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.

[W.k.kortas]

Cinematic and very Black 47-esque. The imagery is wonderfully vivid, and the writing flows exceptionally well. Just a marvelous piece of work.

[Gandré]

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.

[Yira Simone]

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

[Kevin Connolly]

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 homeland�s North.
�They�re hanging men and women
for the wearing of the green.�
�Then since the colour we must wear
is England�s cruel red,� you lamented,
�sure Ireland�s songs we�ll ne�er 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.

[V. Lucien Maier]

good detail, you bring the reader into the environment well. good write

[Tawny O'hara]

Very vivid picture you paint.
Beautifully done, I'm no poet but I loved the ambiance you create with this piece.
Slainte

[Vanessa Whiteley]

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 homeland�s North.

�They�re 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 England�s cruel red,� you lamented,
�sure Ireland�s songs we�ll ne�er 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?'

You should get this published its brilliant.

[Donald Meikle]

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?