Comes to mind as another small
amongst the rubble.
His eye matches exactly the bubble
in my spirit-level.
I set aside hammer and chisel
and take him on the trowel.
The entire population of Ireland
springs from a pair left to stand
overnight in a pond
in the gardens of Trinity College,
two bottle of wine left there to chill
after the Act of Union.
There is, surely, in this story
a moral. A moral for our times.
What if I put him to my head
and squeezed it out of him,
like the juice of freshly squeezed limes,
or a lemon sorbet?
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Frog by Paul Muldoon )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Grace, Jacque Hardison
- Conjure The Music, Margaret Alice Second
- गोरबो इसिँनिफ्राइ -49, Ronjoy Brahma
- Inner Beauty Growing, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- A Baby Hurt, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Brewster's, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- गोरबो इसिँनिफ्राइ -48, Ronjoy Brahma
- Reign of Despair, Luca Menin
- Thoughts Of Prose, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Her Pride and Honor, hasmukh amathalal