people in the explosion of social networking in the early 2000s. Initially distancing himself from the earlier immature poetic style, he now accepts it as the beginning of an evolution of his worldview, and his place in it.
He still writes, but hasn't released his recent work to the public as yet; themes are mostly political, and about his experiences of emigration and travel..
Keith Moynihan O' Brien Poems
Gach Oíche Téim Amach
Every night I go, To a place where time runs slow. Where mist gathers over water's edge, And keep my solemn pledge.
Ode To Demeter's Daughter
They sprung unnoticed over-night, Bursting from the dry soil to crisp star-light, Caressed gently by the wind's slumbering breath And stirring to arousal those bound by death.
Conversation With The Self And The Other
Are you ever here my dear, Upon this earthly plane? I feel the need to laugh and read, Before I go insane.
I will sail across this wild ocean of emotion And nail my colours to the mast, Cry defiance to the storm As I chase her to the last.
There is a place not far from Yeats' Tower. No life grows there, no lively tune, nor poets power Has ever rang of this land. Yet here I may recall, In remembrance, Roscommon; land of the funeral pall.
Saturday Morning Solitude
This silence is pervasive. Frankly, its invasive. Assaulting my ears with solitude This clamor of nothing needs rectitude.
A Night For Dionysus
We laughed and danced, we were entranced, our hips were made of fire, and lips could never tire, our bones felt the beat; we turned and gave a partner greet, and sailed weaving ship to shore, and ignored the closing door.
Set the sun, Upon your brow. And thread your hair Through the discord.
Never place decision on the coin's spin, For fear of the answer it'll bring. Seeing Choice run deafened by the din, Fate smiles hearing the silver coin sing.
Reflection On Sexuality As A Poet
No man or woman am I, A poet open, Unto the fields and to the sky. If Wordsworth saw Dickenson on the sly,
Magicians are we, with sleight of hand and eye, Can turn the serious into the rye. Great jesters are we, who build on laughter an ivory tower And fool ourselves that the storm is but a shower.
I sought to give you the world that cold April night, But instead we ran past golden window light And into fields where dew climbed our legs lighter than Eros' fingers. Much like loves touch, the memory lingers
I was a hurricane resting with thunderous potential upon the door of Poseidon's realm, sending ripples of awakening
Beneath The Table
Some cats played between our legs that evening, Concerned as we pretended to be with the warm tendrils Of coffee and tea, that caressed the air between our breathing. The gentle insistent purring that we pay them heed, thrills
Magicians are we, with sleight of hand and eye,
Can turn the serious into the rye.
Great jesters are we, who build on laughter an ivory tower
And fool ourselves that the storm is but a shower.
We perform tricks that man can not yet explain!
Why hearts can vanish, and yet in the chest remain.
We create trapdoors for some dramatic exit,
And from shadow to darkness quietly flit;