Suicidal Munchkin
Watching the Wizard of Oz,
I dream of Tyco Brahe’s nose, and serious
Fights between scientists and their
Dwarfs;
And map paintings of stars and their hills;
And sadly, ever so sadly,
Erin- of dryads who have no love for mortal men:
Her busts are a ballad of a perfectly nippled
Power plant;
Her perfume the rich streams of auburn kelp
The gold fish show off through until they
Are scooped out and made for prizes
Of redneck lovers at the fair;
But she does not need to worry, because I am
Too uneasy for Occam’s Razor, Erin:
For easy love:
I am not beautiful Erin, and whoever you are loving
Right now,
It is a better love than I could return to you, if
My face was a mirror for your vanity-
Tesla never made love to a woman, but he lived in
Fancy hotels in Colorado Springs;
And he invented electricity until it was stolen away,
And I am left hanging;
And I only went away from you to find new inventions of
Tender muses,
Of other high school valleys too beautiful to ever have
Stopped romancing about, I suppose; Erin,
But do not feel uneasy; these are your dreams the laboratory
Mice are spinning,
And maybe I will buy a house under my imperfect
Angle underneath the distant Pleiades;
But please, please don’t ever come to visit me.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Pallet Of Your Burning Sun
The horses this time sleep standing up, Erin;
And my scars have switched sides once again like girls
Skipping rope,
Sending fibrillose and vibrant shadows once again over
The estuaries of their deep and rich
Graveyards: The sky above them is first blue and then purple,
The same way I saw you out taming your yards:
I saw you jogging like an angel floating like a fish beside my
Car, Erin; and it doesn’t matter if you do not love me,
Erin: I am not a boy to be employed by your love:
I am a vagrant and truant of love. While I have tasted the lips of
One of my muses, that’s all that she allowed me while
She returned from my swingset to her husband, and now where
Do you think I am standing, Erin, but out in the burning
Opulence of your son:
I am down in your opulent grotto with my toy gun, Erin:
And I don’t want to go empty handed on Halloween or Valentines
And you are the only one, E- E-
You are the only one and the sky is first blue and then purple
Underneath the pallet of your burning sun.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore
Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.
"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,
So lone and lovely through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,
As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"
"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm: --
For though they love woman and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!"
On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green isle;
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.
poem by Thomas Moore
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The King of Erin's Daughter
THE King of Erin's Daughter had wind-blown hair and bright,
The King of Erin's Daughter, her eyes were like the sea;
(O Rose of all the roses, have you forgotten quite
The story of the days of old that once you told to me?)
The King of Erin's Daughter went up the mountain side
And who but she was singing as she went upon her way,
'O somewhere waits a King's Son and I shall be his bride,
And tall he is and fair he is and none shall say him nay.'
The King of Erin's Daughter–O fair was she and sweet–
Went laughing up the mountain without a look behind
Till on the lofty summit that lay beneath her feet
She found a King's Son waiting there, his brows with poppies twined.
O tall was he and fair was he. He looked into her face
And whispered in her ear a word un-named of mortal breath
And very still she rested, clasped close in his embrace,
The King of Erin's Daughter, for the bridegroom's name was Death.
poem by Norah M. Holland
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The Unabashed Bouquets
Upon the higher back of the albatross
It rains, it floods;
And if I am not beautiful by now,
I will be beautiful by then: I can see by the lights
That my father put in
As he whipped me, as I wrote the novels that no one
Reads,
I killed the dragon by which my friends were sewn
But never fed:
Beautiful irony of the butterfly crushed on the super
Fine roadway;
But I am no longer afraid: I still have my dreams,
By my scars,
By my liquor glass- I still have my friends,
Even if I should have died high up on the wild
Back of the buffalo,
Never read, by the red lips of wild flowers, the unabashed
Bouquets the dead Indians dead in the gutters
Of the old fashioned roadways: Again, I loved you,
Erin, but you are too busy serving the truancies of your
Highwaymen to understand my love,
Unabashed and unbred- Aren’t you, Erin;
Yet still my sweet love, my dead light bulb by which
I got to bed every night- Erin,
Amen.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Song Of The Driver
(after Lorca)
Over ice, down hills,
Blue car, pale moon,
Love is calling me
To a fireside in Derry.
(Chorus)
Oh Derry, Derry, Derry,
My own lovely Derry
The capital of the north
West of Erin.
Sure the journey is long
But the car it is sound
As I drive over hills
And through valleys.
(Chorus)
The journey I know well
For I've covered it before
On my way to the
Oak Grove of Erin.
(Chorus)
poem by Liam ó Comáin
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Erin, Oh Erin
Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,
And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright through the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.
The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, though long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.
Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.
Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last.
poem by Thomas Moore
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'Erin Go Braugh' I attest
is the Gaelic phrase that's known best;
But I swear it is better
how she's wearing that sweater
as Erin go bra-less.
quote by by Chuck Audette
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Nesting
Todd Grinnell, Ali Hillis, Kevin Linehan, Erin Chambers, Erin Gray, John Gerbin, Wes Armstrong
from Nesting (2011)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes
Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies,
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise.
Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form in heaven's sight
One arch of peace!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Blue Collar Schizophrenias
If I could live forever somehow
Rectified as a psalm,
It really wouldn’t matter that all my
Best friends are dogs,
And that my latest complexions scribble worry
On my belly,
The stillbirth of my isolated karmas,
And that my poetic images are really not
Much more than blue collar
Schizophrenias:
I love you, I love you-
Isn’t that what I was supposed to sing,
To pull up next to her and rev these engines,
To put my eyes on the cherry sport of her
Jogging legs:
Her name is Erin, and sometimes there are
Storm clouds in the afternoon,
Which wet the equine bodies between the trees,
And I should have my own house sometime
Soon after July 4th,
Where I will begin to daydream beneath the
Stain-glass alders of a new classroom;
And isn’t that absolutely strange: That I should
Be thirty-one and going back to school
For a Ph.D. in Saint Louis, Missouri; and how long
Should I make it before they call me out,
And smell the cheap liquors on my breath,
And find out that I can barely even spell,
That I might be the real reason for the holocaust;
But these lines aren’t nearly even publishable-
They are the sad infatuations I’ve carried on since
Junior high- They are cheap grape soda the fox
Drinks, plump bellied under the broken school bus-
They are her eyes carving caracoles
Like pulling tricks through the despotic cumulus
Over the thorny heads of the grinning reptiles:
This is my thing, my little sport of lines casting into
The freeway’s river: and her name is Erin,
And this is all about her, even as the traffic crowds
And better faces turn to meet hers: These lines
I remember,
And recite just as one of my ancestors getting off
The boat under the burning torch of
Lady Liberty in New York Harbor- Only but the
Freedom of alliterate; and yet I boastfully remember,
Riding a new bicycle through the distended ghettos
Of the reawakened suburbia,
My chief lines- Her name is Erin,
And I am cheaply drunk, but it is love.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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To Erin On The Death Of Her Pony
Erin will remember when others have forgot
Her lovely Shetland pony Camelot
Loose on the road and luck not on his side
Struck by a car near Belgrave Heights he died.
Life can be cruel it's always been that way
And for damage done to car poor Erin has to pay
She lost her pony that not bad enough
And huge damage bill makes it that much more tough.
A pony's just a pony some people might say
And they cost a lot to keep on corn and hay
But those who love horses don't look at cost
And when their equine die they grieve for friendship lost.
In cards her friends have sent their sympathy
They know how hard for her this has to be
And though sympathy won't recover her loss
Her friends are there for to help her bear her cross.
And long after all the others have forgot
Poor Erin will remember Camelot
Her little horse who died on the Roadway
Near Birdsland where his bigger horse friends stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sublime Was the Warning
Sublime was the warning that liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest,
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west --
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot
While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain.
If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights;
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same!
And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and the Olive of Spain!
Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain,
Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light,
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright,
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
God prosper the cause! -- oh, it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain;
Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die!
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave,
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Exile Of Erin
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sign'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle fo the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion.
He sang the bold anthem of Erin Go Bragh!
'Sad is my fate!'- said the heart-broken stranger -
'The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger:
A home and a country remain not to me!
Never again, in my green, sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours;
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin Go Bragh!
'Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But, alas! in a far - foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me!-
They died to defend me!- or live to deplore!
'Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!
'Yet - all its fond recollections suppressing -
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:
Erin!- an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers!- Erin go bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sind aloud with devotion,-
ERIN MAVOURNEEN! ERIN GO BRAGH!'
poem by Thomas Campbell
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I Still Want To Go Down On You, ...., Oh Well
What wonderfully warm suppliant:
Now that I am drunk, and probably shouldn’t
Be writing anything. Yes, I should shut up,
And look at pictures of you, down the well
Of high school, with your tawny legs,
Shaved and brown like the elbows of trees;
But, as you can see, I am writing anyways,
Even if you or anyone else is reading this.
If you do, it will make me laugh, now that everything
Is thoroughly maudlin: I am neither as ugly as I
Fear, nor as handsome as your drunken expectations
Might have hopes. I am drunk, and it is Halloween,
And I am thirty; and I am published, by the great
Philanthropic arm of the queen’s navy, and undoubtedly
You are making lovely eyes with your patrons, or
Whoever you are with. I love you, and I thought
About writing you and telling you that, but
I am not as stupid as you might hope, nor am I
Emily Dickenson holding to the arm of her newly
Procured husband as they are floating down the Nile,
Or anywhere else: My great uncle made fun of my thesis,
But he is a liberal judge, and a c*nt; and now I am
Published: yahoo, and anyway, and anyway, like I said:
I am drunk, and not as handsome as you might expect,
And now I am listening to Jack White spew extemporaneously:
And he is rather quite good, given all the possibilities,
And even if we grew up in Wellington, we loved the true
Happenstance of sunrise of bankruptcy and exports:
Now that I’ve said that, I should laugh and play a video game.
I am only 1/64th Jewish, so I don’t mind where I park:
Today, a woman came with a summons for my father,
Because he has too many horses, but what do you expect?
I’m bone broke, but that is a lie, because I have $150,000,
And I want to go down on you, Erin: I want to go down on
You, Erin, because you are the only thing which is real.
Now pay attention, because I love you,
And you shall survive forever in my voice, if it should
Survive forever; and I want to buy you a house and live with
You for sometime in it, if you should still have the eyes which fancy
A kiss from me:
But like I said, I am drunk, so I do not know if
This is true, but I know who you are, because I
Have painted you in my novels like a salacious virgin,
And let you swim in my grottoes,
Because I love you, or the theory of your thighs
Opening like heavenly doors:
But what now should I write, in order to procure you,
Except that I love you, and when I look at pictures
Of you it makes me swell:
I love you, or the theory of your impermanence;
And I am sure I always will
(Which makes a rhyming couplet.)
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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If You're Lucky Enough To Be Irish
If you're lucky enough to be Irish
Then you're lucky enough they say.
I count my Irish blessings,
As I breathe the air each day.
When I'm somewhere o'er the water
Not walking Erin's shore,
I know my resting place will be
In Ireland for evermore.
I have Irish songs on my lips,
And Irish blood in my veins,
So I tell you I'm lucky to be Irish,
And I'll keep telling you over again.
I'm lucky enough to be Irish.
My children who walk by my side,
Will I hope, too feel the calling,
And someday walk Erin's fields wide.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Prince's Day
Though dark are our sorrows, today we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours.
But just when the chain,
Has ceased to pain,
And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,
There comes a new link,
Our spirits to sink --
Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.
Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!
Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.
While cowards, who blight
Your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,
The Standard of Green
In front would be seen --
Oh, my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.
He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget;
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubileee shine out yet.
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray;
Each fragment will cast
A light to the last --
And thus, Erin, my country, though broken thou art,
There's lustre wiithin thee, that ne'er will decay;
A spirit which beams through each suffering part,
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Farewell
Farewell! Oh how hard and how sad 'tis to speak
That last word of parting—forever to break
The fond ties and affection that cling round the heart
From home and from friends and from country to part.
'Though it grieves to remember, 'tis vain to regret.
The sad word must be spoken, and memory's spell
Now steals o'er me sadly. Farewell! Oh farewell!
Farewell to thy green hills, thy valleys and plains,
My poor blighted country! In exile and chains
Are the sons doomed to linger. Of God who didst bring
Thy children to Zion from Egypt's proud king,
We implore Thy great mercy! Oh stretch forth Thy hand,
And guide back her sons to their poor blighted land.
Never more thy fair face am I destined to see;
E'en the savage loves home, but 'tis crime to love thee.
God bless thee, dear Erin, my loved one, my own,
Oh! how hard 'tis these tendrils to break that have grown
Round my heart. But 'tis over, and memory's spell
Now stears o'er me sadly. Farewell! Oh, Farewell!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Though the Last Glimpse of Erin With Sorrow I See
Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Yes. I was the first female colonel. I enjoyed being that kind of role model for young women watching the show. A woman can be a colonel! A woman can be in charge! Those were new ideas then.
Tis Gone, And For Ever
'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead --
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,
Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled.
'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning,
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.
For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the world;
When Truth, from her letters indignantly starting,
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.
Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then -- had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations -- how sweet had ascended
The first note of liberty , Erin, from thee!
But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptised it in blood.
Then vanish'd for ever that fair sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.
poem by Thomas Moore
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