Passers-by on this Bridge of your charity Forget that my least sin was my vulgarity, For underneath the motley I affected A nasty piece of goods might be detected.
MS Poems
Untitled (No, I will never speak in the third person)
No, I will never speak in the third person About my failure to take my chances - And sometimes I feel I've about had it, arsing Around among the ever-rising antes Small-time auctioneers stand nattily Up at the gleaming bar holding on to a gin Policemen's sons who've made it glance round at me Penny pricing the duds I'm standing in They cannot see my mind gyrating wittily Compassionate me gagging my laughter's sin But they have the last word - the scarlet Jag House in Foxrock and wife and kids My only home is in a poetry mag And hell!
Poem For Five Friends
O my Five Friends whom I won out of the indifferent Crowds rushing to their appointed stations It is autumning again over my Pembrokeshire And I need more than ever the consolations Of those who care like prayer; with easy eyes Smoothe down the jittery nerves; with unselfish ears Deliver a friend's message into time Give him hope and home and family ties What never he did have through all his years O my Five Friends pray with me to the end of the rhyme And I will in your name absorb The poignancy of the yellow leaves coming down again And I who thought that before now I would disturb The relentless cycle of my character And live beautifully as God promised me Walk down Pembroke Road alone Still dragging on his cursed predestined chain O my Five friends O my Five Friends Thank you ever so much for all you've done.
Untitled (His conscience asked him : Are you wise)
His conscience asked him: Are you wise Have you had experiences That make it essential you write or speak?
Untitled (The Fallen Angels left all there)
The Fallen Angels left all there And hid from God under the laurels Till the trouble passed; the war over.
Untitled (In the woods there lived a cat)
In the woods there lived a cat White as snow and very fat He live[d] on robins, larks.
In Memory of My Mother
(Died November 15.1945)
By Patrick Kavanagh.
You will have the road gate open, the front door ajar
The kettle boiling and a table set
By the window looking out at the sycamores -
And your loving heart lying in wait.
Untitled (Little snail, run, run)
Little snail run, run Into those weeds or under that stone For the blackbird has stopped Has stopped, Has stopped His singing and hopped Down the stairs of the trees And one eye has popped Like a doll's glass eye - Is it a snail or a pebble he sees?
Untitled (Ride him. Are these boys and girls)
Ride him. Are these boys and girls Swine unworthy of your pearls? I wondered and I pondered long Made for these poor folk a song Rhymed the racing page of papers Copied all the jazzy capers Degraded my soul.
Untitled (Can a man grow from the dead clod of failure)
Can a man grow from the dead clod of failure Some consoling flower Something humble as a dandelion or a daisy Something to wear as a buttonhole in Heaven.