Kieran Beville hails from the vibrant city of Limerick. With five volumes of poetry under his belt, published by Revival Press, he stands as a prolific writer in the realm of verse. His literary footprint extends far and wide, with numerous articles and poems gracing the pages of esteemed newspapers, journals, and magazines. Beville’s work not only captivates readers with its eloquence but also leaves an indelible mark on the literary landscape, showcasing his passion and dedication to the craft.

The Acolyte and the Olympian

It was 6 am, mist rising from the river
As I crossed Sarsfield Bridge
To the Franciscan church
To serve the Latin mass for a visiting American priest.
Alb and starched white surplice in a plastic bag.
I hoped I would know when to kneel and stand,
To remember to genuflect when crossing
The tabernacle that housed the sacred host.
To ring the bell when chalice and
Sacramental bread was raised aloft.

In the vestry, I laid out the priest’s robes,
Put water and wine in little glass jugs.
The clergyman seemed ordinary before
He donned those garments.
But when he kissed the stole
And draped it over his shoulders
He was sanctified by ritual.
Just like the way he patted his lips
With a white linen napkin
After he supped the blood of Christ.

He gave me a silver dollar and I was wowed
Until I learned that the coin was
Worthless currency in my home town.

So I placed it on the railway track
And it was flattened by a passing train
Into a large disc.
I drilled a hole in it and hung it around my neck
With my sister’s green ribbon.
A second best Olympian.
“In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sanсti, Amen.”

The Sweetest Sound

I have heard the Gregorian chant
Of Glenstal Abbey monks
And the haunting sean nós songs
Of Carraroe and Gweedore.
I have walked to the ocean’s rhythm 
Along the wild Atlantic shore.
I have listened, reverentially, 
To the tender tones 
Of tenor, bass and baritone –
Been moved by the arias of sopranos,
And guitar solos.
I have heard the muezzin call to prayer
From the minarets of mosques
Carried on sirocco winds in the desert air.
And something resonates in my soul
To the matins and vespers of birdsong.
I know the warbling of nightingale and skylark –
The trill of blackbird, robin and wren.
And I have been moved by harp and violin.
I have heard thunder rolling
And cathedral bells tolling.
But sweeter than the peel
From the dome of Peter
That flows along the Tiber
Or the sound from the belfry of Notre Dame
Flowing along the Seine
Is the chiming of St. Munchin’s Catholic spire 
And St. Mary’s Protestant tower 
Mingling, ecumenically,
On the white waters of the Curragower.

The Village Blacksmith

He was more than a farrier, 
Shoeing horses for the hunt.
He made gates and railings 
For the manor house
To give the gentry peace of mind
And keep the peasants out.
He looked ordinary in leather apron
And earned his bread 
By the sweat of his brow.
But he was like a god – 
Vulcan, stoking a lake of magma.
The winds from his bellows
Were the westerlies of Zephyr 
And the northern storms of Boreas.
He threw cinders in the crunching 
Path to the forge where he
Shaped iron, on the anvil, blow by blow,
With fiery face aglow.
His ancestors made pikes 
That spilled Cromwellian blood.
He wrought stories too
From red heat and white
When he slaked his thirst 
With cold beer at night.
He said it was Tubal Cain 
Who made the Grim Reaper’s scythe
And lamented that swords were not beaten 
Into ploughshares in more peaceful times.
He could be heard singing
To the rhythm of the hammer swinging –
Like Paul Robeson in a chain gang.
Each blow ringing out in measured time
As to a metronome,
Like church bells that chime
From some distant spire or dome.
And the sparks that flew upwards were stars.

Tender Perennial

The bare branches of winter trees
That seemed sketched in charcoal
Against a pale spring sky
Begin to sing in feathered song
And fledgling leaves in hints of green
Quiver in the dawn –
Drinking light in thirsty gulps.

Today I will plant
The window boxes again.
Some half-sheltered begonias
Survive the frost –
And I think of you,
A tender perennial,
Who did not!

You have flown to perch far off
In half remembered things.
But I will always think of you
When scarlet blossoms
On my sills and trees begin
To stretch their wings.

Birthday Boy of Gaza

He leaned to blow the birthday candles
On the cake his mother baked.
Nine bright flames set his face aglow.
Eyes closed to make a wish
But with one fierce puff
The stars were quenched.
To be orphaned is not the hope
He cherished in his heart,
But simply that the box, so neatly wrapped
Might contain the thing he had hinted at.
Now his home is but a ghostly hulk.
His mother’s face that smiled before he blinked
Is steel-kissed and frozen in a stare,
Blood oozing from shrapnel in her chest.
And silent is his father’s baritone song
Of birthday cheer,
His husk crushed beneath a slab of concrete.
His teenage sister, like a rag- doll, torn to shreds,
A collage of heroes on her bedroom wall.
A piano with its teeth smashed
Seemed bewildered in the hall.
A vase of flowers intact upon its dusty lid.
He closed his eyes again, in vain,
To change that childish wish.