This page is for creative contributions like poems and pictures
The top end of Bunbeg Harbour, Donegal
There the thatch is all fire and aglow
on the walls of midsummer kilned stone,
in the village that shelters the bare and the poor.
The mill stream cascading
where the children are playing,
by the oak trees that sleep in the dear Derramore.
The lavender walls are alive
with the fruit of the flower and beehive,
and peace is at home behind every front door.
There weavers are talking
and fair Rose is a walking,
by the oak trees that sleep in the dear Derramore.
No fighting or feuding can bring
discord within Gullionís Ring;
the district of songs stills the clamour of war.
Poets dream in the glen
beneath gloaming Creggan,
of the oak trees that sleep in the dear Derramore.
While the Camlough flows calmly nearby
with its lilting and low lullaby,
and not here do wild revellers roar.
Take your ease by the river,
there is rest here forever,
by the oak trees that sleep, down the long ages deep,
in the keeping of dear Derramore
The Unending Spire
Just next to a swathe of open land; a place that most Londoners
do not know the true significance of; opposite the Embankment;
a semi- circle of plague pits called "The Phoenix Crescent" or something like that-
perhaps in the hope that the hundreds of
nameless ones piled therein will have a better resurrection-
which, as I said, very few know- or care to remember;
there I stood, looking up, unable to comprehend the size of the spire that stands there.
I am not sure of its name, but, for the sake of those who have
not seen it, think of any of Van Goghís swirling masterpieces.
Looking upwards brings a true feeling of vertigo; the tower so
tall it seems impossible, as though it were about to fall on you
as you tilt and tilt your head back and totter on your heels.
It dwarfs Big Ben and Canary Wharf, the towers of
New York, and even that one in Montreal. Up it disappears
into wisps of cloud; heights where no man could breathe. A few pale
lights chime with the stars. The rest you just have to imagine. Honestly,
it is an incredible sight.
Boats at Oban (nothing to do with these poems)
Dossy September Friday. The phones are bored.
The talk turns to names- those weíre born with
and the more intimate, the sobriquets we gain.
Don Juan sat down and counted up to sixty.
Everyone confesses they have at least one, but
all lips are sealed. It appears that chocolate bars
will not prise out some secrets. I note that even
Fatty doesnít crack. Why am I surprised?
I keep mum too. Címon, letís get back to work.
And so they remain where we remember them;
on a pillow, waiting tenderly at the station,
tippexed from various books I was given.
Valentines in The Times: line upon line of loversí
unbreakable binary code. Whispered in throes
of pleasure, yelped in play. Sweet nothings we treasure.
They echo emotion, as a shell is haunted by the ocean.
And only she knows why, remembering seashells, Iíd flee
work to shelter under the weeping, wind-wounded trees.
And if you look over here,
this is one of the most famous
of scenes, lovingly presented in all its detail
by the artist. If you consider it more closely you will be
shocked by its graphic reality. Not difficult to imagine
that you are there as well. The blood is black
and thickens. The sun on that spear, reflecting in the glaze
of the eye. The sweat track in the dust. That fly.
Yes, well spotted.; that clot of hair on the round stone.
Fascinating. These days, however, critics often overlook
the significant figures in the scene.
No, not the mother. Well, to be honest, that particular soldier
is often remarked upon- you see that he is transfixed
upon the dice and the coins; absolute concentration-
utterly removed from his situation!
No. Open your eyes. You see the figure of the stooped old man?
Look harder. Bend lower. There. Interesting, isnít it?
His face like leather, creased in tears of anguish. Yes,
but for whom? No, what he is holding to his chest are not
childrenís shoes, although they bear some similarity.
Why is he alone not looking at the cross?
Ask yourself this question: what is he giving?
What has he lost?
Loz on the phone, Wales
Mobile phone from Finland,
watch: product of Japan.
Shades made in Estonia,
designed by an Italian.
Ma coupine est Algerienne,
come to learn my lingua.
Balti out of restaurant,
on futon (from IKEA).
Cup of tea, (from India)
or Coffee (grown in Ecuador)?
Pants by Prima Chichiís
of Milano and New York.
CD from Los Angeles,
sweet sherry: ex- Madrid.
Nothing from Great Britain
but true grit, grit, grit.
A wet day in Lamb Street
That Saturday, I left early in order to see
the new bookshop opened recently in town.
The day after Boxing Day, the sale on and panic
of pigeon scuttle and rain flecked , concentrated frowns.
I nearly passed, unnoticed, the nativity scene,
first seeing what I took to be a head case
fiddling with his coat zip, in front of a shop door.
Staring through the plate glass, while his oddly manic
fingers twitched at his throat. Eyes to the floor,
a smile that spoke of tranquillizers on his face.
Crossing himself- at a manger, painted star and statues.
Shepherds and wise men, marooned in a sea of straw,
all in the shop front, fixed in antic
postures where clothes or toys were ranged before;
next to the bakeryís snuffling, steaming queue.
No doubt a third rate retail spot,
formerly novelty gift-ware or the Salvation Army.
Not an ideal location or specially hand picked;
rather, loaned by the landlord in a type of charity.
A place that Christmas commerce almost forgot;
it seems to lack relevance. Very few slow
their bargain hunting to ponder what it means.
Impenetrable to some, and to the pedantic
quite clearly wrong: the figures white and clean.
A waste of space, then, this static dumb show?
No. There yet remains something approaching good
about this absence of anything to buy or sell-
and each distracted shopper, however frantic,
notes the difference, though they hide so well
their knowledge of the unseen, yet somehow understood.
(c) Laurence Cooper 2004
Whilst the office bustles away in the background, they
are doing torture practice at the Hotel Terminus.
Under the water in the ornate bathtub,
swallowing and suffocating; a man.
A random civilian, who ought to know something interesting.
Above him, the pole and hands in a grey fog.
His lungs are furnaces, muffled and blazing,
a ship foundering in a storm, turbines roaring, going down, fading.
Then winched up into the arms of the gestapo instructor,
his all but tender tutelage, his nightmare care.
Cradling his limp subject like a nurse,
kissing him back into consciousness,
trying to prise the information out of pallid lips.
Tell us where, who, how many goals did he score?
Heís whispering questions that cannot be answered.
Down he goes again. Air! Air! A semaphore of bubbles,
feet slip in panic on the unyielding ceramic. Finally he is hung up to die,
naked over the bathtub while the secretary types,
and people tell jokes,
and someone smokes and munches on a sandwich,
and someone else looks passively out of the window.
He carried our sorrows. It is not the Jews
alone, Lord Jesus, that had you crucified;
betraying you, dragging you to the court,
hating your guts, spitting in your face,
binding you, tattooing you with bruises.
Nor only the soldiers
who with their ready fists
raised the reed, lifted the hammer high,
fixed the cursed wood at the place of the skull
and squabbled, dicing for your coat.
It's me, my God, me who did this to you.
I am the heavy tree that bore you down,
the cord that cut you mercilessly. Me.
The nail and spear. The whip they slashed you with.
The crown of blood you wore upon your brow.
Oh, all this happened on account of my own sin.
Jacobus Revius (1586-1658) (translated from the dutch)
Tunnel to eternity (by Jason)
Out amongst the debris
On a hill of lonely fears
The powers of death and hatred
Brought screams of dread and tears
The anguished cry to Father
Seemed to fall at his feet
The witness of rejection
Upon his flesh, torn as meat
Yet unto his end he came
For sinful souls like me
To clothe me in a robe of gold
And bathe my weary feet
And on his day of triumph
When we hear the trumpet call
A gift of life eternal
In the Lamb's great banquet hall
Then ever more our praises
Unto Jesus we shall sing
And all our crowns to cast aside
In the presence of the King
Singing Jesus, Jesus
Great and mighty King
Our praise and adoration
For ever more shall ring
Yet for now a veil of sorrows
Passing through this darkened land
As children trusting Jesus
We hold the father's hand
AND FROM PIERS
When I was young
I thought to change the world
The big idea, the noble cause, heroic exploits
all with instant fame of course
Now my little life goes by
a whisper in all history
one leaf falling from the canopy
And I could pass my futile time
with pleasures, or maybe just survive
and browse through snaps of memories now gone
But, I have found a people
inconspicuous and few
and God is here unnoticed by camera crews
The kingdom infiltrates our lives
and drives out dark from hearts like mine
We lock ourselves to God, his church
at least to burn a little in our time.
Piers, cheerful eh?
A Severe Beauty
Why is it all like this?
Such a mixture, such a mess?
One man only answers and makes sense
Beauty is for the looking
truth for the hearing
if you will
Love will lance your poison
drain the darkness
like a dandelion clock still telling
in the teeth of a gale
This severe love is no sweet tale
Life and death donít play games
but love embraces all
with a driven heart like driven nails
Draw near, stretch out to hear
for only one thing matters
and all will be made clear
Clouds near Daventry
How does love sit there
as children cry in pain and fear?
How does love stand by
as people hurt and cruelly die?
How or why?
So love showed me his hands and side
and showed me how alone he died.
But how does love do nothing
when evil rules the day?
And why does love not intervene
when justice looks away?
How or why? I pray
So love became all sin to me
and justice executed him for all to see.
Love cut at the root of sin
to heal our hearts and make a way
for love to enter in.
Person on the bridge, Coventry
Is that hard enough?
Letís show what is the best
So said love
Invitations to a feast
make a world with beauty
and let it be infected
with evil to the core
And those who struggle
shall be subject to that fall
to sickness, fear and death
with toil to stay alive
Is that hard enough for love?
It must be
that only love survives.
But love died
It was not hard enough
to be a snowflake on a fire
or grace in a far gulag
for only love could die
and still rise
Barmouth from Cadr Idris
The whales do not need us
or the frozen mountains
The swiftsí careering games
the beetleís heedless eating
Regardless of the city
or our sorrows
Out of reach
to man who walks in space
The why, the key to suffering
a love that does not fade
The patient poor
the working mule
a child with a cat
a rolling storm, the rolling dice
the mask of death or angry eyes
So close at hand
the work of God
a curtain drawn
a turning round
Ice on the canal, Coventry
Ordinary shapeless people
Making ends meet
Carrying their thoughts
Down a dull street
Lord lighten our darkness
Lift us into life, a walk on a higher way with a hope of glory
Only Jesus came this low to rise
Near Bunbeg, Donegal with Errigal Mountain in the distance.
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