Maurice Riordan Poems

after the Maltese of Immanuel Mifsud

In the electronic age, every nutcase
With a notebook is writing a masterpiece.
...

What’s the Dun Cow doing on the Old Kent Road,
I’m wondering, when who should blow in
But this boyo wearing the moss-green gabardine
My mother wore when out feeding the hens.
...

Each of them has been a god many times:
cat, hedgehog and – our summer interloper – the tortoise.
A perfect triangle, they can neither eat
nor marry one another.
...

after the Irish of Séathrún Céitinn

Dear one, with your wiles,
You’d best remove your hand,
...

from Old English

Here is the water which the Lord of all
Pledged for the well-being of his people.
...

The birds in Nunhead Cemetery begin
Before I've flicked a switch, turned on the gas.
There must be some advantage to the light
...

from Old English
Here is the water which the Lord of all
Pledged for the well-being of his people.
He said it was his wish that water
Should flow forever into this world
Out of the minds of generous men,
Those who serve him beneath the sky.
But none should doubt the water's source
In Heaven, the home of the Holy Ghost.
It is drawn from there by a chosen few
Who make sacred books their study.
They seek out the tidings they contain,
Then spread the word among mankind.
But some retain/withhold it in their hearts.
They never let it pass their lips
Lest it go to waste in the world.
By this means it stays pure and clear,
A pool within each man's breast.
Others pour it freely over all the land,
Though care must be taken lest it flow
Too loud and fast across the fields,
Transforming them to bogs and fens.
Gather round now with your drinking cups,
Gregory has brought the water to your door.
Fill up, and return again for refills.
If you have come with cups that leak
You must hurry to repair and patch them,
Or else you'll squander the rarest gift,
And the drink of life will be lost to you.
...

after the Maltese of Immanuel Mifsud
In the electronic age, every nutcase
With a notebook is writing a masterpiece.
They spend their nights locked up in chat rooms
And emerge with red eyes and love poems.
...

after the Irish of Séathrún Céitinn
Dear one, with your wiles,
You'd best remove your hand,
Though burning with love's fire,
I'm no more an active man.

Look at the grey on my head,
See how my body droops,
Think of my sluggish blood -
What would you have me do?

It's not desire I lack.
Don't bend low like that again!
But love without the act
Must live, slender minx.

Withdraw your lips from mine,
Strong as the inclination is,
Don't brush against my skin,
That could lead to wantonness.

The intricacy of curls,
Soft eyes clear as dew,
The pale sight of your curves,
Give pleasure to me now.

Bar what the body craves,
And lying with you requires,
I'll do for our love's sake,
Dear one, with your wiles.
...

Each of them has been a god many times:
cat, hedgehog and - our summer interloper - the tortoise.
A perfect triangle, they can neither eat
nor marry one another.
And tonight they are gods
under the jasmine under the stars.

Already the hedgehog has scoffed the cat's supper
and she's walked nonplussed beside him
escaping headlong into the bushes.
Wisely now, she keeps an eye on him there,
and on the tortoise
noisily criss-crossing the gravel.

For the cat, jasmine is white
but the stars have colours.
For the hedgehog, there are no stars
only a sky of jasmine,
against which he sniffs something dark,
outlined like a bird of prey.

Wisely, the tortoise ignores both jasmine and stars.
Isn't it enough, she says, to carry the sky on your back,
a sky that is solid, mathematical and delicately coloured -
on which someone, too, has painted
our neighbours' address: 9a Surrey Rd.
Come September, we will post her through their letterbox.
...