GREECE TO IRELAND

These poems reflect some of my experiences as we moved on from Greece to Ireland.

One of the many conversations we had in Ireland, on the streets of Dingle, was with Arthur Broomfield, the poet, and I start with a poem inspired by his book Ireland Calling.  It imagines a childhood in the Greek Islands and then in Ireland.  
The delightful music was recorded in pubs and on the streets as we travelled around Ireland.

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Podcast S3 E3 - Greece to Ireland

 These poems reflect some of my experiences as we moved on from Greece to Ireland.One of the many conversations we had in Ireland, on the streets of Dingle, was with Arthur Broomfield the poet and I start with a poem inspired by his book Ireland Calling.

My Childhood Reimagined, 

Inspired by Arthur

Here’s to the childhood I never had,

jumping off Greek island rocks 

into crystal clear, sparkling blue

warm Aegean waters

shouting the names of Greek Gods

as we test our courage

leaping off the highest rocks.

Running through tall wet grass

the sun breaking through rain clouds,

we scatter the herd of shy calves

just waking in the early morning,

In the field of Irish wild flowers

the fox cubs and badgers

are returning from their night hunts.

We good Irish lads

spent the day in school,

waiting for the evening fireside stories

the comforting smell of burning peat,

from our farming families

Creamy steaming porridge ,

wild blackberries we picked,

an occasional egg

thick brown bread

even thicker with Kerry Gold.

Ready again we start another day

,

SHEAMUS CASSIDY

So good to see you again,

After all these years.

Sheamus the farmer 

Caring for his land.

Sharing his greenhouse veggies

Cleaning potatoes with rain water

We cooked and laughed together

The vegetarian stew cooking.

We experienced  sacred earthen sites:

The mystical royal hill of Tara,

Sunset over Clow Lough,

Sitting in the Stone Age mounds.

Walking down slowly 

Through, now curious, munching sheep,

As puffy white clouds and golden light

Rolled over the bright green hills.

As time marched on we reached

The ancient Abbey of Bective,

With roofless arches and cloisters,

Chapels and halls

Then onto the moats and towers

Restored Trim castle

Roofs, staircases, furnishings

Imagine its lords and ladies,

living the good life.

Back in the home Sheamus’s father built

Heated with local peat bricks

Surrounded by grassy fields for cows

wild flower fields for foxes and badgers 

It’s time to say goodbye

And get on our merry way

To explore the rest of Ireland,

And remember to come back soon

To Sheamus and his land.

>>>>>>>>>

Every town has its story

Every town has its story

Kinsale, the Armada that failed

Cork, the birth of Kerry Gold

Dingle, the community of musicians 

Early morning towards Dingle lighthouse

Where Fungie the dolphin is memorialized

Sun rising revealing across the bay

And the waters gentle swells

Distant Misty hills

And below me swirling whirlpools

Frothing and foaming

Like grey and white Guinness.

 Skellig Michael 

Cutting through wind and chop

circling the monk’s island

now home to gannets, puffins

and resting seals

I will return 

to climb up

Six hundred steps 

to feel beehive homes

to see hump back whales

to hear the nesting puffins

I will return.

Ireland’s true beauty

The depth of Ireland’s beauty

Not the dramatic coastal cliffs

nor Guinness, or fish and chips

nor ancient mystical monuments

nor cathedrals, churches, 

castles and abbeys.

The beauty is the people, the poets

the story tellers, the musicians

the whirling tapping dancers

that open your heart

awaken the spirit

You want to dance and sing 

to become one with these people

of the Emerald isle.

©MartinStrasmore2022

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