Conor Ryan is a part time writer and poet from Tipperary. He is a BSc graduate of The National University of Ireland Galway. He caught the poetry bug whilst browsing the University library’s English section and is currently compiling his body of work. When he’s not scribbling ideas onto acres of paper, he’s deafening neighbours with his guitar rattling.
Three poems by Conor Ryan
The Ballad Of (Eyre Square)
The air is fair, amidst the Square
Of Eyre where birds unshackled from their
Greysome chains of stone & steel
Do sing a song of sixpence; gin
And tonic for the office clerk
For whom all sides be boxed within
Until his lunch hour allows him then
To sit on grass
(and graze)
The Lady of the Square is fair,
All walks of life are welcomed while
Poetic pensioned punks of yang
Cross dirty dancing drunks of yin
And all will find a bench within
To place their weary bums
(upon)
Looking from the Doorway Brownes
Williams Gate is seen uptown
Victoria Place runs down around
To the Docks and drowns in sound
Of water lapping out
(and in)
And where romance is sought there is no place
In Galway to make better chase
For much true love, it can appear
By sitting and just listening there
Where graceful damsels gather in
And knights strive to, compete and win
(Or kick and throw a ball about)
So when life does feel like some old sock
Threadbare with holes chewed by your moth
Switch off your TV brain and come
Where walks of life; all merry in
Of one accord; Involvement on
(Eyre Square)
Clockwork splash
The minutes drip like Irish rain
Drip tick-tock against the pane
Chiming drops against the glass
Hourglass lifetimes flooding past
Stream of cycles, ebb and flow
Clouds of time now undertow
Autumn River, life’s refrain
A life, a drop of ocean spray
A Winter’s Itch
A tickly itch that urge I scratch,
Beckons me from lower back.
I pay no heed and carry through,
Divert all thoughts to work and you.
Yet little itch it stubborn held,
‘Til my hand inadvertence led,
To the spot of steam and prick,
And clawed at itch like raking stick.
O little itch, O little itch,
Thou are such, a brazen bitch!
A scratchy urge I no resist,
A tickly feather in my midst.
O little itch, why you torment,
What done I to warrant this?
Greater men than I exist,
I humbly modest, yet you persist!
Oh Winter itch of fiery sort,
Thou are as welcome as a hog.
A yearly visit to myself,
Formalities are but all dispensed.
With scratch and itch and rub and paw,
Thou have reduced me to a dog.
A sorry hound of pines and paws
But one that cannot lick his balls :-(
But little itch please quantify,
Will scratch suffice and satisfy?
Or will thy breed and multiply,
‘Til I but weep and moan and cry.
Oh scratch me itch but from your slate
Torment some other dry-skinned slave
And I, dear itch will write to thee
From lands of great humidity.
The Galway Review 