Anne Irwin – Three Poems

anneIrwin Anne Irwin lives in Galway. In her youth she studied English Literature and Philosophy in U.C. Galway. She is a Homeopath and teacher, has three sons and six grandchildren. Now she loves to sit on her couch and muse on the meaning of life. She also loves cooking and having fun.

Distillery Road, Summer 1972

(Dedicated to Hack)

The river blows
a kaleidoscope of ideas,
wrapped in the music of
Led Zeppelin and pink Floyd
we talk, through the haze of night
until dawn rises over the old castle,
of Nietzsche, Gergiev, and oriental mysticism, Camus
of peace, freedom and awakening.

By day we live off the river
fish for perch and trout,
watch rainbows hover
on dragonfly wings,
follow moorhens and coots
to their nests in the rushes.
On the grassy patch
above the archway at the old mill house
we listen to Kristofferson and John Mayall
and breath in the summer

A Breton piper comes.
He bellows out across the river
stirring tribal spirits
to a backdrop of civil rights
and Bloody Sunday.

And the Guru Maharaja comes.
He radiates divine light from his ashram
in a council house in Mervue.
Students and the Shantalla lads,
hearing his call
lay down their weapons,
in afghan coats and headbands
sit barefoot at his feet.
Using their fierce reputations
spread peace throughout the city.


This Time he Passes By

On the north road to Spiddal
where sky pours cream
on the breast of the hills
above red winter bog
a black hearse skims past me,
casts a sideways glance.

I hadn’t seen it coming.
its cold eyed resolve,
its callous stare,
cling like ice.

Numb, I wait,
‘til grey hawk rises
from the sedge
into the crisp sky
the shrillness of his call
cuts through,
the frozen spirit threads
that bind me to the bog.


A Failed Rant

Starlings gather
on the rowan tree
shimmering greed on
the fat balls I left for the finches.
An orange wind blusters
beneath angry clouds
devouring the sunshine of yesterday.
In the distance
an ambulance siren.

I want to rant
my child heart
throwing king-baby
daggers at my persecutors.

Somewhere deep
in the softness of my flesh
a spark flickers,
hatches in my cells
slides solemn faced upwards
into the light penny nerves
of my brain.

And I see
in the ruffling iridescent
feathers a synchronized dance,
balancing the birdfeeder
pecking boisterous
wings flitting between
branch and air.

As though connecting
with mystical consciousness
they turn, swoop upwards, whirl
a moving black cloud
in a murmuration rhapsody
they glide in patterns
swirling the glory of sky.

 

 

 

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