Poem of the Day: Hotel by Medbh McGuckian









I think the detectable difference
between winter and summer is a damsel
who requires saving, a heroine half-
asleep and measurably able to hear
but hard to see, like the spaces
between the birds when I turn
back to the sky for another empty feeling

I would bestow on her a name
with a hundred meanings, all of them
secret, going their own way, as surely
as the silvery mosaic of the previous
week, building itself a sort of hotel
in her voice, to be used whenever
the tale was ruthlessly retold.

And let her learn from the sky, which was
clever and quiet, the rain for its suddenness,
that yes on its own can be a sign for silence,
even from that all-too-inviting mouth.

by Medbh McGuckian from Selected Poems

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Poem of the Day: The Door by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin

the door







The Door

When the door opened the lively conversation
Beyond it paused very briefly and then pushed on;
There were sounds of departure, a railway station,
Everyone talking with such hurried animation
The voices could hardly be told apart until one

Rang in a sudden silence: ‘The word when, that’s where you start’–
Then they all shouted goodbye, the trains began to tug and slide;
Joyfully they called while the railways pulled them apart
And the door discreetly closed and turned from a celestial arch
Into merely a door, leaving us cold on the outside.

from The Sun Fish by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin


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Poem of the Day for National Poetry Month:

Pitch & Putt
         Conor O’Callaghan from Seatown And Earlier Poems

Its is the realmtee and golf ball of men
and boys joined in boredom,
the way of life that sees
one day on a par
with the next and school breaks
dragged out too long.

Theirs is the hour killed slowly,
the turn for home
in diminishing threes and twos,
the provisional etiquette
of shared tees,
conceded defeat.

Theirs the loose end,
the nationality of ships
in the absence
of shop to talk,
the freedom to be hopeless
and still come back.

Theirs the blather
of the last twoball
accepting flukes
for what they are,
the greenkeeper collecting flags
and shadows in their wake.


Posted in Arts and Culture, Conor O'Callaghan, Ireland, Irish Poetry, Poem of the Week, Uncategorized | Leave a comment