Paul Holland lives in Lisheenkyle, Oranmore, Co Galway. He qualified as a Science/Maths teacher, and spent the bulk of his career in the Presentation College, Galway. He has been to every continent, to the edge of space in a Mig and have stood on both poles. Written work, poems, articles and short stories, have appeared over the years in Connacht Tribune, Athenry News, Science, Finn Valley Voice, Education Matters, Cork Examiner and Ireland’s Own. Retired Feb 2012 and enjoy nothing better than going to GAA games in every corner of Ireland.
Burren Mount
The ghost that haunted
A room in that hotel was
One that was benign
The casual guest never
Noticed any presence in
The room she had hired
The ghost had more to
Fear, it was all alone
Hoping the door would open
And company for a while
Now there’s only silence
And it sees encroaching
Mildew on the ceiling
Rust on the bathroom taps
And the gentle curtains
Getting ever frailer from
Disuse and UV light
In Bsharre
Cedars of Lebanon
Tourist destination
Israelis cannot go
Survivors of a forest
Great and now just
A few lonely trees
Hunted like Hezbollah
Persecuted like the Jews
Witnesses of history if
They had eyes and ears
Lifeless in Gaza
The last lesson of his life
Was a practical demonstration
Of the Doppler effect, the
Whine to a seismic rumble
The last sounds he heard
Were of his neighbours, none
Of whom he knew personally
Heading back to base in
The early morning, haze slowly
Lifting on a day of no
Time left to see
Looking into Lebanon
They looked across the wire
Thought it would be wonderful
To have gangs of hooligans
Crossing for football games
To have queues, frustration
Tiresome custom checks
Complain of price differences
Of threats to local jobs
How they’d love to hate
Smugglers and suspect brands
To have a normal border
Its cracks and sticky hands
The grind
He wondered how she felt
As he droned Mathematics
Into her reluctant ear
That could not show
Expression. Her smile
Of bravery and submission
It was her sacrifice
For her parents, confused
Do this for their sins
It was her crucifixion
That short story
Did the writer know me
Long before I was born?
He was well past history
Before my parents met
Read his story as a child
And the ending shook me
Read it, saw another theme
When my romance had failed
Now, heading to retirement
The story has matured as well
Was this man a psychic
Or are we all the same?
The Galway Review 