Little Ireland, Liverpool, 1989

There where limestone levees               

swept flotsam into squalid streets

and old men stacked cargo,                  

 

like years, against the wind, 

you stood,  fifteen-years-old,
out of school and out of luck,

 

your ragged top strung across pectorals
that were solid as crates,
holding this imploding world
but carrying me, your cousin, also.

The cathedral’s bells tolled noon

as the Belfast ferry’s red lights

scintillated across sand. 

 

You raised your voice.

They’re hanging men and women
for the wearing of the green.

 

Protective, I massaged your neck,
the muscle stiffened by fierce labour.

 I feared our past. This was the Eighties -

 

you reclaimed that isle our ancestors left.     

Then since the colour we must wear

is England’s cruel red, you lamented,
sure Ireland’s songs we’ll ne’er forget.

Suddenly men; twice, thrice, your age

sang in chorus, in crescendo,
ungainly as penguins on the picket line,
they sang and sang and gave the world what for.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Cope Hayden]

Beautiful, its all I can say and care to comment. People dont generally gain praise from my side of the table. The whole piece was put together with a flare of uncanny wit. I am not just painting compliments together I am speaking the truth. And I have commented more than I would have liked to. lol.

[Siddhartha]

Oh, I love this poem 'cause like other poems it shows me different facets of the country that I have always wanted to visit and will definitely do so someday.However after going through your work, more than the country itself(beautiful though it is) I am enthralled by the resilience and strength of the people who inhabit it.

[Phibby Venable]

incredible work!

[Emily B]

It is just as beautiful and strong as the last time I came by it . . .

sometimes it is good to re-visit old favorites.

[Emily B]

I've missed your words. I never seem to have time to read what I want always those obligatory things. Today is my day. And here I am.

[__Flaw__]

I can see the glare of those eyes when he spoke...
'sure Ireland's songs we'll ne'er forget'
Patriotic perhaps, perhaps it's that old age immagination, or maybe it was the political sphere of the poem where the theme revolved, whatever it was, this one truly holds out loud that u can definitely write on any topic...gracefully :))))
Welldone Sel.... :)

[Pema Dorje]

A poetical percept of a political moment with all that dialect and savvy of that time implicit ... this piece brought the times sung to my ears ... a lovely portrait!

[Blackbirdsong]

Your writing is just so evocative, Shel. I've never been to Ireland, but I feel like I just visited it. This is just richly textured, luscious writing.

"There where limestone levees
swept fresh flotsam into squalid streets
and old men
stacked cargo,
like years,
against the wind."

I especially love "stacked cargo like years." Just in those four words I can see those world-weary men doing their work.

And then you create such a rich character of this young man -

"
You stood, fifteen-years-old,
out of school and out of luck.

Your ragged top strung
across pubescent pectorals
that were heavy and solid as crates,
akin to Atlas,
holding this imploding world
but carrying me,
your cousin, also."

"England's cruel red," I've never told your mother this, but I live near the only place in the US where there is a traffic light where the green is above the read. It's called "Tipperary Hill," and the residents - Irish of course - protested so much through the years - which included breaking the red lights on top - until finally the city and state said, "enough," and gave them their green above the red.

So for me that line has special significance.

I'm really enjoying discovering you as a writer. I'm glad you're mom suggested we meet.

take care :)

[Poeticpiers]

A poignant reminder of the sorrows Ireland has endured and remembered with bitter pride
The opening stanza is classic

[Ken Simm.]

I like the onamatopeic imagery here. 'pubescent pectorals' (what a lovely name for an Art school band) and penguins on the picket line. You are right there is empathy here and the dispossed should should stick together.
There is a feeling of lament and ages and that is good. I live near Liverpool now although I am what my wife calls woolyback, (from Leigh, Leyth, near Wigan) true Lancashire, Lanky. I also know and love Ireland very well. This is about more than just geographic places it is about what happens to communities when those in charge become faceless. That comes across very strongly. As does the use of double meanings like what for?