• Blog,  Poems

    Remembering Our Dead

      100 years ago today (24th October 1918), my great uncle, Michael Walsh, a Private in the 115th regiment of the 3rd Battalion of the US Army, was killed by shrapnel during the Battle of the Meuse-Argonne. He was three weeks past his 30th birthday, and had only arrived in France the previous June. Members of my family, led by my sister, Finola, who has done extensive research into Michael’s life and death, are visiting his grave at the Meuse Argonne American War Cemetery.       Age shall not weary them in memory of Private Michael Walsh, 24/10/1918 St. Enda’s in its prime; sky clear, air crisp, the sheddings…

  • Poems

    I was delighted to be asked to contribute ten poems to UCD’s splendid Irish Poetry Reading Archive. The link to the Youtube recordings are here: http://libguides.ucd.ie/ipra/readingsotor

  • Poems

    For Mother’s Day

    Mammy at Masada If I were to remember you anywhere it would be here, cliff-top, 59 metres above Dead Sea-level, seated on rock, light bouncing off the white glare of your sun-hat, breath spasming in your 85th year of brooking no obstacles. We’d heard the foundation myth on the way up: the no surrender, the 960 men, women and children opting for glorious death. You opt for glorious life, gasp the thin air left in your body, grasp the chance to rise, resume the tour, run upstream of tourists swarming the citadel.

  • Blog,  Poems

    Fancy a free download?

    To celebrate the publication of my first audio book, I’ve got a free code to offer to download the book from the Audible website. All you have to do to win the code is to respond to this post, or to the Facebook posting of this link. I’ll enter each name into a hat and email or Facebook the lucky individual – then all you need to do is write a little review telling the world what you think of Bar Talk. Sweet, eh? You can visit the Audible Page for Bar Talk at http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bar-Talk-Unabridged/dp/B00R794GI4

  • Poems

    A poem for the first day of spring

    St Brigid’s Day, Woodside Road For Fiona Curran It’s just as well we didn’t bet our souls on it. This first day of pagan spring dawns white, the two-day fall blanking out pavements, children making hay of it with snowballs. One attempts, Sisyphus-style, to roll a boulder heavier than his bodyweight up the embankment. Mothers in tracksuits supervise from front-doors, fathers, scrapers in hand, track warily round cars. Sane people stay indoors, waiting for the equinox and the met office to make it official. But I brave the frost, looking for some augury or other, find it in a melted six inch square in Vi’s planter. I hunker down for…