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

Thursday, March 25, 2010


You're my cup of tea

You're my cup of tea.
  You're the milk that I add.
You're the sugar I stir.
  I threw a spoon at your Dad.

You're my cup of coffee.
  You keep me awake.
You're directing my dream.
  You're my cream-loaded cake.

You're my slice of toast.
  You're a taste of delights
That can fill me with fire
  When I get into fights.

Your Dad thinks there's something
  Not quite right with my head.
You can tell him he's toast
  Made from mouldy old bread.

You're my spoon of honey.
  You're my chocolate eclair.
You're the packet of Skittles
  I'm refusing to share.

Thursday, March 18, 2010


In the Stars

My horoscope provided me
  With this precise advice:
Move towards the west until
  I face a simple choice.

The road will fork and I must choose
  The darkest path ahead,
The one that might well lead to lands
  Where reprobates have fled.

Trees will reach across the road
  To block the fading light,
Engendering a sombre mood
  Before the start of night.

I'll fear the hedgerows veiled in shade
  Where putrid creatures lurk.
I'll come across a tennis ball
  That glows despite the murk.

I'll take the ball and persevere
  With my dismaying trek,
Through a custom-built machine
  To make a nervous wreck.

I'll meet a man in tennis whites
  Who'll lose his tearful mood.
The ball will bring effusive glee
  And gushing gratitude.

He'll take me to a mansion full
  Of lights defying sorrow,
A place to quell the sense that night
  Will last all day tomorrow.

I'll join the party underway,
  Converging on its zenith.
Events suggest a musical
  And someone there will pen it,

A light romantic comedy
  About my love affair,
Nourished by enchanting sounds
  That fill the summer air.

I'll meet a wealthy heiress there.
  We'll leave the revelry.
Each whispered word of hers will have
  The force to level me.

The months that follow this will be
  A giddy whirl of frolics,
Of blissful, dizzy afternoons
  With cheerful alcoholics,

Evenings spent forgetting that
  It's not all fun in life,
Drives in her Rolls Royce till she
  Agrees to be my wife.

I followed this well-meant advice.
  I went into the west.
I chose the road and found the ball.
  I think you know the rest.

And now I find myself engaged
  To Isobel, a beauty.
I've thanked the many gracious men
  Who've volunteered to shoot me,

Should I require a firing squad
  To scratch an irksome itch,
Or should I need to be a corpse
  Abandoned in a ditch.

Isobel and I will start
  Our married life in splendour,
A grand old house with verdant grounds
  That have their own defender,

A massive hound who roams the lawns
  And probes the latest blooms,
While I stay in to spend my days
  Discovering new rooms.

But now my latest horoscope
  Says I should head back east,
And keep my course till I perceive
  A keen, committed beast.

This is when I should escape
  And find a cave to hide,
And for the next twelve months or so
  I'll rarely go outside.

I'll find a small supply of beans
  Inside a dead man's cans.
I'll eat the mice who acquiesce
  With my plain dinner plans.

I won't be heeding this advice.
  I'll stay with Isobel,
Leaving her would break my heart.
  I'd rather visit hell.

But there's a voice I hear at dawn
  When charming dreams are gone.
It says I'll only be content
  If I keep moving on.

Thursday, March 11, 2010


A Plague of Pet Ducks

Ducks keep saying 'quack' to me.
I run back to my shack to flee
From their relentless sermonising,
Louder than the German I sing

When I block my ears and try
To drown the sound, but they can fly
Around my head. These raids by air
Are scary when they graze my hair.

They ruin my healthy mop of it
When they crash-land on top of it.
I try to keep them occupied.
Excitedly, they flock to ride

The make-shift bumper cars I made
With trolleys I acquired through trade.
I got them in exchange for shoes,
Paintings of depressing views,

A tin of tuna sandwiches,
A bin of unused bandages,
A multi-purpose metal pole
And one full bag of Polish coal.

The ducks enjoy their bumper cars.
They hold the stumps of old cigars
Between their beaks while they pretend
They're driving tanks to help defend

A land where ducks can run the banks
And be long-standing, spiteful cranks
Who dominate the radio,
Complaining from their daily show.

When ducks are seeking to impress
They'll sit on deckchairs, playing chess.
They'll briefly cease their lecturing
To knock your rook and peck your king.

I've thought of making Peking Duck
And getting pets who speak in cluck.
I'd cook these cold quack doctors who
Would be good-natured in a stew,

More appetising than my meals
Of rabbits' eyes and rubber heels.
They're spreading rumours that I've got
A bin to hide a stash of pot.

These pets will gleefully allege
I'm hiding moonshine in a hedge,
And that I've got a tank of rum
Concealed inside a huge bass drum.

They've made the wear and tear of care
Appear in lines that frame my glare.
They've painted madness on my face.
They've made me look like my head's case

Is made with nuts, at best half-baked,
And bits of fruit with raisons faked
By soaking flies in cheap red wine
That makes me scream when sleep is mine.

I'm used to being shunned and banned
While these vile ducks are in demand.
They get invited to events,
To dine in clubs with cultured gents,

Or weddings where their waddling brings
Great joy as they convey the rings.
While they attend a funeral
My rarely-seen good humour'll

Return while I enjoy the peace
Of being hassled by police
Who look in bins and under hedges,
Smashing down my doors with sledges.

I revel in the calm repose,
The soothing sound of psycho crows
Who fight reflections on the glass.
Unlike the ducks, they act with class.

Thursday, March 04, 2010


The Genie in the Teapot

Seamus despises discarding the clutter
That hinders a tour of his home.
He'll stare at the wonder where butterflies flutter,
Enriching a room full of chrome.

He's fond of these creatures the chrome room attracts,
A place for parading their powers.
They land on the hub caps in haphazard stacks,
And shake these precarious towers.

Tottering buildings of bath taps and teapots
Will teeter like cars owned by clowns.
Brightly-dressed beings who once used to be moths
Are more like behemoths in towns.

Seamus has never grown tired of this marvel.
They fly in the gold evening light,
A carefree performance informed by their larval
Confinement to permanent night.

They're ignorant of the destruction they threaten
On seemingly tranquil occasions.
He senses the peril from flyers he'll let in
To watch their reflections' invasions.

After an hour in his newspaper room,
With papers from decades gone by,
He'll go to the chrome and its game played with doom.
Handlebars tremble on high.

It's sixteen years since his chrome structures last crumbled.
The clamour made frightened mice flee.
It happened when floundering butler bees bumbled
While bringing the butterflies' tea.

Thousands of things made of metal came down,
Creating a placid chrome ocean.
The crests of its waves were like points on a crown,
A peaceful king born of commotion.

Before re-assembling the gravity-baiting
Chrome buildings that fell to the floor,
He polished the pieces impatiently waiting
To soar near the ceiling once more.

When he rubbed a teapot a genie came out.
To Seamus, three wishes were granted.
His maiden request was unhindered by doubt.
He wished to have seeds of love planted.

They'd grow in the garden of Emily's heart.
Affection for Seamus would flower.
His smile's source of sunlight would set him apart.
Love's bright sunflowers would tower.

He'd known her for years but he'd never been able
To find the right words for his feelings.
He'd focussed on looking at junk in unstable
Formations approaching the ceilings.

The seeds produced flowers that bloomed overnight.
She woke up in love with her neighbour,
A feeling to garland the garden with light,
And let carefree play replace labour.

She had to be near him and hear him declaring
A love emulating her passion,
Clearing the path to becoming a pairing,
A style that was always in fashion.

They skipped down the path and took trips in the country.
It felt like they'd fled from a jail.
They dined with her cousins, the gentry who'd hunt me
If I wore a coat with a tail.

Wherever they went she revealed her elation.
She'd sing with no self-conscious notions.
Her songs about water-pollution, inflation
And vodka conveyed her emotions.

Her terrible voice would make animals run.
It sounded like torture's refrain,
A cry for a death brought about by a gun,
A sudden cessation to pain.

Seamus had nowhere to run or to hide.
People in pubs could just leave.
He feared for his ears when he walked by her side.
Sleep was his only reprieve,

Until morbid nightmares replaced charming dreams.
Her voice conjured visions of hell.
The sound was enhanced by his suitable screams.
He had to extinguish the spell.

His second request was reversing the first,
Relinquishing Emily's love,
Returning to when he'd been blessed and not cursed.
She'd been like a gift from above,

Dropped by a bomber or brought here by geese.
The genie did just as requested.
Seamus could work on his buildings in peace.
His right ear stopped ringing when rested.

The teapot is under a tower of things,
All wearing their stylish chrome coats.
His dreams harbour scenes in which Emily sings,
But now he can smile at high notes.

He's tempted to make his third wish a reversal
Of his second wish's repeal.
The first one was just an ill-timed dress rehearsal,
Too stressful to have much appeal.

But now it feels more like the day he first met her.
Her good points outweigh her one fault.
And even a blast of her songs would be better
Than silence's aural assault.

But there's no way out if his dreams are in threat,
No fourth wish to guard against doom.
He's still catching more butterflies in his net,
And setting them free in the room.

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?