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.
Truly a wonderful poem! What England has done to Ireland - is terrible, I always had a huge sympathy for Ireland! This is for me a classical english poem! Loved your rhyme, words, message! I want to see Ireland. You make me longing for it.. Great poem.
What a wonderful poem! I loved the way the older man joined in the song at the end as to show Ireland was still in thier blood till they die. I loved how the oldman recalling the past, was still visablly angry, he tnesed up, when he thought back on the injustice delt by England's hand. Beautiful imagery and wording. I think you gave just a taste of that time period, but you did a marvelous job doing so. Great work!-Catrina
Your ragged top strung
across pubescent pectorals
that were heavy and solid as crates,
akin to Atlas
You rose your voice,
bitter and gritty as Cheshire silt,
in flight like the kestrels
in our homelands North.
Theyre hanging men and women
for the wearing of the green.
Then since the colour we must wear
is Englands cruel red, you lamented,
sure Irelands songs well neer forget
ungainly as penguins on the picket line,
they sang and sang and gave the world 'what for?'
You write Irish poems/songs better than anybody in Ireland since Shane Magowan was at his peak, Sel. Ireland needs you! You'd make a fortune here, as the new female version of Phil Coulter.
Fantastic.
This is a wonderful poem. I like the contrast between youth and age and what an original way to describe the physical labour involved on the docks.
and old men
stacked cargo,
like years,
against the wind.
One can really imagine this young man, whose physique you tie into the scene
Your ragged top strung
across pubescent pectorals
that were heavy and solid as crates,
The close relationship between the cousin you connote in just a few words and the whole tough way of life there is a sense of futility in the task, almost slavery, There is, almost, a suggestion that its because he is Irish the cousin leaves school at fifteen and labour on the docks.
You stood, fifteen-years-old,
out of school and out of luck.
that he is predestined to this hard physical grind that was collapsing in on itself. While these men initially seem defeated by life there is resistance in the young man lifting his voice and his choice of song.
bitter and gritty as Cheshire silt,
in flight like the kestrels
in our homelands North.
Theyre hanging men and women
for the wearing of the green.
Suddenly we are in the troubles and all the sad history of Ireland is present when you write
This was the Eighties,
and you reclaimed that isle
our forefathers had forsaken.
Then since the colour we must wear
is Englands cruel red, you lamented,
sure Irelands songs well neer forget
And one, almost wants to lift up ones own voice and join in with them in that defiant last and wonderful stanza.
Suddenly men;
twice, thrice, your age sung in chorus,
in crescendo,
My favourite lines are the conclusion.
ungainly as penguins on the picket line,
they sang and sang and gave the world 'what for?'
Liverpool Irish doncha jus luvvem? Gram's maiden name? Alice Margaret Kelly and she had a sister Kitty.
The other half's Scot.
D'y' remember the dockers' umbrella?
Was it there then?