Martin Swords

Martin Swords Poems

Overcast but warm,
The day dry, unusually.
Walking the woods with the dogs
As many times before.

I know Bob Dylan well.
Grew up with him,

Breakfasts were special.
Two plates.
Two eggs.

A fractured home
A distanced heartache

A chopstick, an empty cup

by Martin Swords

He had only one more gift to give,
the manner of his going.
He had only one short life to live,
and only now was knowing

On back a bedroom door
A hook, a cap, untouched
This many year. The head
That wore it laughing

It’s an Artificial Paradise
Here in the Vale Da Plenty

I saw myself on T.V.
I think. In black & white
on channel four, tonight.
My Doppelganger from 1938.

Now is the golden browning of the year,
early dusky evenings, and the quiet.
A time of listless leaves and branches,
a settling, and a dignity of dying.

Time was an orange
in a stocking was a treat.
Or maybe a banana.
Now it’s Star Fruits, Uglies

Despised Crow
Who loves you
But another Crow.
Blessed with ugly grace,

I am a Nearly Man,
At least that’s what you think
My bent back
Or withered leg,

November 4th 2008
United States Presidential Elections



As I came over Wicklow Gap
All on a summer’s day
A sight I met which held me trapped
And took my breath away

god you’re ugly
and yet to another insect…..
who am i to feel superior
you’re good at what you do

What is this magic you do?
Taming the fire
Bending the earth
Making beauty from brute strength

Christmas, I remember,
Was the only time the fire was lit all day.
Da lit it real early with twists of the Evening Press,
Bits of broken wood, and coal brought from the

Who is She
She is The Fairy Woman
She says my name
She speaks with her eyes

Martin Swords Biography

Welcome. 'Fáilte'- from yet another Irish Poet. My Blog Writers Group YouTube Martin Swords Wicklow Writers Member of Wicklow Writers Group. Background in Design and Communications. Writing Poetry since 1990)

The Best Poem Of Martin Swords

A Walk In The Woods With Robert Frost

Overcast but warm,
The day dry, unusually.
Walking the woods with the dogs
As many times before.
Lucy and Tig, away in the rough dark deep,
Yipping with the scent of deer, excited.
Ruby, river scrambling, biting
At the bogwater, wagging, from the shoulders back

Along the old familiar track, into
The clearing where the roads diverge.
I stopped and stood. Which way to go?
Think of another Poet, and roads not taken.
Yes, I’ve been here before. This way I came.
That way I saw a squirrel once.
And down that way a badger
Straight on, the Mill Pond where ducks dabble.
Behind me then a stag, stares my way, and
Startled, slips into the wood.
I think again of Robert Frost and look a different way.
I stand a while. I turn, retrace my steps, recall, relive,
I’ll write this down, and this will be
The road I’ve taken.

Martin Swords Comments

Martin Swords 30 May 2007

Nostalgia ain't what it used to be Writing Poetry is like standing naked with your thoughts exposed

1 0 Reply
Martin Swords 28 May 2007

It's nice to find yourself. Anywhere.

0 1 Reply

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