Richard W. Halperin, born 1943, Chicago, is a U.S.-Irish dual-national living in Paris. His poetry is published by Salmon/Cliffs of Moher (five collections) and by Lapwing (twenty smaller collections). His most recent Salmon, All the Tattered Stars: Selected & New Poems, November 2025, Introduction by Joseph Woods, includes ‘Now, Mother, What’s the Matter?’ which was Poem of the Week in the Guardian, January 19.  His poetry is part of University College Dublin’s Irish Poetry Reading Archive. Videos of his readings are on the internet. His two most recent Lapwings, Silk Threads and Some Walk with Sticks, are to appear this summer.

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Phyllis, Revisited

The road winds, the light is not
very good. ‘Can you not make
a poem rhyme?’ asks my friend
Phyllis. I can: Ireland.

I am alongside of great trees
at dusk. My dusk. I am
between counties. I think of
difficult things. I think of
the Book of Job. This time
I am struck by Job’s sweetness.

The road winds, the light
is not very good.

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Beauty 4

I am on a plane awaiting
take-off at Charles de Gaulle
airport.

I use a green pen to write these lines.
Green reminds me of the beauty of colour
which reminds me of Shelley.

I look out the plane window
at the pouring rain. Rain reminds me
of the beauty of grey which reminds me
of Charlotte Brontë.

Being on any plane before take-off
always reminds me of Carole Lombard.
All that beauty. All those war bonds
which she had just successfully sold.

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Bonheur du Jour

I am a guest in a house
which has in its living room
a little bonheur du jour,
a French writing desk.

You found a bonheur du jour
for our flat at an antique shop.
You bought it, you used it.
Now I use it.

You were bonheur du jour.

I am at the desk now.
I keep a small candle on it
which I light sometimes.

A lit candle
on the bonheur du jour.
Redundant, really.

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Pots of Paint

In Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Yeomen of the Guard
the Fool dies.
Dorothy Parker’s longest short story
is ‘Big Blonde.’
Those most gifted with wit can portray,
and do, great grief.

As an artist, one works with the pots
of paint one is given.
One can call them Muses or pots of paint.
I prefer pots of paint.

Among mine, grief.

The Mother of the Muses is Memory.
I wouldn’t say this at a party,
or maybe I would,
but I think her biggest pot of paint
is grief.