'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
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Thursday, April 27, 2006


Here and Now

People in the know will say.
'Now' is where it's at today.
Here and now is where it is.
And 'it' is knees of bees, the biz.

That's good advice, I'm sure of that.
And 'here' is very where I'm at.
And now is now, unless it's then.
I'll have to check my watch again.

It's 'now' alright, and here I am,
With my sandwiches, cheese and ham.
And my metal detector, finding things.
When it finds a nail it sings.

I find a lot of coins and cans,
And engine parts from cars or vans.
Nails and screws, a steel-capped shoe.
I still have hopes of finding two.

I found a can with 'oil' on it,
But none inside, or just a bit.
Broken glasses with one lens.
A watch and pirate's hook, both men's.

I write them down in my notebook.
Sometimes at home I'll have a look
At lists of things I found before,
A year or two ago, or more.

I never keep the things I find.
They stay alive within my mind.
When I read the words I've written
I see the ashtray shaped like Britain.

Alone outdoors is where I'll be.
This is where it's at for me.
Finding coins and safety pins,
And branding irons and biscuit tins.

People think I waste my days,
But they waste theirs in other ways.
They say that I should get a life,
Or failing that at least a wife.

They think there's logic to their case.
And if they say it to my face,
I'll tell them where to effing go.
When to go there they should know.

Thursday, April 20, 2006


Emweth Hezwig

This man names his garden gnomes
After joes called James or Jack.
You'd need the help of Sherlock Holmes
To find out why he paints them black.

He also glues things to his door,
Things like paperclips and stuff.
And saucers too. He'd glue one more,
But the door already has enough.

He wears a cloak and holds a staff,
And talks in a deep, foreboding voice.
He points as well. I wouldn't laugh.
He's quieter when he talks to mice.

'Emweth Hezwig' is his name.
He had it changed, as did his cat.
He once was Dan. That's not the same
As his name now. I spotted that.

Ask why he does what he does,
And after staring at your nose
He'll say it's simply all because
It helps confuse his many foes.

He plays darts. He's good at that.
His foes are those he plays in pubs,
Or tournaments, with his lucky hat,
The one with the label 'made from cubs'.

With staff in hand at start of games,
"I am a dartist," he will say.
He glares at them and often blames
His foes for why the sky is grey.

They lose their calm. He always wins.
Slightly odd. A nice chap, though.
He often laughs or smiles or grins.
If you see him with a crossbow, go.

Thursday, April 13, 2006


The Minister's Portrait

A portrait of the Minister,
Just his upper half and head,
Was hung outside his office.
To the artist this he said:

I'll state my case. My point is this.
Unpaint my face. Begin again.
My complaint is based on views
Of those who I've placed my trust in.

They tell me people point and laugh,
What every politician fears.
I'll never know what made you choose
To paint me marrying my own ears.

And I don't care. I wouldn't mind.
But it makes me look like a bigamist,
With each ear in a wedding gown,
Each one waiting to be kissed.

I work long into every night
Before my working day is done.
This painting says my intention is
To neglect two wives instead of one.

So start again and this time try
To capture me as I am now.
Just make me smile and move my hair
Slightly further down my brow.

Thursday, April 06, 2006


The Little Folk in the Woods

Hello Jane.
Any news?
News of phoning Phil and booze.

And drink-related falling down.
And unrelenting talking crap.
That started at a match in town,
Near a shop with beer on tap.

An afternoon of refs and boos.
More than boos towards their foes.
They spoke in words with F's and U's,
And used a 'you' right after those.

And then a pub that Billy knows,
A birthday party with some friends.
They drank until it's time to close,
Another round and their night ends.

A shortcut home through the woods.
The eyes of owls peered down on them.
A dark foreboding in the clouds,
That moved across the moon above,
A sense of doom,
And what's that sound?

They stood deep in the darkest woods
And listened for a sound.
An eerie silence filed the night.
A total darkness all around,
Apart from one green woodland path.
A faint glow lit up the ground.
They followed that
And soon they found
A telephone
Of brightest white,
Glowing in its ghostly light.

With nothing else that they could do,
And nowhere else to go,
Phil picked it up and said hello.
And heard a voice he says he feared:
"Don't say a word about the beard."

He put it down and looked around,
And found that they had company.
Surrounded by the little men.
Many of them stood and stared.
"Did something happen to your beard?"

Phil said that.
He knew he shouldn't.
Keeping it to himself,
He couldn't.

The little men had sticks and rocks.
They chased Phil and his friends away
Through the trees,
Beneath the owls.
They laughed and sang,
Those little men,
Clearly having lots of fun.
Phil and all his friends had none.

Those little legs put to the test,
They all agreed to stop and rest,
To have a break,
And have a chat.
It's a hard life as the little men,
Smoking pipes, guarding gold,
Running 'round and jumping too,
And out all night.
They're getting old.

And they said Einstein once told them
(not the Albert E,
This one bred donkeys in his shed),
This Einstein said he'd get them a pony,
To ride through the woods.
His first name was Tony.

This Anthony Einstein, more of a crook,
Gave them a dog. Their money he took.

The dog had a wig that looked like a mane.
It kept his head warm and dry in the rain.

The thought came to Phil
That they're not very clever,
A feeling he had.
It's true that he's never
Met any people like these in the past.
He'd be quite happy if they were the last.

"Look at that!" is what Phil said,
And pointed too into the trees.
Each little man turned his head.
Phil and co escaped with ease.

They woke up in a field next day.
Beneath a tree, beside a gate.
"I blame it on the drink," they say.
"Or that Rice Crispy cake I ate."

Very Slight Stories

Henry Seaward-Shannon

The East Cork Patents Office

The Tree and the Horse


Words are my favourite noises

Previous Poems

Poems from 2004
Poems from 2005



Gizmo's (Non)sense

Pretty Cunning

The Dossing Times


Cruiskeen Eile
Kevin Myers' blog (sorry, Colonel Kevin Myers).

The Chancer

Sinead Gleeson



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A Walk in the Rain

 | poetry from Ireland

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