Old Woman Blues Et Al (Terzarima Pamphlet) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Old Woman Blues Et Al (Terzarima Pamphlet)



There is no east nor west for me
Nor north nor south no more
For I am old as old can be
Drawn closer to Death's door

When I was knee-high to a wren
The sun would shine all day
And through my grandsire's cornfields
I'd chase the birds in play

I'd make a crown of violets
And string them on my brow
Where, now the lines of weariness
Sit, carved by Age's plough


Nose
There was a daft nose left its face
Ran off in search of smells
Like baking bread and fresh cut hay
Wild mint and Scots harebells

A wiser nose reclaimed its place
Climbed up and went ‘Atchoo'
A nose without a face you know's
A face without a view

Citizens of the Glen
I am the salmon from Glen Dye
Silver and young, my life is water

I am the owl with the turning eye
I am the moon and midnight's daughter

I am the toad who croaks in the bog
I am a creaking pouch of troubles
Blink and you'll miss me. All you'll see
Is a shining trail and a froth of bubbles

I am the stag with the branching head
King of the rut and the mountain passes
Timid my wives are, easy led
Up to the heath and the moorland grasses

I am the wind that strums the trees
Harping the leaves to make them chatter
Bending the hare's ears in his form
Making him leap as mad's a hatter

I am the glen where the clouds sail through
Never we'll part. I live inside you.


The Rain's Timetable
At 6am I was a cloud on Beinn a' Bhuird
At 7am I drifted over Balmoral
By 8am I'd grown to a thunderstorm
A drenching of Biblical proportions

By teatime I was on the news
‘Rain swells rivers, floods villages, warps historic bridges'

I was only doing what comes naturally,
Rinsing out the glens to freshen them up

Train to Forres, March 2016
Stones have gathered moss in the gaps between cold trees
Pylons are strung like fiddles playing the wind's music
A storm-felled oak snags the clouds on its skeleton
The train is a high speed trip where travellers fidget
Locked down into gadgets, magnets of their souls

Pheasant à la mode
A pheasant sashays like a Bollywood starlet
Snowdrops bend meditative heads towards the earth

Ag seinn ceoil do phócaí folamh/ Playing Music to Empty Pockets
Created in 1989 by sculptor Ronan Gillespie, the statue of Yeats was erected outside the Ulster Bank at the corner of Stephen Street and Markievicz Road (across the Garavogue River from the equally striking Glasshouse Hotel) on the 50th anniversary of the poet's death. Among other reasons for this location was Yeats' remark on receiving his Noble Prize that the Royal Palace in Stockholm resembled the Ulster Bank in Sligo.

The statue of Yeats appears to be wearing wings
His clothes are a weave of words, his songs are silent
Tread softly, he's playing music to empty pockets
And who has broken the glasses of Sligo's darling?

Tobernalt
If you step in by Tobernalt
July, on Sunday last
You'll see them bringing garlands there
As folks did in the past
Lughanasa's the pagan feast
The Catholic Garland day
In tinkling burn and ferny moss
Forgotten spirits stray

And whether you believe in it
The healing of the well
It sings down from the woodland side
As clear's a fairy bell


A Pushkin Stanza/ Irish Journey
We drove past miles of peat bog brown as teak
No living creature stirred a wing or hoof
The rough Atlantic Ocean tried to seek
Inroads, where not one cottage wore a roof
It seemed that centuries came here to die
Beneath that Druid canopy of sky

Sorrowful, with brimming teats of rain
Peat water drained like dark blood from a vein
Bogland's a door to darkness, deep divining
Did trees take flight, like children turned to swans?

Nebulous clouds fray thin as worn plaids
Two bars of sun shone down like Bridgit's braids.


A Wednesday Poem
On Wednesday a cross-eyed boy
Ate a candy floss cloud

On Wednesday the hole
In the ozone layer, smelt of azaleas

On Wednesday a grandmother permed
Her bald head turquoise

On Wednesday a mouse shit
In a widow's jewel box

On Wednesday twenty buns unsold in Wexford
Miraculously resurrected as bread puddings


Ferry from Rosythe-Larne
The Irish sea is Emerald Green
Shot through with silver nets
Of waves that catched the startled spray
Drowned moonbeams and sunsets

And clouds of mother of pearl drift by
Where dove-grey heavens spread
Like drying wings of cherubim
Awaiting the newly dead


The Wit of the Irish (Irish Proverbs & Sayings)
May you have food and raiment,
A soft pillow for your head.
May you be forty years in heaven
Before the devil knows you're dead.

If you want praise, die.
If you want blame, marry.

Here's to a long life and a merry one.
A quick death and an easy one.
A pretty girl and an honest one.
A cold pint and another one!

You've got to do your own growing,
No matter how tall your father was.

It is often that a person's mouth broke his nose.
It's easy to halve the potato where there's love.

Here's to me, and here's to you.
And here's to love and laughter.
I'll be true as long as you.
And not one moment after.

Where the tongue slips, it speaks the truth.
A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures.

May the roof above you never fall in,
And those gathered beneath it never fall out.

If it's drowning you're after,
Don't torment yourself with shallow water.

May misfortune follow you the rest of your life,
And never catch up.
Lose an hour in the morning
And you'll be looking for it all day.

Honey is sweet, but don't lick it off a briar.
If you buy what you don't need
You might have to sell what you do.

Forgetting a debt doesn't mean it's paid.
Lie down with dogs and you'll rise with fleas.
You'll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success