Martin Swords

Rookie (9th December Nineteen Fifty / Tiglin, Wicklow, Ireland)

Martin Swords Poems

41. One Day In Mind 8/16/2007
42. Still Dark 5/24/2010
43. This Is The Place 10/29/2007
44. Down Among The Drunkies 8/28/2008
45. As I Came Over Wicklow Gap 7/2/2009
46. To An Insect On A Windowsill 8/7/2009
47. Joyful And Triumphant 1/5/2008
48. The Fairy Woman 7/21/2007
49. Starborn 7/4/2007
50. Plastic Daffodils 3/12/2009
51. The Smith 4/7/2009
52. A Poppy Season 9/1/2007
53. A Pheasant Calls 10/22/2007
54. Circle 8/28/2008
55. A Tree Has Fallen 9/21/2008
56. I Stood In Line 11/5/2008
57. The Nearly Man 10/7/2008
58. Time Was An Orange 10/3/2008
59. Autumnal 9/26/2008
60. To A Crow 7/2/2007
61. Doppelganger 6/16/2007
62. Artificial Paradise 9/20/2008
63. The Late Gift 8/23/2008
64. 'Bookmark' 9/24/2008
65. All The Boys 8/23/2008
66. A Bowl Of Rice Always 5/22/2009
67. Breakfast For One 8/23/2008
68. Bob Dylan, And Me. 7/9/2007
69. A Walk In The Woods With Robert Frost 7/11/2007

Comments about Martin Swords

  • Martin Swords (5/30/2007 8:50:00 AM)

    Nostalgia ain't what it used to be

    Writing Poetry is like standing naked with your thoughts exposed

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  • Martin Swords (5/28/2007 1:47:00 PM)

    It's nice to find yourself. Anywhere.

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 ...

Read the full of A Walk In The Woods With Robert Frost

To A Crow

Despised Crow
Who loves you
But another Crow.
Blessed with ugly grace,
And coal scuttle call.
Strut like funeral folk
In suit of mourning,
Condemned to deal in death.
We cannot all be peacocks

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