Three Poems From Erin's Isle Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1. Swans
Four swans transform into people,
Aodh, Fionnula Fiachra and Conn
Like molten rubber, stretching and writhing,
They droop like stalactites over the silent garden

Kissing swans touch beaks to form a heart
But these are struggling, swans, war weary. splintering
Reborn in a hard birthing of pain and troubles.

When a vision becomes real
It must bend its wings to the cage of mortal concerns
Hobble its feet to the ground
As Ireland has, with half an eye on myth
Still half in love with the mist
That bred its heroes.


2The Harp Declines to Comment
The harp bears the coat of arms of the O'Neills
It is the national symbol of Ireland,
Depicted on national heraldry,
Euro coins and Irish currency.
Its right-facing image is registered
As a trade mark for Guinness
The other Irish Icon

This marvel was made in Scotland
Circa the fourteenth century
Of willow and oak
Its strings are brass
It has a silver neck mount
Embedded with crystal
When played, it has the sound
Of bell and harpsichord, wedded to a guitar

It was coveted for cash by Joseph Brady
Ex-British soldier, one-time IRA
Who burgled it from its home in Trinity College
Wrenched it out of its case to trade in ransom

11 Garda cars, watched in the stake out
Money was dropped in a dustbin by Bull Wall
Refuse, the ransom note warned
And Ireland’s national treasure would be destroyed

One of the thieves was chased, drew a gun,
Thought better, threw it away. A man from Drimnagh
Pleaded guilty to hiding the goods

Two miles from Blessington,
The harp lay in a sand pit
Wrapped in black plastic, this wonder of wonders
Like some old piece of driftwood

The IRA chased Brady, shot him twice
Two years in prison, he spent
In fear of his life, a grass, an informer, a rogue

The harp itself, was restored to its virginal splendour
It made no comment to press on its ordeal
Despite being silver tongued
And having spoken to the hearts of kings


3.Brendan Behan
Through a sharp squall of rain
I spy the seated statue of Brendan Behan
Trees, grass, even the bronze tip of his nose
Drip water by the Royal Canal

A woman in town to buy her daughter’s trousseau
Ignores him, too intent
On hoisting aloft a brolly to keep her spoils dry

He has only a blackbird to brag to
It’s as deaf as is mute
That turbulent, roistering, witty, ebullient man
The auld triangle no longer jangles his day