Paddy Glackin Poems

Privileged rural childhood
Voice honed in stone
Rugged, twisted, wrinkled,
Cancerous, wasted, worn.
...

His line were honed from the earth
they could tell a yarn, and knew the
birds, the trees, the turn of the year,
and signs of real bad weather (including a furze around the moon)
...

I never met his speakeasy uncle who left us all behind
but I played O’Neill’s lament and ran poor racehorses
I didn’t know him when I loved Montague’s grand niece
Walking from the broad road up over Garvaghey hill
...

Why didn’t I find Montague then in 82?
He was still young.
To experience the torrent from
His pen and tongue
...

Inuit lined face ingrained like oak from the surrounding bog
battered and scarred by life, wind and rain
Strong eyes grinning unimpressed by adversity
hand brushed black hair, wiry and unyielding.
...

Is evil stronger than good?
Sure it is.
I have seen it strangle the pure
...

handrail

Glad to see you again old friend
Smoothed for my hand to glide
...

An empty hole dark yet dull
An empty glass an empty bath
Just to touch the tap or reach the spade
Less likely as the years recede
...

You sailed me on a trip up from Oughterard
To see the millionaires castled near Cong
Thinking I was there to meet Mary Kate
Shocked when I docked in Inchagoill
...

You were found dead in a flat on the street
A divorced woman in an unascertained state.

Someone loved you a soulmate once
...