Dermott Donn MacMorna
ONE day you'll come to my husband's door,
Dermoit Donn MacMorna,
One day you'll come to Hugh's dark door,
And the pain at my heart will be no more,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!
From his bed, from his fire I'll rise,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
From the bed of Hugh, from his fire I'll rise,
With my laugh for the pious, the quiet, the wise,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!
Lonesome, lonesome, the house of Hugh,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
No cradle rocks in the house of Hugh;
The list'ning fire has thought of you,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!
Out of this loneliness we'll go,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
Together at last we two will go
Down a darkening road with a gleam below,
Ah, but the winds do bitter blow,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Related quotes
Donn Piatt Of Mac-O-Chee
Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,--
Not the one of History,
Who, with flaming tongue and pen,
Scathes the vanities of men;
Not the one whose biting wit
Cuts pretense and etches it
On the brazen brow that dares
Filch the laurel that it wears:
Not the Donn Piatt whose praise
Echoes in the noisy ways
Of the faction, onward led
By the statesman!--But, instead,
Give the simple man to me,--
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
II.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
Branches of the old oak tree,
Drape him royally in fine
Purple shade and golden shine!
Emerald plush of sloping lawn
Be the throne he sits upon!
And, O Summer sunset, thou
Be his crown, and gild a brow
Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed
By the breezes, mellow-palmed
As Erata's white hand agleam
On the forehead of a dream.--
So forever rule o'er me,
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
III.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee:
Through a lilied memory
Plays the wayward little creek
Round thy home at hide-and-seek--
As I see and hear it, still
Romping round the wooded hill,
Till its laugh-and-babble blends
With the silence while it sends
Glances back to kiss the sight,
In its babyish delight,
Ere it strays amid the gloom
Of the glens that burst in bloom
Of the rarest rhyme for thee,
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
IV.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
What a darling destiny
Has been mine--to meet him there--
Lolling in an easy chair
On the terrace, while he told
Reminiscences of old--
Letting my cigar die out,
Hearing poems talked about;
And entranced to hear him say
Gentle things of Thackeray,
Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest,
Known to him as host and guest--
Known to him as he to me--
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Cul De Sac
In the cul de sac, so smooth
I look down
Be less sure, sir
And take your rest
Its been much too long
Since we drifted in song
Lay it down wet
In this hide-away
Oh I travelled far
To the nearest star
And met palomar, ...mar..., mar...
And we dont care just who you know
Its who you are
And when they all go home
Down the cobblestones
You can double back (spoken this is it)
To a cul de sac
Mmm
Oh, I travelled far
The nearest star
And mount palomar, palomar, palomar, palomar
And we dont care just who dyou know who dyou know
And who you really are, really are
And when they all,
All go home
Down the cobblestones
You will double back
To a cul de sac
You know, you know you will
You will, oh, will double back
And not very far
To a cul de sac
You, you, you... will double back
To a cul de sac
You know, you know its not very far away
No, no
Its just a cul de sac
And you know, and you know, and you know... its not very very far away,
No
Its just a cul de sac
Donn, donn, donn...
Youre not very far away, no ohhh
Its not, its not very far away
Its not as far as a country mile
(you got it)
Its just a cul de sac
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What we've got here is a failure to communicate.
quote by Donn Pearce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Get Up!
Get up!" the caller calls, "Get up!"
And in the dead of night,
To win the bairns their bite and sup,
I rise a weary wight.
My flannel dudden donn'd, thrice o'er
My birds are kiss'd, and then
I with a whistle shut the door,
I may not ope again.
poem by Joseph Skipsey
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Casino Jack and the United States of Money
Jack Abramoff, William Branner, Tom DeLay, Donn Dunlop, Kevin Henderson
from Casino Jack and the United States of Money (2010)
Submitted by Orban
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Cabbages And Beans
Like the dunny door it
simply bangs incessantly
until your patience thins
You can refuse to hear
it if you fry your brains
in oil with vapid apathy
A fear is that it might be
right and sadly true but
then again it might be wind
You’ve clearly had enough
if you accede too meekly
to its patent bullying
This cringing metaphor is
brazenness acclaimed
as an incipient authority
While all I see’s a pannier
of cabbage leaves and
salty beans
© 2 February 2010, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Curator
My life’s a museum of memories buried
in a mausoleum to matrimony kept
scrupulously clean – there is no distinction
between exhibits and things living
I am Curator as well as main exhibit in the
open-all-hours public gallery that nobody
views though entrance is freely exchanged
for tea and sympathy
I expect it stay this way until ‘The Company’
gets made an offer it can’t refuse whereon
I will merge with the grateful trees afforesting –
acknowledging arboreal dreams
© 9 October 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Festive Irony
you might say I am
the Spirit of Christmas
driven by a steady hand
on the neck of a bottle
of Cerveza complete
with lime wedge
this year I gave my friend
three flyswats opining he’ll
find superior utility in that
than a six-pack of said beer
– which he’s never been
fond of anyway
it’s a crazy time when
flies breed faster than Tahitian
limes can grow now Christmas
is a day away – he’ll see
irony in plastic swats to
control global warming
© 23 December 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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June Thirteenth
If I didn’t mark this day in passing
if I didn’t make this date a part of
solid History I’d fail – a day to fix in
memory and memory will prevail
June thirteenth, Gemini of Mercury
an element of Air – where hunger
for awareness rests, your love
therein is seen a proper reckoning
Measure of your length and breadth
despairs dimensions of your ardent
heart – cathedral blessed, especially
in loving – sets your warmth apart
I know and love your being as a
comforting, liberty from loneliness
of empty rooms, a candle light of
passage gleam safely leading home
Blessed I am to know you well for all
these humble years, your inspiration
wills me write of you – and I shall ‘til
Lethe waters still my trembling hand
© 8 June 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Sacred Space
even sacred space has room that's
not invasion proof - there's liberal
confirmation raids incurring greater
anguish now occur most every day;
from where I stand the pathway's
trampled smooth by errant feet
competing in unseemly haste to
dump their woes and beat retreat
they ask of me a counsel I abide in
wisdom of the ages scribed in gothic
script declaiming options lost by
overcrowding private life; yet to
tell them where to go is not the
kind advice they'd want to hear
© 29 August 2011, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Lofty Afterlife
Lo! Death resides atop that lofty hill.
Expanse of Donn, the ruling god of death.
With eponymic marble monoliths-
Desideratum prodigality.
Extravagance! A lifeless lavishness
Which doesn’t make a damn difference
To the conquering worm. Your loftiness
In life, that once encompassing delight,
Is pallid, ghostly in your present stead.
Your measured qualifications decreased
In spite of your chiseled artifices.
Alas! Piteous mortuus somes
Your heighten tombs on top that highest mound
May be as close to heaven you may get.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Delinquency 01
You can do Web crosswords where
you know most of the clues already
Or sit distanced with headphones
attached, keep the World at arms
length in timelessness preserved
by ‘Definitive America’*
Or you can write, absorb more
of its waste, and listen – which I do
I am amazed at innocence buoyed
in pure voices of those young men
lyrically celebrating our age
Guilt was not invented by their music
and the words were the same used
to describe our visions
Tears well-up in soaring strains of
‘The Last Unicorn’, I am raised and
at peace with my delinquency
© 30 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
* Audio CD (Jun 29,2001)
compiling ‘America’ tracks from
the 70s
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Shopping Trip
So when are you going to go
fishing then? 115 mm of rain says
nothing’s getting done while the
anticipatory pleasure of still more
to come remains discrete
And it’s not as if it wouldn't rain
weren’t you there – although, agreed,
enjoyment couldn’t be the
same as standing out in it
soaking up your privileged share
Eight days now you have delayed
a shopping trip in case you miss
a passing shower. Claiming ‘I’m not
that obsessed about it’ doesn’t quite
ring true somehow
This pique of moribund despondency
paints your thoughts grey and makes
you live anxiously; it’s not for me to
say but you to do – at least shopping
takes the legs off such unease
© 1 February 2010, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Leporello's List
Far better fables anodyne
than stories that are scary,
Don Giovanni drinking wine
with no Commendatore,
la ci darem a charming chant,
Donn’ Anna never kissed,
the thoughts of Wittgenstein and Kant
on Leporello's list.
David Denby reconsiders Roberto Benigni's 'Life is Beautiful' in The New Yorker, March 15,1999 ('In the Eye of the Beholder: Another look at Roberto Benigni's Holocaust Fantasy') . Denby writes:
Comedy and art, Benigni wants us to believe, not only to keep the human spirit aloft but save lives. 'Life is Beautiful' is soothing and anodyne - a hopeful fable of redemption. It is also one of the most unconvincing and self-congratulatory movies ever made.
3/10/99
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Warmish Day
‘nother warmish day,34° on the patio
irrigation underway in an Orchard too
easily dehydrated by parable to deny
deeply ingrained psychology sprays
delusionary water where precious drops
of rain would soothe sun-savaged weals
inane ideas afoot in arid contempt of
what makes the debate germane is
amply evidenced but I’ll save the trees
so save yourselves wear buoyancy
vests learn how to float between
troughs and crests of arrant treason
warming is merely a warning before
the downpour begins and a freeze
proceeds to inaugurate your pain
© 18 December 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Peace Enough
it is impossible to discern
real ties between unwritten
shopping lists, injured shoulder
and mild depression –
so I rest easy
I know, I know, the
tamarillos need picking
they glare from unmown
grass beneath the trees
with angst restrained
been a hard week, grass
growing out-of-control
social calendar stealing
what little poise remains
I could be excused
which I won't be, there’s
always that self-righteous
bloody-mindedness playing
devil’s advocate – defence
against deference, so I’ll fail
but you will never know;
now if this shoulder would
relent maybe I’ll find peace
enough and contentment
in your epic victory
© 16 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Scenes
isn’t scenes of beastly screaming
voices drown a stasis bleeding
forcing choices vilely reeking
where I cling to my own debris
caught within I hear the chaos
chorused in a choral singing
bartered hubris numbs my senses
stripping me of all true feeling
solitary innovation
calmed by complex contemplation
choosing where it will be standing
how to save itself oblivion
no-one knows her more than she does
cheating them of goals outreaching
bringing me to where I’m ceded
alone inside a crowded room
entombed within a baleful vault
no-one leaves and doors are bolted
intellect has trialled and faltered
grieves it wouldn’t have succeeded
© 28 August 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Lonesome Day
Baby once I thought I knew
Everything I needed to know about you
Your sweet whisper, your tender touch
I didnt really know that much
Jokes on me, its gonna be okay
If I can just get through this lonesome day
Lonesome day
Hells brewing, dark suns on the rise
This storm will blow through, by and by
House is on fire, vipers in the grass
Little revenge and this too shall pass
This too shall pass, darling
Yeah Im gonna pray
Right now, all I gots this lonesome day
Lonesome day
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Its alright, its alright
Better ask questions before you shoot
Deceit and betrayals a bitter fruit
Its hard to swallow come time to pay
That taste on your tongue dont easily slip away
Thy kingdom come, Im gonna find my way
Yeah, through this lonesome day
Lonesome day
Lonesome day
Lonesome day
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Its alright, its alright, its alright, yeah
Lonesome day
Lonesome day
Lonesome day
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As I Was Growing Up
As I was growing up, I saw a different world from today,
People were not angry, there wasn't many that went astray;
You could go along, and share a cheery hello to all,
And on the old telephone, you'd get a great helpful call.
Yes! As I was growing up in my childhood days, I'd see,
No electronic toys or games, only board games for me;
When my mother cooked the cake, she'd beat by hand,
And if we were naughty, she'd make us understand.
Then as a teenager, I saw changes coming each day,
Many new cars and cameras around, and things we did play;
Then planes and speed came fast, electric trains changed too,
If only I could go back to the old days, I would and that's true.
Now as a middle age, I see crime on the fast increase,
Coming to a cashless time, why does it have to cease;
And I see people everywhere are not caring for any other,
But they want to even hurt, their sister or their brother.
Let's all now think of God, and what He does think,
From the very poor around, to the rich that wear mink;
That God wants us to consider our neighbor and be kind,
Donn't try to pay back and hurt, but have care on our mind.
poem by Margaret Haig
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Nowhere To Run
I had wanted to say scathing words
about ideology germane to female
genital mutilation; I could not see
justification pertains for an act only
inimitable as barbarous. In diffuse
debate I learned how little I knew.
If preservation of innocence is taken
to extremes there are ways I couldn’t
dream to perpetuate that blissful
state; clitoridectomy is just one which
screams the loudest distaste to my
hormonally challenged ears.
I did the reading, looked up diagrams
saw pictures of unsightly scarring too
horrendous to accept as imperatives
of racially deemed social distinction.
Innocence isn’t preserved by cutting
pre-pubescents’ non-consenting flesh.
I rested my case. Then in an easy
afternoon I learned of circumcision and
a host of procedures utilised to raise
breasts and reduce wrinkles including
genital modification not too dissimilar.
And there was nowhere to run...
© 6 February 2010, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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