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Posts Tagged ‘Ireland’

030620JuneIrelandORIG (10)

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

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #POEM:Senses  #Poem  #Ireland  #Romance  #Love  #ExploringPossibilities #HiddenCapacity  #Poetry  #Touch  #Sight  #Sound  #Smells  #Sensory  #SketchingInIreland  #WAWriter

 

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F1010007

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

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #POEM:TheFolly  #SketchingInIreland  #Poems   #Co.Cork  #Ireland

 

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KinsaleRoundabout

“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

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #Beggorathon2015    #Ireland  #TheMagicRoundabout

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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

 

 @FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #Begorathon2015  #Ireland  #WarPoems  #Poems

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Midleton McDaid's DS

(I’m a Folk music follower from way back and established the  Wanneroo Folk Club  in Perth’s northern suburbs in 1985. )

McDaid’s Pub, Midleton, Co Cork is very well known for it’s regular Folk performances.  I lived there for 14 months and t’was lovely to discover a thriving Midleton Folk Club a short walk down the road.

This is a beautiful version of “Passage West” recorded at the club and performed by Caroline Fraher who can also be seen doing a duet with Josh Groban on her web page.

We enjoyed the informal, crowded, traditional music venue’s atmosphere.  Having to sit on the floor didn’t faze us at all – I was soaking it all up, until this…

 

McDaid’s Folk Club

 

We carefully stepped through the seated crowd,

she smiled in surprised delight

and pulled you down

to whisper invitingly.

 

I watched the young guitarist finger-pick,

thought about her possessive

hand placed on your

willing arm and felt sick.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #Begorrathon2015  #FolkClubs  #McDaidsMidleton  #MidletonFolkClub   #Ireland  #MidletonCoCork   #Poems

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F1000022 (2)

Clonikilty, West Cork, Ireland. 2003.

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde   #Begorrathon2015   #Clonikilty  #WestCork  #Ireland  #FordMotorCar  #FordPub

 

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F1000022

Forde’s Pub, Cork, Ireland, 2003.

 

Whilst my man wooed me, I joined the original Middleton Writers group (now defunct) who welcomed me with open arms.

Also joined Munster Literature Centre and never missed a Wednesday workshop hosted by Cork/Irish literati.

The appropriately (for me) named Forde Pub, was our usual lunch break venue.

 

Epitaph for Gregory O’Donoghue

 

Seasoned, some will remember boozy lunches,

Tuna sandwiches peppered with slurred words

plated on sliced lettuce arranged ‘just so’…

Guinness frothed and creamy with subtext.

 

An Irish summer warm with purpose shared

eloquently with a visiting Australian at exclusive

Wednesday morning workshops obstinately

overseen each week, by a recalcitrant at MLC.

 

Since his silence, reverence is a poetry prize

keeping his name associated with his life love.

His canon forever in the library and his portrait,

eyeing the new wave with his silent critiques.

 

This writer will remember clever poetic reviews,

evaluating layers of old knowledge like a river

flowing effortlessly from the master to his student

and inspiration needing a break, at Forde’s Pub.

 

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2013

#FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #begorrathon2015  #MunsterLiteratureCentre  #Co.Cork  #IrishPoems  #GregO’Donoghue  #Epitaph  #Begorrathon  #IrishMonth  #MiddletonWritersGroup

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0304W03IrishYellow

Roadside E30, Co.Cork, Ireland.

 

Fetal naked at fifty.

I’ve followed signs to Yield in Ireland

when I’m used to an Aussie Give Way

 

I put on red lipstick, tell you stories

of Africa when we were both young

and watch my words seduce you again.

 

You remember young Chianti;

full and round, ruby red, peppered

with berries.  I remember

a Hotel in Kitwe – Blue Nun. 

 

You say your taste has matured,

you now prefer an Aussie Shiraz;

sharp, punchy, still youthful

– allowed to ripen with time.

 

I imprint your palate with my being

so no other will satisfy – am absolutely

involved in strong pulsing waves.

 

You suddenly stop

and fold my legs over

so I lay fetal naked at fifty…  

 

you lean forward to whisper

my tongue is sweet.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003 

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #TheBegorrathon  #POEM:FetalNakedAtFifty  #Ireland  #poetry  #romance  #SketchingInIreland

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F1000021

Cork City, 2003.

Irish Month

@FrancesMForde  #TheBegorrathon  #CorkCity  #IrishPubs

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Midleton McDaid's 2 DS

McDaid’s Folk Club

We carefully stepped through

the seated crowd, she smiled

in surprised delight and

pulled you down

to whisper invitingly.

 

I watched the young guitarist finger-pick,

thought about her possessive

hand placed on

your willing arm

and felt sick.

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

@FrancesMForde  #McDaidsFolkClub  #Midleton,Cork  #Ireland  #Love  #Jealousy

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Stephen Page

Author: The Salty River Bleeds, The Timbre of Sand, Still Dandelions, A Ranch Bordering the Salty River. Alum: Palomar College, Columbia University, Bennington College. Follow on twitter @SmpageSteve on Instagram @smpagemoria on Facebook @steven.page.1481

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