'Darcy and O'Mara' is a novel by Arthur Cronin.
Click here to buy the paperback or download the ebook for free.

Thursday, September 28, 2006



Audrey was invited to a party in a place
Where swans patrolled a man-made garden pond,
And peacocks had a lawn or two to use and call their base.
It's the sort of place you'd meet a man called Bond.

She nearly spent a fortune when she bought a dress and shoes,
And she thought her hair required a change of style.
She couldn't quite decide so she let her stylist choose.
She could tell that he had plenty skill and guile.

But as she left the place, she noticed, with surprise,
That her stylist had a guide dog on a lead.
She'd been just as blind herself. All the time her eyes
Had been focussed on material to read.

She had assumed her stylist wore dark glasses to look cool.
She blamed herself for giving him free rein.
She faced the possibility of looking like a fool.
Her hair could lead to doubts about her brain.

It was too late for a change. The only thing to do
Was to go and hope she didn't look too odd.
She could easily avoid the brightest lights, and she knew
That she'd attract undue attention with a nod.

It wasn't all that bad. Most people didn't stare.
It seemed her style was part of fashion trends.
'Interesting' was the adjective used about her hair.
She was able to relax and mix with friends.

Hugh was there as well. He was conscious of his head,
And the contents that he kept up on the top.
For years he's worn a wig, and he's very often said
That he's tempted to replace it with a mop.

His wig gets very angry, especially when it's woken.
It likes to sleep for most of every day.
So Hugh moves very slowly and he's always softly spoken.
Awake, his wig will always have its way.

The simplest of decisions need attention and great care.
He could ask someone to dance with blinding charm.
He can use the sweetest words but if his wig dislikes her hair,
Around his head there'll be a sense of harm.

He can't convince his wig that the thing upon her head
Is merely just her hair and not a wig.
Its unrelenting anger can create a sense of dread.
It nearly caused a riot at a gig.

At the party he met Audrey. He asked her out to dance.
They enjoyed a gentle waltz around the floor.
His wig's continued sleep depended heavily on chance.
It woke when someone slammed a huge oak door.

Hugh expected trouble, but the wig felt only love,
Its anger lost in love's prevailing fog.
For Audrey and her hair, Hugh thanked God above.
Audrey thanked her stylist and his dog.

Thursday, September 21, 2006


French Film

Joe discovered gold
  Near his caravan's rear window.
Eighteen carat gold,
  But he threw it in the bin, though.

That night he fell asleep
  And in his dream he found
That he'd been sleeping in a field
  On the soft and dew-filled ground,

In the shadow of a tree,
  And standing near him there
Was a woman dressed in white
  With glowing golden hair.

She led him to a stream,
  And in the water's flow
He saw so many days appear
  And sadly fade, and go.

Days gone by in history
  And future days as well,
Sad days yet to be,
  At the toll of time's great bell.

Falling from time's flow,
  And where we go is gone.
Before this fateful day we were,
  But now we're merely non.

Some happy days as well,
  In the sun with many friends,
Unknowing of what's yet to be,
  Or not to be when this life ends.

She said, "There's something you must see,"
  And led him by the hand
Through deserted hills and valleys
  Of a green and pleasant land.

And then they took the bus.
  She spoke about her feet.
One of them was hurting her.
  Of foot she's not so fleet.

And the other one looked funny.
  She asked him what he thought.
She spoke about her elbow,
  And his views she also sought.

They went to see a film
  About a little dog called Dime,
Who could read the minds of people
  And expose their thoughts of crime.

As long as he got water
  And was fed enough corned beef
He'd communicate through barking,
  Once for 'He's the thief'.

And twice for 'He's getting away
  Through those revolving doors'.
And though he didn't use it much,
  Three barks meant 'Up yours'.

She didn't really like the film.
  She thought it was too long,
And the characterisation of the dog
  Wasn't all that strong.

They then went to MacDonalds,
  And as they ate she spoke
About the car she bought
  And the mobile phone she broke.

He asked about this thing
  That she wanted him to see.
She looked up at the ceiling
  And she cursed her memory.

"It's completely slipped my mind," she said
  "I'd forget my eyes.
If they weren't always in my head
  To see and show surprise."

He said that if it mattered
  She'd remember what it is.
The most important memories
  Tend to spark and fizz.

"That's true," she said. "Let's assume
  The thing I had to show you
Was the river through the city,
  And though I barely know you

"I think that it's the sort of thing
  You'd likely like to see."
He said that anything with her
  Would absolutely be

A thing that would appeal to him.
  They walked towards the river.
And so began the romance
  That enabled him to give her

A gold engagement ring
  Which she wore with heartfelt pride.
That he found it in a bin,
  There was no need to confide.

This is when he woke and said,
  "I threw it in the bin!"
Those words were in subtitles
  With the bigger white word 'Fin'.

In French it would sound different
  And not pertain to fish.
It signifies that ending life
  Is this film's wish.

In the French one he'd go back to sleep,
  Returning to his dream.
In Hollywood there'd be no room
  For gazing in a stream.

In the Hollywood version he gets up
  And drives away at speed.
To narrow roads and corners,
  He doesn't pay much heed.

He gets his gun out at the dump,
  And hides behind a van.
He sees his gold being held
  By an evil foreign man.

After shots are fired
  There's a long protracted chase
That involves a helicopter
  To his foe's great mountain base.

Disguised as a waiter,
  He searches many floors.
He finds his gold and gets away
  Through three revolving doors.

He escapes amid explosions
  And fires that rage for hours.
He's merely slightly singed,
  And somehow he has flowers

For when he finds his gold-haired girl,
  And at the end they kiss.
There it ends, but in the French one
  They go much further than this.

Thursday, September 14, 2006


The Ryder Cup

The Ryder Cup is on its way
  To Straffan in Kildare.
Mrs. Riley's eldest daughter
  Stefi dyed her hair,

A European blue,
  With the golden stars on beads.
A star for every state
  But she forgot about the Swedes.

Many other people
  Are preparing for the Cup.
The prices for a place to sleep
  Inevitably go up.

You could rent a bungalow
  Or a castle by a lake.
The little folk with crocks of gold
  Are likely to be fake.

The bill will seem unreal as well
  But don't be fooled by that.
It's as real as the heartfelt
  Irish welcome on the mat.

The taxi drivers plan to strike
  While the Cup is on.
You'll be stuck in a very deep bunker
  When the final bus is gone.

There'll be plenty of the black stuff
  When you exit from your flight,
But like its distant cousin oil
  The cost increases overnight.

Some people say it's not the way
  We should portray this land.
Through TV we'll acquaint
  Potential tourists with our brand.

But it's more accurate than leprecauns
  And colleens herding sheep.
We still have plenty potatoes
  But these days they don't come cheap.

But the act is just as accurate.
  It's who we've always been.
We've a very long tradition
  Of ensuring to be seen

As carefree cheerful Paddies
  When the tourists are around.
We're either very cunning
  Or unconscious on the ground.

When tourist money is nearby
  Some say they should be king,
That the museum up in Dublin
  Has their ancestor's royal bling.

They can blame the Brits to explain
  Why their royal seat is gone.
But they can't blame the European Union
  While the Ryder Cup is on.

I know someone who claimed she was
  Descended from Saint Patrick.
She fooled a lot of people
  And made money out of that trick.

She was finally exposed,
  But it wasn't held against her.
So grow a beard and buy a cloak
  And say you're king of Leinster.

Thursday, September 07, 2006


Songs for Dogs

He loves writing songs
  About his faithful dog.
Songs like 'You're so Green'
  Were once about his frog.

But the frog doesn't like them.
  I think that's coz he's dead.
And I think that's coz he caught a vase
  With his froggie head.

That happened to the dog once.
  He didn't seem to mind.
In fact it seemed to help him
  In his attempts to find

All the things he buried,
  Like someone's flower-filled hat.
He found the frog as well,
  But he hadn't buried that.

He knows his name and address.
  I doubt if he knows yours.
He gets confused by the phrase
  'Walking on all fours'.

His owner's wife loves this dog.
  She tells him so each day.
She loves it when he jumps on her
  When she says 'sit' or 'stay'.

She took him to a dog show.
  He won a special prize
For refusing to wake up
  At every frightening noise.

She was very proud,
  And she kissed him on the nose.
The other dogs felt stupid
  In their doggie shoes and clothes.

She met a man who owned
  A friendly Labrador.
The dogs became good friends
  And their masters became more.

They said they'd like to meet,
  To see each other soon.
They arranged a meeting
  For an autumn afternoon,

In a quiet country pub
  Where the regulars could think,
And blend in with their background,
  Disappearing via drink.

For her the world felt newer.
  With him she felt more free.
She didn't feel surrounded
  By familiarity.

A freshness to the sights
  And the cool September air,
That filled these autumn afternoons,
  A new style for her hair.

She thought she'd need to change
  The exterior of her head
To match the new interior.
  She dyed it slightly red.

But the thrill began to wane
  And this new world lost its hold.
This bright new place became
  As familiar as the old.

And the old world became newer
  When her husband bought a hat
To complete his wizard costume.
  She liked the look of that.

He taught the dog new tricks,
  In a voice both clear and strong,
As a wizard with a broom stick,
  Through the medium of song.

The dog paid close attention
  And he learnt the tricks with ease.
In one of them he had to wear
  A beard of bumble bees.

She smiled and felt relieved.
  This was all she sought.
Her old familiar world
  Was more exciting than she thought.

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



August 2005   September 2005   October 2005   November 2005   December 2005   January 2006   February 2006   March 2006   April 2006   May 2006   June 2006   July 2006   August 2006   September 2006   October 2006   November 2006   December 2006   January 2007   February 2007   March 2007   April 2007   May 2007   June 2007   July 2007   August 2007   September 2007   October 2007   November 2007   December 2007   January 2008   February 2008   March 2008   April 2008   May 2008   June 2008   July 2008   August 2008   September 2008   October 2008   November 2008   December 2008   January 2009   February 2009   March 2009   April 2009   May 2009   June 2009   July 2009   August 2009   September 2009   October 2009   November 2009   December 2009   January 2010   February 2010   March 2010   April 2010   May 2010   June 2010   July 2010   August 2010   September 2010   October 2010   November 2010  

A Walk in the Rain

 | poetry from Ireland

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?