Emerald Isle
The Emerald Isle
Sailing into Cork I saw green hills, the sea was jade,
I understood why Ireland was called the emerald island.
On the sheer slopes sheep grazed; chancers I thought
the slightest slip and they will fall into verdant waters.
Why not graze on the plateau be happy with modest
fodder if not as succulent as grass too unsafe to get at?
Sheep do fall sometimes they are rescued by a passing
voracious fishing vessels, and end up as Irish stew.
Cork was pretty port it had a no hasty feel back then,
it became a busy place ignoring the hazardous slopes,
but holy is economic progress, lush living for everyone.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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On The Cork Hurlers Strike
The best hurlers will not be playing for the Rebel County this year
At least not under coach Gerald McCarthy for Cork fans such sad news to hear
The Liam McCarthy Cup this year won't be coming to the hurling City by the Lee
Without Cork's best hurling only half dressed as hurling fans all would agree
Cork hurling fans not very happy to them hurling more than a game
Some blame the hurlers and others blame Gerald and others the County Board blame
Gerald has no notion of resigning and Cork's best under him will not play
And the loser is the game of hurling and that does seem a sad thing to say
Cork will have a hurling team in the League and All Ireland Championship but their best the red jersey will not wear
And for any hope of sporting success as we do know a team would need every top player
And in 2009 Cork will only make up the numbers though the game of hurling will go on
For hurling does live on in Ireland though great players to and from the game have come and gone
In 2009 Cork will not have their best team at least now it's looking that way
In a sad time for Cork and for hurling in Ireland and that seems a sad thing to say.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Green.
Green are the valleys
green are the fields
green are the forests and long rolling hills
green like the shamrock and eyes with a smile
green as old Ireland
The emerald isle.
poem by Charles M. Moore
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Portugal In May
These rounded hills surrounding my valley is lush
green with yellow flowers, wish I were a horse, no
jutting military granite jaws around here; God, when
making Portugal, had women in mind.
A flock of sheep eagerly graze have no time to look
up and see the blue spring sky, doomed as they are
to produce wool and meat for Irish stew, watched
over by the shepherd who sits in the shade of a carob
tree and wonders what's for tea.
Pretty red tractors plough soil around olive trees,
perfume of newly mowed grass and roses hang in
translucent air as sun filters through a mystic veil
of aromatic mist of history. Yet, a slight discord in
the day lingers, the donkey is absent, the last one,
a grey jenny, was given to a sanctuary. That is sad,
the long eared made the scenery more peaceful.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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In Hot Pursuit on Our Trail
When we made a fleeting visit to that highland,
in East Khasi Hills, Cherrapunji where perennial rainfall
keeps it the wettest place by both monsoonal winds.
The sky was blue with fleecy clouds
and in occasional slight drizzles we roamed happily.
We looked around lush green forests in the vales down
but no grassy stretch, the sheep found there to graze.
In parky weather, the pale-faced tribes live in small shelters.
We drove slowly to the border of Bangaladesh
and came back to the plateau in the evening.
Suddenly the Sun hid Himself somewhere above
and a frightening monstrous wave of darker clouds
was chasing behind our car like the tsunami - tidal waves.
The driver was in his highest speed but he stopped the car
when the rainy clouds shrouded the whole place.
We remained there in a darker world and a heavy downpour
was giving us a tumultuous welcome with noisy claps.
Half an hour later, the road was visible.
No floods! No pools! Rain- water took to its heels
washing away the paltry soil to the slopes around.
Rains will be downswing in the end of September
but that day’s wonderful feast to us was from the Heavens!
--------------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Upland Walkway
Walking along the walkway
The valleys, slopes, scapes walk along
Green swarded like a vast emerald
Don't you miss an 'eye to eye watching'..
A love from above of the azure sky
Patched with puffs of white cloud
Gazing nonstoppingly
At the peaky-peaky greens
Don't you feel shy..
While the sky impulsively through the breeze
Its kisses drizzles to the waiting emerald
Doused in loving silence
And as you pass by a lake
Don't you please move on..
The sky still frolicks on
The lake holds a mirror
you to watch on
Don't you please slip away..
While the green hill feels shy
Kissed by her yonder fiance
While your vision closed while a bit of fog curtains
And you do play secretly hide and seek
Through and through the fog
Picking up the flecks of the sun..
Wait until the show restarts
poem by Indira Renganathan
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A Society of Grazing Sheep
The herd meanders, searching for the green
Pastures that hide past distant mountaintops.
They're a society of grazing sheep.
The herd looks down, ignoring what they've seen.
They're too busy chewing grass to stop.
They're a society of grazing sheep.
The herd wanders only to convene
In the pursuit of inhaling more crops.
They're a society of grazing sheep.
They don't yet realize that hungry eyes
Guide them—that wolves are hiding in disguise.
They're a society of grazing sheep.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Sinking
You're on a wide open ocean
No one around you for miles
You're thinkin' of drinkin' on water
While you're sailing the Nile
No one to stop you on your way
Flyin' by goes a stork
You decide to bring your oars in now
But accidently knock out the cork
Row your boat to shore
'Cause it is leaking and you're still drinking
Unless you cork the hole
You won't be sailing
song performed by by No Doubt from No Doubt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The 09 All Ireland Football Final
For the Cork Gaelic Footballers another humbling defeat
By their neighbours Kerry in Croke Park once more they've been beat
In Gaelic Football in Ireland Kerry to the fore
With 36 All Ireland titles and their fans hoping for more.
My mum was from Kerry that I cannot deny
But why it aches me when Cork lose a big game I do wonder why?
Though long absent from Ireland a sense of parochialism I do retain
Some-things from our past always with us do remain.
But Kerry fans with their 09 All Ireland victory need not get carried away
As their hurlers are quite poor though that does seem a sad thing for to have to say
Like Kilkenny Ireland's premier hurling County Kerry G A A rankings low
The lowest even in Munster as all G A A fans do know.
For the Liam Mcarthy Cup Kerry Hurlers never allowed for to play
For that not deemed to be good enough by the administrators of the G A A
Like the Kilkenny Footballers Kerry Hurlers amongst the lowly rate
Though their many Football victories their fans have to celebrate.
Kerry are 09 All Ireland Senior Football Champions their neighbours Cork they did outplay
In Croke Park in Dublin Ireland on September's third sunday
But Cork the only winners of the Hurling and Football double for them an amazing feat
With Ireland best Football and Hurling Counties at the highest level do compete.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Twilight Eyes
I have carried all my hopes and dreams
To this new land with my own two hands
I have followed the sun away from ireland,
Now like the red man, here I stand.
You hear whispers of the homeland call,
Love is less kind than the twilight.
And the passion for me once in your green eyes,
Like the sunlight fades from sight.
Twilight eyes, I can taste the salty tears of goodbye.
I can feel the cold north sea,
Youll be sailing with the tide
To the island in your emerald twilight eyes.
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She Wrote About Our Mother.
She wrote about our mother and it took me far away
And many, many years in time back home to Claraghatlea
And as I read her letter I fought to choke the tears
For Millstreet, Cork and Ireland and happy childhood years.
She wrote about our mother long under Tanyard soil
And memories flooded back to me of one with ready smile
Of woman who worked hard for us for no reward or pay
The heroine of our childhood years of happy by gone day.
She wrote about our mother with sense of love and pride
And memories flooded back to me and tears welled up inside
For one who done her best for us her very best she tried
And I still feel she is with us her spirit never died.
A letter from my sister in east Rockaway in New York
Reminding me of childhood years in Millstreet County Cork
She wrote about our mother whose passing left a void
And memories flooded back to me and tears welled up inside.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Emerald Green
Emerald green is the colour of life and of the springtime,
Conveying harmony, joie de vivre and most important, love
Emerald green retains its lively vigour all the time
In all nuances, like those wonderful green eyes that rove.
Sunlight dances across the Gulf of Mexico, a lovely place
With emerald green waters and very hot white sand.
Moreover, we see this green in a forest, a darker space,
Or we can see it in the green grass in the Spring land,
A metallic green body with small yellow sweet stripes
And emerald eyes has the Hine’s emerald dragonfly.
Nymphs hatch in marshes high in sedge meadows,
When sheds its skin and emerges an adult to fly.
A mineral emerald green contains the Romanesque murals.
The old Masters used verdigris for them and copper green
To make a deep brown, mixed it with sulfur-containing colors,
Such as cadmium yellow, vermilion or blue-ultramarine.
The green we see in December represents the evergreen tree,
A symbol of life continuing even in that dark day.
We look to the pins and the rhododendrons and we agree
That greenery will return to the world again someday.
The green chosen for the color scheme of Christmas night
Is emerald green, that deep, pure, clear green inside
That seems to shine with light, in the season of white
When there isn't much natural green available outside.
A very ambitious plant is hymenaea courbaril, the tree named Amber
It has the most attractive emerald-green heart shaped leaves.
Like Orchid Tree, so pleasing to the eye with their alluring shimmer.
Lycopersicon esculentum has emerald green tomatoes with dark green stripes.
With this emerald green Van Gogh wanted to paint plastic correctly
Maybe his eyes saw a special nuance, after cutting his ear
He worked alla prima, on to the canvas painting directly
From his imagination and from reality, making the image believable.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The Fair Hills of Ireland
A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
Uileacan dubh O!
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
Uileacan dubh O!
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d,
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow
sand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee—
Uileacan dubh O!
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;
Uileacan dubh O!
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high
command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,
Uileacan dubh O!
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;
Uileacan dubh O!
The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forests
grand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
poem by Sir Samuel Ferguson
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Patterns Of Herringbone
Step out along those well worn pathways,
through dappled woods, beneath lush trees.
View verdant grass as it gently sways,
wafted by a soft balmy breeze.
Tread blithely down well known byways,
over winding hills and flowing streams.
Out across the salty golden bays,
where the sand is kissed by bold sunbeams.
Move slowly through well paved alleyways,
between the old walls of brick and stone.
Knowing that people back in past days,
walked these block patterns of herringbone.
Stroll towards well hidden bridleways,
where wild flowers edge the gritted tracks.
Stand still and watch the sheep as they graze,
then take a nap, against warm haystacks.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Shepherd
The shepherd goads his sheep by staff,
And leads them on to pastures green,
Instructing them to watch for wolves
That come in sheep-skin, in their midst!
The shepherd knows each sheep by name,
And calls them sweetly when they stray,
Or when they near the ledge atop
A valley deep or hill-side steep!
The sheep too know their shepherd's call,
And graze on meadows, keeping near;
They know he is their protector,
And will save them at any cost!
How safe it is when shepherd's near!
No sheep can ever lose its way;
The shepherd takes care of the flock,
But cannot bear to see one, lost!
Dedicated to Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius, Parish Priest,
Holy Family Church, Perundurai, by his beloved parishioners
Copyright by Dr John Celes 31-05-2012
poem by John Celes
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A Team Brother Walfrid Called Celtic
In the Archdiocese of Glasgow
In the city’s east end,
Brother Walfrid sat with his assistant Brother Dorotheus,
The vision they shared
Was that the poor must be fed
As the dinner tables lay empty for the Irish.
Brother Walfrid had a dream
That wore Ireland’s emerald green
And would be saviours to the minority Catholics,
The Irish stood at Parkhead
And the football was played
By a team, that Brother Walfrid called Celtic.
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Oh To Be Back Home In Ireland (To Jo)
Oh to be back home in Ireland now that April winds are blowing
And the weather getting milder and the green grass is a growing
And the breath of Spring is in the air and daylight hours grow long
And the skylark o'er the heather sings his merry April song.
Oh to be back home in Ireland the Country of my birth
The Land where I was bred and raised the greenest Land on Earth,
Land of the grassy valleys and scenic heather hills
Of murmuring brooks and rivers and rippling mountain rills.
I have travelled thousands of miles from my home in County Cork
I have been to London City and westward to New York,
I have seen the lights of Paris and the seven hills of Rome
But my heart is always yearning for my Country and my home.
And it's oh to be in Ireland now that April days are here
And the wildborn birds are singing in the Springtime of the year
And the wildflowers are a blooming and new leaves grow on the trees
In the Country I was raised in way beyond Atlantic seas.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Fair Hills of Ireland, from the Irish
A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
Uileacan dubh O!
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
Uileacan dubh O!
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann'd,
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee--
Uileacan dubh O!
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;
Uileacan dubh O!
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,
Uileacan dubh O!
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;
Uileacan dubh O!
The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo 's calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
poem by Sir Samuel Ferguson
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Give Ireland Back To The Irish
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian you are tremendous
And nobody knows like me
But really what are you doin
In the land across the sea
Tell me how would you like it
If on your way to work
You were stopped by irish soliders
Would you lie down do nothing
Would you give in, or go berserk
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian and all the people
Say that all people must be free
Meanwhile back in ireland
Theres a man who looks like me
And he dreams of God and country
And hes feeling really bad
And hes sitting in a prison
Should he lie down do nothing
Should give in or go mad
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hills Abide
The everlasting hills their secrets keep
concealed in paces where men rarely tread.
Lie mouldering bones of men who are long dead
What caused their death nobody knows or cares.
In quietude and solitary they sleep.
Their skeletons defy the passing years.
The peaceful hills have seen men come and go.
Some few remain but most are passing through
In search of land to settle. Somewhere new.
Where they can raise their crops and live in peace
in the more fertile bottom lands below.
Protected from the winds that never cease.
Across the ancient hills which can endure
as they have done for passing centuries
The heat of summer and the winter’s freeze.
The hardy breed of men who chose to stay.
Were slow and steady men but very sure
they could and would survive in their own way.
The half wild sheep which graze these ancient hills.
Know much more than their shepherds know
of secret trails that wander to and fro.
Across the vast expanse beneath the sky
from sheltered sheepfolds to the flowing rills.
The sheep accept and do not wonder why.
11-Jun-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Blea Tarn Delight
Tis such bliss to follow this
Dry stone wall
Trace with my hand across the land
To observe the autumn fall
To see the place where two sullen faces huddled last winters snow
Rasta haired sheep who had stood knee deep avoiding cruel winters blow
But now soft sun with a mild chilling breeze tinkers across my face
I am the queen of all that I've seen in this wild and glorious place
I raise with a stride of purpose and pride upon this emerald earth
To reach the peak of all that I seek that makes all my effort worth
And when I am there full breeze in my hair a smile raises alone
Within all the green, a moorish wet scene a vibrant turquoise tone
With just one cloud that's settled down to laze upon Blea Tarn
To sleep in the haze whilst I do laze before my refreshed return
A hot bowl of stew buttered crusty bread too with a roaring coal fire
I am queen of all that I've seen as I have stroked my hearts desire
poem by Karen Sinclair
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