Poetic Sounds

1974: When we were young…

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Swimming with Salmon…

My friend Jessie Lendennie, the founder (31 years ago) and editor of Salmon Poetry – Ireland’s premier poetry press:

 

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Numero Uno

 

Numero Uno

 

Do you think

those who

always insist

on entering first,

 

ever open doors

for others,

offer help when

it isn’t needed

 

or look back ~

except to bask

in their own

reflection?

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2002

 

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Senses

Senses

hear

tender words
questions answers
your current reality

see

furtive glance
visual dance
clever hands and fingers

touch

tentative press
to shy flesh
still clothed in other loves

smell

breathe you in
where’ve you been
through all my loves and life

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2007

From my book “Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey” published in Cork, Ireland, 2003

 

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POEM: The Folly

 

Co.Cork.  Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

The Folly    

Gaeltacht – Irish-speaking area.

Teanga – living language, tongue.

 

My Gaeltacht friend explained  ‘Ye should go t’ see the folly…’

So, like tourists, my man and I actually took a clear-day,

no rain so far drive. A determined scenic dalliance

in sunny  sections flashing green and historical grey.

 

Eventually – with no clear direction, journeying

quite far out of our way…  we appreciated the Anglo

interpretation on the road signs, because as foreigners,

we don’t speak the traditional language of Ireland.

 

Not wanting to barstardise or pronounce phonetically

in error, ‘so’.  We enjoyed the lilt and musicality of her

tumbled, seemingly conscientious explanation – story-

telling at a 100 miles an hour.  ‘Ah well  ye know, ta

 

get t’da place dat ‘tis, you just go along dis

road, don’t ye know, ‘tis a sort of a wind-y road, den

up t’ hill, don’t ye know and dere’ll be a turn off t’

da right – de left would it be, no, ‘tis definitely

 

da right…  but don’t you be going dat way, d’ye know

‘cos dat’ll get ye into all sorts a troubles, sure

t’ will and all…’  Pictograms pointing to a past not

forgotten although many have tried to suppress their

 

uniqueness… The soft emphasis or not.  A language

echoed through 400 years… the charming emotional

push of Ireland.  ‘So’, we go on death-defying strips

of beaten earth, slicing through fields, carelessly carving

 

up gently rising hills dotted with dwellings, puffing

grey smoke evidencing crisp cold air, we journeyed

on by-ways bordered by stones. Intrusion bands – neatly

trimmed piles of manual labour carefully selected and placed

 

one on top of the measured other… in spite of  wars and cars,

surviving like the teanga, rebelliously, resolutely, knowingly

employed at home in private, upright and proud though sagging

in some areas, often bent by forces who moved on and forgot.

 

Those walls still exist in places – repaired now, to allow

journey. Showing a path around a sparkling gem waiting…

We chanced intrusion of some one’s private personal space,

a rutted homely driveway – questions of culture, seeking

 

an un-shy, proud demonstration of Celtic heritage. We

wanted a clearer vision of soulful insistence – difference.

A sculptural acknowledgment, including the heroic past,

clear evidence of resistance – of residence.  The Folly!

 

 Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

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Begorrathon2015: Rush Hour Waltz

“The Magic Roundabout”

 

Rush Hour Waltz

 

Blackbirds wheel

In evening skies

above Kindale’s

signalized

roundabout,

 

mimicking

warmed metal

motors idling

in similar circles

below.

 

Are they

as confused

about how

to get home

as we are?

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

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Begorathon2015: War Poem

 

Baghdad Ballet                                                                     

(March, 2003)

A young boy sits, on his mother’s shoulders,

smile-excited in the sunshine,  taking part in a parade.

He proudly thrusts the finger-sign of peace.

 

Nice to see in an Iraqi child – family

bombardered by ‘Shock and Awe’ the night before,

forgiving.

 

But the visual is blitzed as it flashes onscreen,

by the plastic Sten gun held aloft,

background-brandished in the child’s other hand.

 

Do you think the young lad plays

in secret tunnels, knows where to hide,

where doubles walk to keep the myth alive,

 

the magic tricks to keep awake illusions

of a still-controlled-city.

Streetlights burn in defiance of invaders largesse.

Traffic moves through the night

while bright glows explode in distant thunder

 

and shower shrapnel as

we sit on green comfy sofas,

presumed warm and safe inside,

miles away watching the performance

 

on TV young Liam wears red and white,

holds his defiant hurly high – a warrior

enjoying the sunshine day parade

– a protest for peace in Shannon.

 

 Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

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