The grey stone gable
Is the last vestige
Of the cottage on the headland.
Nettles grow thick
At its lichen-covered feet.
It faces west
Toward the sunset,
Toward America.
FACING WEST
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Tag Archives: poetry
BOG OAK
The oak root
Stopped me in my tracks,
Rearing out of the bog,
A creature of fantasy.
Sentry from a long gone forest
Mowed down by ice-age
And time,
Buried under eons of sphagnum moss
Rush and sedge,
Silt from mountain streams—
sandstone, granite, the odd fleck of gold.
All these and more swaddled its limbs,
Blocking out oxygen
Bathing it in tannic acid,
Preserving it:
Six-limbed,
One-eyed,
Bog monster.
Maumtrasna Mountains, Co. Mayo. Ireland
SPRINKLER
Glistening body
Leaping through rainbows
Squeals of laughter
Pure joy
TO CAREFULLY CARRY WITH ME
I want to carefully carry with me—
This basket
Of precious eggs.
Every one has its own space
In my heart.
But sometimes
I worry
That my attention
Will slip,
I won’t give each
The time it deserves
To turn and caress
And be mindful of,
That I will jostle the basket
And let one slip.
I want to swaddle them
With soft grass and feathers,
Turn them in the direction of the sun,
Breathe love and understanding
Into their souls.
Hover over them,
Keep them safe.
But like the hen
Who leaves the nest
To stretch her legs
And scratch for worms,
Knowing there is always
The possibility of the sneaking weasel,
I too must learn to let go.
HAMMOCK
My foot rock, rock, rocking
Mimics the lift and drop of waves.
Breeze in the walnut leaves
Sounds like the hiss of surf,
And a car passing on the road—
Wind in the rigging.
Where is the keening of gulls
Tumbling through the salt air?
Replaced by a cricket in the stone wall
And a bullfrog over the road in the pond.
Sudden screech of blue jays
Sounds a false note,
Arresting my downward spiral.
A drama fit for a king plays out.
Ten seconds and the act is done.
Attack, plunder, infanticide,
Feathers.
Distraught phoebe’s screech
At the sight of their nest
Dislodged from the eaves.
My head sinks back down,
Eyelids grow heavy again.
Dip, dip, dip.
Consciousness hovers like the yellow
Swallowtail over the dame’s rocket.
Swing gently into sleep.
BRING ON THE SUGAR
It’s a tough time of year for me as a writer. Yes, I have spring writer’s fever and I’m itching to explore new projects, and eager to finish revisions. But I have one big problem. My brain needs sugar! Like the hummingbird who flits from flower to flower to satiate his unending need for nectar–they consume half their body weight in sugar each day– I too need to feed the receptor in my brain that’s drawn to nature. Here are a few of the things that keep me from putting my butt in my seat on an hourly basis.
My garden is constantly beckoning through the window.
And then there’s the woodland and the hedgerows . . .
And the wildlife . . .
What’s a writer to do, except–
- Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
–Robert Herrick (17th century) 
MOVING WATER
Put me by
Moving water
When I’m old.
A lake, a sea, a stream—
any wet thing.
So long as I can watch
Light-play on the surface,
The membrane dappled by wind,
Hear the glug and gurgle of water pockets
slapping the hulls of moored boats,
And smell the tang of moisture in the air,
I will be happy.
CHILDHOOD WALK
Early sunlight seeping around the curtains.
Blackbird singing. Day beckoning.
Slip out of sleeping house.
Shimmering jewels of dew on the grass.
Wet ankles.
Air fragrant with spring.
Pass the Hawthorn tree dropping damp blossoms on the lawn.
Discover pale yellow primroses on the bank by the river.
Inhale sweet, honey scent.
Inspect the hollow in the willow—cushions of moss for fairies to dance on.
Watch small brown trout in the shallows.
Climb up through the woods.
Soft pine needles underfoot.
Breeze sowing in the tops of the trees.
Tip-toe into the wild garden.
Peonies buried in a tangle of long grass.
Irises blooming through clumps of stinging nettles.
Startle a heron at the overgrown pond.
Poke amongst the duckweed for fat, black tadpoles.
Jump and jump to snatch a branch off the cherry tree,
Laden with heavy pink flowers.
Add it to the posy of violets and primroses.
Home in time for breakfast.
A GREEN FOOL
When you think of 20th century Irish poets who embody the notion of rural Ireland, Seamus Heaney is probably the first name that comes to mind. Granted, he was a marvelous poet who deserves his acclaim, yet there are others.
Patrick Kavanagh was one such poet. The fourth of ten children, he was raised on a small farm in Co. Monaghan. He left school at 13 to apprentice to his father, a shoemaker, and to work on the farm.
To say he was a conflicted poet is to put it lightly. His poetry was born out of the stony grey soil of Monaghan. He managed to capture the rural life in its bare-bones beauty, while at the same time railing against it. He escaped to Dublin when he was twenty-eight, and for a self-proclaimed peasant, he went a long way to expand his horizons. I suspect he was not always a pleasant fella to be around—hard drinking, belligerent, with a huge chip on his shoulder. But it is the poetry that counts.
At the age of fifty, he had a lung removed to stave off cancer. Convalescing, he would sit on the banks of the Grand Canal that runs through Dublin. And it is here that he seems to have finally come to some kind of peace with the rural landscape that he was so deeply rooted in.
CANAL BANK WALK
Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal
Pouring redemption for me, that I do
The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal,
Grow with nature again as before I grew.
The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third
Party to the couple kissing on an old seat,
And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word
Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat.
O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web
Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech,
Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib
To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech
For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven
From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.
DREAM OF DROWNING (Trust)
I dreamed so vividly I felt it in every fiber of my body when I awoke.
To say that dream haunts me Would be an overstatement.
But it lives in a safe, quiet spot in my mind— A dream of drowning.
The preambles have receded with time, But the moment of letting go, Of relinquishing my hold, of opening my fists And allowing seawater To flow through my fingers, Of sinking softly Was sweet.
The ultimate letting go.
Melissa Shaw-Smith 