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Don't reserve your best behavior for special occasions. You can't have two sets of manners, two social codes - one for those you admire and want to impress, another for those whom you consider unimportant. You must be the same to all people.

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The Needs Of All People

If the needs of all people,
Had with persistence been a promise met...
To reflect a sincerity and prioritized as kept,
There would be no homelessness or hunger to regret.
The needs of all people,
Were ignored to feed a few their greed.
Leaving those same greedy people,
To panic and cause havoc...
With a doing done selfishly.
And realizing the feast they have fed,
Has from them fled permanently!
With no one perceiving they deserve sympathy.

'Excuse us those who weep.
But we have arrived to feed the needs of those meek,
And faithfully loyal to all humanity.'

What about 'us'? ~

'We believe and can see,
You have isolated yourselves enough.
And in our way you can not stay.
Your version of life has been too corrupted.
What on Earth did you think?
You were chosen to forever,
Feast, wine and drink.
To leave the others on the brink?
Get out of our way.
We are not moved by your tears.
Nor should anyone fear...
The uselessness of your senseless weapons.
Get out of our way.'

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You Must Dropp The Seed

i am the field, plowed fertile field
near the river
some dogs are buried within me
some snakes live here
i know their wishes and desire

somehow i wait for you as the rain
and you as the sower
of the seeds
pour some sweat of your brow
and let your arms swing
let the seeds

that is all i want
that is all that i am waiting for
just dropp the seed
and i will let them grow

then you can leave

i will take care of the snakes
and i will always remember all the dogs sleeping here

now you must leave
the seeds shall grow spontaneously as i watch the seasons change

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You Weren't The Same.......

Now I dont know
Why you changed so much,
We used to exchange
Our secret love,
I feel forlorn, you aren't
The same as before,
I pray always you to return
To your way as before,
I long for your hand
In my hand and a muse
On our lips
Which we enjoyed a long time,
Come on, baby,
Change back where you were
When we can be together
And be happy as afore,
Change baby change,
And be my love again,
And be pleasure of my heart.

Ravikiran Arakkal

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if you are on the same boat with me. Come.

as you read these lines
(let me tell you, there is nothing
significant, and i may advise you
to quit and may even ask
that you write your own
it may be good for you
than continue to read
on the next line...

why not write
something about yourself and the
full moon and the lonely tree
that needs badly a
good company to pass the dark
night away)

why not just be
on your own,
solitude and self-introspection?
the secret journey to your heart
looking for
the place that is only for you

happiness, right?
eternal bliss, how about it?

you are curious about my boredom
the ennui of the century
perhaps you like to know how i deal
with the numbness of my being

every night every day
when slowly i die and feel so excited
about ending this ordeal and

how i cope with it

yes, the it.
this it. my it. this self....

attempting on
writing lines

whatever lines that come into my mind
words that try to please my senses
symbols that give me hope
figures of gods who may be able to say
something wise and
images. lots of images...

the image of the wind
on the wings of the seagulls

the colors changing on the horizon
like a swab of orange and red and black
or blood

or pastel green on the shadows of the hills
or the brightness of the sun when i stare at it and hurt my eyes
and then i close them
and see this world as all red
bursting red
like a sunset coming
and then fading away like a song
of a flute faraway

i wish i could stop writing
i wish that i could get a nice sleep
a restive mind
a peaceful state
a harmony of all my sense
up and down

but nothing seems to work right for me
i tried to sing the songs of love
but my ears say

liar! you do not have love in your heart
you do not know the feeling anymore

i tried drawing my thoughts and putting bright colors
on the images of green fields and blues skies
and stars and even seven moons of the other planets
but always they end up so displeasing

i am looking for the meaning of my life and if you are
on the same boat with me
then come and take the ride
on the stormy sea
no lamplight
no island to land
no north star to guide us

i ask you to quit reading but you are just like me
hardheaded human being insisting that there is meaning to all these
and the inability to stop
and be a quitter

quieter, i mean.

in the silence of the cat's feet
cautiously catching another prey
let me stop now. quit me.

Look at the sky. Do you see stars?

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You Dont Feel The Same

(carly simon)
Honey, I dont want you to see me this way
So out of control
So carried away
cause you dont feel the same
And I remember times when I was your storm
I blew hot and cold
And you were so warm
But, now you dont feel the same
I remember when you were looking up at me
Like I was the only one
That youd ever wanna see
Honey, how can I ask you to stay
When youre already gone
Theres no one to blame
Its just that you dont feel the same
I touch you
Your eyes look away
Your hands are cold
The balance has changed
And darling, you dont feel
Honey, you dont feel
No, you dont feel the same

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You Must Understand The Mockingbird

at night
the mockingbird still
haunts her

it's nature is to mock
to imitate
it cannot get away from it
it dies
otherwise it ceases to be
one good mocking bird

you must understand
there are those who live
to copy
because they are born to be
that way

if you get irritated
by the mockingbird
that becomes
your own responsibility

soon you will cease
the mockingbird shall sing
a funeral song for you

if not write an elegy.

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Beloved, You Must Do As I Have Told You

i can no longer give it to you
because i have given it to
no one,
nothing receives it
and if falls in nowhere.

i have nothing more to give
and now the power of your
understanding shall be tested
if you must still
take me as your beloved

i am nothing now, the wind is
more with flesh
and the water is warmer
than my skin

i am a stone and the rivers
deny me
i am this part of your universe
where the sun
cannot shine anymore

the only way that you can make me live
is release me from your

i am nobody now and
even if you utter my name
like a possession
like a jewel
i do not dare any glow
i am rust amidst the salt of the sea.

do not deny me this freedom of the winged
i am no longer the fire in the cold
not even a grass for the grave.

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You Must Believe Me

You must believe me
No matter what the people might say
You must believe me
Darling it just didnt happen that way
No, no it just didnt happen that way
You come home
With something on your mind
Tell me darling
Why are you crying
I said be serious
No time for fun
Youre tryin to tell me
Something that Ive done
The things you heard
Couldnt be denied
But before your opinion
Listen to my side
You must believe me
No matter what the people might say
You must believe me
Darling it just didnt happen that way
No, no it just didnt happen that way
Oh oh
Oh oh
You come home
With something on your mind
Tell me darling
Why are you crying
I said be serious
No time for fun
Youre tryin to tell me
Something that Ive done
The things you heard
Couldnt be denied
But before your opinion
Listen to my side
You must believe me
No matter what the people might say
You must believe me
You must believe me
You must believe me

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You Say That The Battle Is Over

And you say that the battle is over,
And you say that the war is all done-
Go tell it to those with the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun,
And write it on the sides of the great whaling-ships,
Or on ice floes where conscience is tossed-
With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die
And it's we who must measure the loss.
And you say that the battle is over,
And finally the world is at peace-
You mean no one is dying, and mothers don't weep,
Or it's not in the papers, at least.
There are those who would deal in the darkness of life,
There are those who would tear down the sun,
And most men are ruthless, but some will still weep
When the gifts we were given are gone.
Now the blame cannot fall on the heads of a few,
It's become such a part of the race;
It's eternally tragic for that which is magic
To be killed at the end of the glorious chase.
>From young seals to great whales,
>From waters to woods,
They will fall just like weeds in the wind;
With fur coats, and perfumes, and trophies on walls:
What a hell of a race to call men.
And you say that the battle is over,
And you say that the war is all done-
Go tell it to those with the wind in their nose
Who run from the sound of the gun.
And write it on the sides of the great whaling-ships,
Or on ice floes where conscience is tossed;
With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die,
And it's we who must measure the loss.
With the wild in their eyes, it is they who must die,
And it's we who must measure the cost

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To You Whom I Love More Than Myself (Sonnet Redoublé)


You to whom my feelings are obvious,
may God guide you
(even if I am being presumptuous)
through every day, keeping you true,

in everything grant all that’s good,
make you sure
in every day, temper every mood
great and pure

and may He be in everything
that you put your hand to,
giving His greatest blessing,
may you be excelling in all that you do;

once I saw you jolly and free,
I saw you long-legged wading into the sea


I saw you long-legged wading into the sea
the epitome of youthfulness,
with no frivolity
and you were deadly serious without meekness

entering as if approaching a holy living thing
leaving the shallows you were going in deep
and it was if you were searching for something,
something from the deep beyond that you could keep

and not going to plunder, but were hunting for a holy relic
something with great wonder,
not to hang around your neck like a charm or some garlic
not made by man, or from the elements like thunder:

I watched you searching for something beyond man’s affairs,
from our lounge chairs.


From our lounge chairs
across from the fireplace
there was passion on your face
and it was sweet sincerity without putting on airs

where we were living out our lives, our own affairs
with depth and sweetness in every embrace
with love and true grace
in the presence of the One from upstairs

and the firelight sparkled in your hair
while outside it sieved down rain
with a crimson glare and you thought we were being stalked,
with something reflecting against the windowpane
and on the other side something was there;
we went out and we walked.


We went out and we walked
along the lane from oak tree to oak tree
and holding hands we talked
and as far as we could see

the lane ran right into town,
on the little knoll, were only you and I
and we walked down,
were in love and free and above us the sky

and that spring
you had blossoms in your hair,
everything was flowering
and you were past beautiful fair

we were looking at some freshly painted art,
at the restaurant where we greeted to part


At the restaurant we greeted to part
and there was something weird, something touching
as again to you, I had lost my heart
and it was totally amazing

and I am still trying to think
what had happened with our goodbyes?
At what had happened with our last drink?
With your burning, aching-bright sea green eyes.

Still love slumbers on and you have been gone
for more than twenty years
as the true one
and I have cried so many tears

when you broke my heart,
you were my first sweetheart.


You were my first sweetheart
astonishing beautiful and gay,
I had feelings that we would never part
that we had something that could not pass away,

while we walked up into the hill
on a small track meandering,
you following out of love and freewill
and a gentle breeze was whispering

through the trees in the wood
and the forest had a great smell
and life was great, far better than good
and everything was far better than well

while you loved me gaily,
there was sweet serenity.


There was sweet serenity,
at a rock ledge
the feeling of being totally free
and we were almost right on the edge

and passion flared up between you and me.
When I found a disa, a wild orchid,
you were utterly pretty
and the flower’s beauty was quite vivid

being deeply blue hued
and I gave the flower to you and we were together
your eyes glimmered true
and that moment could have lasted forever,

we waited until late saw a white dove;
there was a golden moon in the sky, my love.


There was a golden moon in the sky, my love
and the wind was blowing again
with sparkling stars in the sky above
and later there might have been some rain.

We are far apart, my love,
with more than a thousand miles in between
but in my heart’s alcove
like you another has never been.

I do not know how the night looks, my love,
in the place that you call home
if you also hear the cooing of a dove,
as tonight we are both alone

and somehow my heart is full of pain,
I am wondering if I could do it all again?


I am wondering if I could do it all again
visit you like I did then,
motorbike to you in the rain,
bringing you flowers from a glen?

Through other relationships
that has brought an own meaning
my life have gone with rises and dips
like it did from the very beginning.

Now it’s somewhat strange
to know you and not to know you at all
and our lives are different as if rearranged,
in things big and small

but we can make it up in many ways,
even if we are absent for days.


Even if we are absent for days,
for weeks or months without end
and your loving rays
that folds over me becomes spend,

even if destiny twist our lives
or even a demon’s rage
is all that nature gives
and destruction be our wage

then still in faith, truth and trust
our love can conquer time and space,
past this world of stone and dust,
past the abilities of the human race

with feelings finding a way to pave,
taking a honeymoon, being brave.


Taking a honeymoon, being brave
driving somewhere up through the hills,
while for each other we still crave
experiencing new things and many thrills

might turn things between us back
to what it was supposed to be
if to our lives we find a new track
where you share your life with me.

Time have swept past much too fast
while between us remain great memories
and I know we cannot relive the past,
turn back time, which feels almost like centuries

and maybe your feelings are somewhat wavering,
what’s in the remembering?


What’s in the remembering,
about the first passionate kiss,
about the first time in bliss,
about every single thing

that we were doing
about feelings that we could not dismiss,
that the university tried to make their business
looking eye to eye in the wooing,

but then we were aflame
with something much more
than passion something with sincerity
that hit to the heart, went to the centre core
made us explore the intricacies of love,
but at a time I thought you did not like me.


But at a time I thought you did not like me
while you looked at me in a strange way
and I was more in love than it suited me to say,
to myself I promised to let you be

when at your car we met and you set you long hair free
and I wanted to walk out of your life and away
on that particular day
but sparks in your eyes I did see

and I realised how much I had misread you
before your lips met mine
when I was totally charmed
and the bliss was remarkable and true,
while lips were touching with something divine,
never was I so overwhelmed.


Never was I so overwhelmed
with love so sincere, so complete
and my eyes, body, heart confirmed
my feelings when we did meet

and your face did glow
as if you had experienced the same thing
and then I did not know
if it was a curse or a blessing

and when I lost you the sheer pain
of how much I missed you, wanted to kiss you
made me think that I would not love again,
turned my whole world to being blue

but here we are again the two of us,
you to whom my feelings are obvious.


You to whom my feelings are obvious,
I saw you long-legged wading into the sea,
from our lounge chairs
we went out and we walked.

At the restaurant we greeted to part,
you were my first sweetheart,
there was sweet serenity,
there was a golden moon in the sky, my love.

I am wondering if I could do it all again,
even if we are absent for days,
taking a honeymoon, being brave,
what’s in the remembering?

But at a time I thought you did not like me,
never was I so overwhelmed.

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Dream My Friend, You Must Dream

dream my friend
without dreams we become too real

and reality stinks like a stone without gloss
without color
plain weight without sight
the hardness
that Sisyphus
suffers unnecessarily

so my friend you must dream
the world is too much
for us to bear

dream we must to dare
we have still time to spare

without dreams we are nothing
we are worse than nothing

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Your best days

When you’re cold and tired
In times of misdeeds and epic trials
In darkest night, and deadly long miles
I hold the flame high, your champion and saving grace
For whom but me, can be your ease
In your grandest moments and famous failures
I’ll hold you high so the edge can be grasped
I’ll pull you up, even by your own bootstraps
Perhaps you wouldn’t do the same, but I ask for none
Except your loyalty and heart
I am selfish, for I want your all
Your best days, your bravest soul
Your pretty smile for days on end
I want your laugh, your lust and love….

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If you're not the one

If you're not the one...Then why does your smile make my day?
If you're not the one...Then why is it so hard to keep away?
If you're not the one...Then why do i dream of you at night?
If you're not the one...Then why are you so precious in my sight?
If you're not the one...Then then why do i feel so?
If you're not the one...Then why is it so hard to let go?
If you're not the one...Then then why does our distance hurt me?
If you're not the one...Then why is that what my heart tells me?
If you're not the one...Then i don't know what to do....
If you're not the one...Then then why can i never imagine a life without you
If you're not the one...Then why do i cry without you
If you're not the one...Then then who?
you're the one.... i know its you!
If you're the one.... why is it so wrong to love you?

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The Fighter

don't ever give up, don't ever give in
you're a fighter you will win.
there will be obstacles put in your way
but you will move them, they will not stay.

look at the battles that lie ahead
and find the path that you will tread.
set your goal in your mind
open all the doors until you find
the door that leads you to the light
and with GODS help you'll know it's right.

perseverance and determination
is what saved our nation.
from our civil war we learned to unite
and overcame all obstacles within our sight.

so you must do the same
as our forefathers
had done before.
if you want to settle the score.

fight everything that comes your way
if in this world you want to stay.
some doors will open
and many will close
but that part of life
will keep you on your toes.

you are a fighter and be proud of that
for there is no turning back

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You Must Leave Me


You must leave me as I was before.
You must let me be at peace.
You must not hold on to my heart anymore.
My heart you must release.

Yes, I love thee like the sky loves the sun
and know that I always will.
Yes, I love thee like children love to run
with hearts that are racing still.

I cannot be left with just your voice
although it’s the voice I hear.
My needs are selfish where you’re concerned.
I need all of you, my dear.

I need your hands, your mouth, your smile,
your passion and your heart.
And since that’s near impossible
you must leave me. You must depart.

The music will change when you go.
No longer will melodies play
like they did when first we met, my love,
no longer on any day.

You must leave me as I was before,
despondent and not knowing why?
You must leave me now, my love and know
that I’ll love you until I die.

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At The End You Must Become The Part Of Everyone

not all paths are the same
not everything are carved by tradition

somehow you deviate not because you want to deviate
it is just written in the lines of your palm and there is no way
that you can avoid it

oedipus rex is not an exception
what he wanted to avoid he instead entered
it is the tragedy that leads him precisely
to his own tragic fate

someone was once asking: who wants to be myself?
and no one answered quite well
most people find themselves unwanted and that is tragedy by itself

' i never wanted to be myself' the ugly creature in grief said it frankly
to himself who never answered him

you end up unsatisfied and resigned
how heavy is it to carry oneself as a burden
how unfaithful one can be
what a disadvantage to keep an enemy within you
what tragic moment
to hurt your feet with your own hands
to torture your mind with your own thoughts
to pluck out your eyes from your sockets because you do not want to see yourself or to uproot your very nerves that you think are the ones hurting your bones to tear your heart apart
and shatter your fragile self into some kind of irreconcilable pieces

what if you were just as gentle as the wind caressing the waves of the sea
as warm as the sun landing on the valley
your hands are not dichotomies
your heart never a wasted part of your body

what forget the self and think of it as nothing
so that you shall become the wind of the earth
the sea of the continent
the earth on this universe? a darkness moving with space which has become the part of everyone.

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lenexa Baptist Church = Trust In The Lord With All Your Heart & Soul


We pray and pray when we should stop asking
And take the time to listen and say thank you.
Our motives of mind must stay righteous and clear
To overcome our transgressions and renew.

Think of young David as he faced Goliath
With nothing but a sling and five stones he chose.
He listened to God and ran forth to glory
Toppling the giant, for the vultures and crows.

When we fully surrender our trust to God
Our life will never remain the same
Our heart bows in obedient submission
And all that we are has divinity to blame.


God has the power to move Heaven and earth
If we just surrender and follow in His path.
By turning a deaf ear toward His commandments
We suffer punishment, desperation and wrath.

God never takes pleasure from the death of a sinner
Who has refused the splendor of His grace.
When we ignore Jesus as our Savior
Were lost to shame, despair and disgrace

Trust in the Lord to navigate your heart
And He will always be there to guide you.
Never question His power, love or deliverance
As you struggle to repent and renew.

Never be ashamed to get down on your knees
And pray for deliverance from sin.
As time closes doors, God opens others
And by the power of assurance we rise, again.


A wise man gives up what he cant keep
To gain what he cannot lose.
All Through life we make our judgments
Praying for the right path to choose.

Believers feel God is a footstep away
With His love, forgiveness and power.
All we have to do is observe His word
And by divine intervention we flower.

Never be afraid to pray humbly to God
For His light to shine from your face.
The more we surrender and obey His will
The more we facilitate His Grace.

Life without faith, deliverance and love
Becomes a selfish person’s hell.
By severing our Lord without question
We stay happier, productive, and well.

The Lord is aware of all we commit
Our secrets, joys, evils and fears.
Loving us despite our repeated mistakes
And even more, when we cry out in tears.


God can make life glorious and rewarding
When we continuously stay willing to wait.
He’s conscious of all and helps plan our purpose
When we trust Him without hesitation and debate.

David could have killed King Saul twice
But he was told by God to be patient and wait.
After ten years he was officially crowned King
For God was the master of his fortune and fate.

There’s something about waiting we just cant stand
Though when we walk without God we fall.
When we patiently wait and trust His word
We’re blessed by His forgiveness and call.

Waiting on God means we honor His will
As we purify our motives and inspiration.
When we heed His word we obtain His best
Trusting our future to divine creation.

When we refuse to submit we’re overwhelmed by sin,
Fear, remorse, mistrust, selfishness and wrath.
As Christians we wait no matter how long
For God to reveal our purpose, destination and path.

God always knows what is best for us
And we must march to His will and power.
When we follow His commands we become as one
As His deliverance enables us to flower.


You will always have peace no mater your circumstance
When you trust in the Lord with all your heart and soul.
Why stay miserable, unhappy and lost
When the joys of goodness should be your goal?

The Lord’s hand is not short, it can save anyone
Sin is what separates you from His grace.
When you die without Christ you’re dead forever
Lost in the darkness of shame, despair and disgrace.

Remember God always keeps every promise
And you should trust Him to change your fate.
When you suffer from troubles, heartbreak and pain
Stay focused on His word before it’s too late.

The key to everlasting peace is your relationship with God
And His splendor surpasses all worldly understanding.
You will never know peace if you refuse to submit
Rendering life too dreadful, outrageous and demanding.

To keep from being doomed and blown off course.
Christ is your anchor in life’s storm filled sea.
When you’re tested by circumstance, He will override
Freeing you from trepidation to be blessed, by Thee.

By God’s Poet Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web

To Read Or Listen To Tom Zart’s Poems Go To =

http: //
http: // f=38

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The Great Hunger

Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men
Loved the light and the queen
Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself
Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe'en?
We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain,
Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles
Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way.
A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.
Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins.
What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better
Than his mud-gloved fingers probe in this insensitive hair.
'Move forward the basket and balance it steady
In this hollow. Pull down the shafts of that cart, Joe,
And straddle the horse,' Maguire calls.
'The wind's over Brannagan's, now that means rain.
Graip up some withered stalks and see that no potato falls
Over the tail-board going down the ruckety pass -
And that's a job we'll have to do in December,
Gravel it and build a kerb on the bog-side. Is that Cassidy's ass
Out in my clover? Curse o' God
Where is that dog?.
Never where he's wanted' Maguire grunts and spits
Through a clay-wattled moustache and stares about him from the height.
His dream changes like the cloud-swung wind
And he is not so sure now if his mother was right
When she praised the man who made a field his bride.
Watch him, watch him, that man on a hill whose spirit
Is a wet sack flapping about the knees of time.
He lives that his little fields may stay fertile when his own body
Is spread in the bottom of a ditch under two coulters crossed in Christ's Name.
He was suspicious in his youth as a rat near strange bread,
When girls laughed; when they screamed he knew that meant
The cry of fillies in season. He could not walk
The easy road to destiny. He dreamt
The innocence of young brambles to hooked treachery.
O the grip, O the grip of irregular fields! No man escapes.
It could not be that back of the hills love was free
And ditches straight.
No monster hand lifted up children and put down apes
As here.
'O God if I had been wiser!'
That was his sigh like the brown breeze in the thistles.
He looks, towards his house and haggard. 'O God if I had been wiser!'
But now a crumpled leaf from the whitethorn bushes
Darts like a frightened robin, and the fence
Shows the green of after-grass through a little window,
And he knows that his own heart is calling his mother a liar
God's truth is life - even the grotesque shapes of his foulest fire.
The horse lifts its head and cranes
Through the whins and stones
To lip late passion in the crawling clover.
In the gap there's a bush weighted with boulders like morality,
The fools of life bleed if they climb over.
The wind leans from Brady's, and the coltsfoot leaves are holed with rust,
Rain fills the cart-tracks and the sole-plate grooves;
A yellow sun reflects in Donaghmoyne
The poignant light in puddles shaped by hooves.
Come with me, Imagination, into this iron house
And we will watch from the doorway the years run back,
And we will know what a peasant's left hand wrote on the page.
Be easy, October. No cackle hen, horse neigh, tree sough, duck quack.

Maguiire was faithful to death:
He stayed with his mother till she died
At the age of ninety-one.
She stayed too long,
Wife and mother in one.
When she died
The knuckle-bones were cutting the skin of her son's backside
And he was sixty-five.
O he loved his mother
Above all others.
O he loved his ploughs
And he loved his cows
And his happiest dream
Was to clean his arse
With perennial grass
On the bank of some summer stream;
To smoke his pipe
In a sheltered gripe
In the middle of July.
His face in a mist
And two stones in his fist
And an impotent worm on his thigh.
But his passion became a plague
For he grew feeble bringing the vague
Women of his mind to lust nearness,
Once a week at least flesh must make an appearance.
So Maguire got tired
Of the no-target gun fired
And returned to his headland of carrots and cabbage
To the fields once again
Where eunuchs can be men
And life is more lousy than savage.

Poor Paddy Maguire, a fourteen-hour day
He worked for years. It was he that lit the fire
And boiled the kettle and gave the cows their hay.
His mother tall hard as a Protestant spire
Came down the stairs barefoot at the kettle-call
And talked to her son sharply: 'Did you let
The hens out, you?' She had a venomous drawl
And a wizened face like moth-eaten leatherette.
Two black cats peeped between the banisters
And gloated over the bacon-fizzling pan.
Outside the window showed tin canisters.
The snipe of Dawn fell like a whirring stone
And Patrick on a headland stood alone.
The pull is on the traces, it is March
And a cold black wind is blowing from Dundalk.
The twisting sod rolls over on her back
The virgin screams before the irresistible sock.
No worry on Maguire's mind this day
Except that he forgot to bring his matches.
'Hop back there Polly, hoy back, woa, wae,
From every second hill a neighbour watches
With all the sharpened interest of rivalry.
Yet sometimes when the sun comes through a gap
These men know God the Father in a tree:
The Holy Spirit is the rising sap,
And Christ will be the green leaves that will come
At Easter from the sealed and guarded tomb.
Primroses and the unearthly start of ferns
Among the blackthorn shadows in the ditch,
A dead sparrow and an old waistcoat. Maguire learns
As the horses turn slowly round the which is which
Of love and fear and things half born to mind
He stands between the plough-handles and he sees
At the end of a long furrow his name signed
Among the poets, prostitutes. With all miseries
He is one. Here with the unfortunate
Who for half-moments of paradise
Pay out good days and wait and wait
For sunlight-woven cloaks. O to be wise
As Respectability that knows the price of all things
And marks God's truth in pounds and pence and farthings.

April, and no one able to calculate
How far it is to harvest. They put down
The seeds blindly with sensuous groping fingers
And sensual dreams sleep dreams subtly underground.
Tomorrow is Wednesday - who cares?
'Remember Eileen Farrelly? I was thinking
A man might do a damned sight worse …' That voice is blown
Through a hole in a garden wall -
And who was Eileen now cannot be known.
The cattle are out on grass
The corn is coming up evenly.
The farm folk are hurrying to catch Mass:
Christ will meet them at the end of the world, the slow and the speedier.
But the fields say: only Time can bless.
Maguire knelt beside a pillar where he could spit
Without being seen. He turned an old prayer round:
'Jesus, Mary, Joseph pray for us
Now and at the Hour.' Heaven dazzled death.
'Wonder should I cross-plough that turnip-ground.'
The tension broke. The congregation lifted it head
As one man and coughed in unison.
Five hundred hearts were hungry for life-
Who lives in Christ shall never die the death.
And the candle-lit Altar and the flowers
And the pregnant Tabernacle lifted a moment to Prophecy
Out of the clayey hours
Maguire sprinkled his face with holy water
As the congregation stood up for the Last Gospel.
He rubbed the dust off his knees with his palm, and then
Coughed the prayer phlegm up from his throat and sighed: Amen.
Once one day in June when he was walking
Among his cattle in the Yellow Meadow
He met a girl carrying a basket
And he was then a young and heated fellow.
Too earnest, too earnest! He rushed beyond the thing
To the unreal. And he saw Sin
Written in letters larger than John Bunyan dreamt of.
For the strangled impulse there is no redemption.
And that girl was gone and he was counting
The dangers in the fields where love ranted
He was helpless. He saw his cattle
And stroked their flanks in lieu of wife to handle.
He would have changed the circle if he could,
The circle that was the grass track where he ran.
Twenty times a day he ran round the field
And still there was no winning-post where the runner is cheered home.
Desperately he broke the tune,
But however he tried always the same melody lept up from the background,
The dragging step of a ploughman going home through the guttery
Headlands under an April-watery moon.
Religion, the fields and the fear of the Lord
And Ignorance giving him the coward's blow,
He dared not rise to pluck the fantasies
From the fruited Tree of Life. He bowed his head
And saw a wet weed twined about his toe.

Evening at the cross-roads -
Heavy heads nodding out words as wise
As the ruminations of cows after milking.
From the ragged road surface a boy picks up
A piece of gravel and stares at it-and then
Tosses it across the elm tree on to the railway.
He means nothing.
Not a damn thing
Somebody is coming over the metal railway bridge
And his hobnailed boots on the arches sound like a gong
Calling men awake. But the bridge is too narrow -
The men lift their heads a moment. That was only John,
So they dream on.
Night in the elms, night in the grass.
O we are too tired to go home yet. Two cyclists pass
Talking loudly of Kitty and Molly?
Horses or women? wisdom or folly?
A door closes on an evicted dog
Where prayers begin in Barney Meegan's kitchen :
Rosie curses the cat between her devotions;
The daughter prays that she may have three wishes -
Health and wealth and love -
From the fairy who is faith or hope or compounds of.
At the cross-roads the crowd had thinned out:
Last words were uttered. There is no to-morrow;
No future but only time stretched for the mowing of the hay
Or putting an axle in the turf-barrow.
Patrick Maguire went home and made cocoa
And broke a chunk off the loaf of wheaten bread;
His mother called down to him to look again
And make sure that the hen-house was locked. His sister grunted in bed
The sound of a sow taking up a new position.
Pat opened his trousers wide over the ashes
And dreamt himself to lewd sleepiness.
The clock ticked on. Time passes.

Health and wealth and love he too dreamed of in May
As he sat on the railway slope and watched the children of the place
Picking up a primrose here and a daisy there -
They were picking up life's truth singly.
But he dreamt of the Absolute envased bouquet -
AIl or nothing. And it was nothing. For God is not all
In one place, complete
Till Hope comes in and takes it on his shoulder -
O Christ, that is what you have done for us:
In a crumb of bread the whole mystery is.
He read the symbol too sharply and turned
From the five simple doors of sense
To the door whose combination lock has puzzled
Philosopher and priest and common dunce.
Men build their heavens as they build their circles
Of friends. God is in the bits and pieces of Everyday -
A kiss here and a laugh again, and sometimes tears,
A pearl necklace round the neck of poverty.
He sat on the railway slope and watched the evening,
Too beautifully perfect to use,
And his three wishes were three stones too sharp to sit on,
Too hard to carve. Three frozen idols of a speechless muse.

'Now go to Mass and pray and confess your sins
And you'll have all the luck,' his mother said.
He listened to the lie that is a woman's screen
Around a conscience when soft thighs are spread.
And all the while she was setting up the lie
She trusted in Nature that never deceives.
But her son took it as literal truth.
Religion's walls expand to the push of nature. Morality yields
To sense - but not in little tillage fields.
Life went on like that. One summer morning
Again through a hay-field on her way to the shop -
The grass was wet and over-leaned the path -
And Agnes held her skirts sensationally up,
And not because the grass was wet either.
A man was watching her, Patrick Maguire.
She was in love with passion and its weakness
And the wet grass could never cool the fire
That radiated from her unwanted womb in that metaphysical land
Where flesh was thought more spiritual than music
Among the stars - out of reach of the peasant's hand.
Ah, but the priest was one of the people too -
A farmers son - and surely he knew
The needs of a brother and sister.
Religion could not be a counter-irritant like a blister,
But the certain standard, measured and known
By which man might re-make his soul though all walls were down
And all earth's pedestalled gods thrown.

Sitting on a wooden gate,
Sitting on a wooden gate,
Sitting on a wooden gate
He didn't care a damn.
Said whatever came into his head,
Said whatever came into his head,
Said whatever came into his head
And inconsequently sang.
While his world withered away,
He had a cigarette to smoke and a pound to spend
On drink the next Saturday.
His cattle were fat
And his horses all that
Midsummer grass could make them.
The young women ran wild
And dreamed of a child
Joy dreams though the fathers might forsake them
But no one would take them;
No man could ever see
That their skirts had loosed buttons,
O the men were as blind as could be.
And Patrick Maguire
From his. purgatory fire
Called the gods of the Christian to prove
That this twisted skein
Was the necessary pain
And not the rope that was strangling true love.
But sitting on a wooden gate
Sometime in July
When he was thirty-four or five
He gloried in the lie:
He made it read the way it should,
He made life read the evil good
While he cursed the ascetic brotherhood
Without knowing why.
Sitting on a wooden gate
All, all alone
He sang and laughed
Like a man quite daft,
Or like a man on a channel raft
He fantasied forth his groan.
Sitting on a wooden gate,
Sitting on a wooden gate,
Sitting on a wooden gate
He rode in day-dream cars.
He locked his body with his knees
When the gate swung too much in the breeze.
But while he caught high ecstasies
Life slipped between the bars.

He gave himself another year,
Something was bound to happen before then -
The circle would break down
And he would carve the new one to his own will.
A new rhythm is a new life
And in it marriage is hung and money.
He would be a new man walking through unbroken meadows
Of dawn in the year of One.
The poor peasant talking to himself in a stable door
An ignorant peasant deep in dung.
What can the passers-by think otherwise?
Where is his silver bowl of knowledge hung?
Why should men be asked to believe in a soul
That is only the mark of a hoof in guttery gaps?
A man is what is written on the label.
And the passing world stares but no one stops
To look closer. So back to the growing crops
And the ridges he never loved.
Nobody will ever know how much tortured poetry the pulled weeds on the ridge wrote
Before they withered in the July sun,
Nobody will ever read the wild, sprawling, scrawling mad woman's signature,
The hysteria and the boredom of the enclosed nun of his thought.
Like the afterbirth of a cow stretched on a branch in the wind
Life dried in the veins of these women and men:
'The grey and grief and unloved,
The bones in the backs of their hands,
And the chapel pressing its low ceiling over them.
Sometimes they did laugh and see the sunlight,
A narrow slice of divine instruction.
Going along the river at the bend of Sunday
The trout played in the pools encouragement
To jump in love though death bait the hook.
And there would be girls sitting on the grass banks of lanes.
Stretch-legged and lingering staring -
A man might take one of them if he had the courage.
But 'No' was in every sentence of their story
Except when the public-house came in and shouted its piece.
The yellow buttercups and the bluebells among the whin bushes
On rocks in the middle of ploughing
Was a bright spoke in the wheel
Of the peasant's mill.
The goldfinches on the railway paling were worth looking at -
A man might imagine then
Himself in Brazil and these birds the birds of paradise
And the Amazon and the romance traced on the school map lived again.
Talk in evening corners and under trees
Was like an old book found in a king's tomb.
The children gathered round like students and listened
And some of the saga defied the draught in the open tomb
And was not blown.

Their intellectual life consisted in reading
Reynolds News or the Sunday Dispatch,
With sometimes an old almanac brought down from the ceiling
Or a school reader brown with the droppings of thatch.
The sporting results or the headlines of war
Was a humbug profound as the highbrow's Arcana.
Pat tried to be wise to the abstraction of all that
But its secret dribbled down his waistcoat like a drink from a strainer.
He wagered a bob each way on the Derby,
He got a straight tip from a man in a shop -
A double from the Guineas it was and thought himself
A master mathematician when one of them came up
And he could explain how much he'd have drawn
On the double if the second leg had followed the first.
He was betting on form and breeding, he claimed,
And the man that did that could never be burst.
After that they went on to the war, and the generals
On both sides were shown to be stupid as hell.
If he'd taken that road, they remarked of a Marshal,
He'd have … O they know their geography well
This was their university. Maguire was an undergraduate
Who dreamed from his lowly position of rising
To a professorship like Larry McKenna or Duffy
Or the pig-gelder Nallon whose knowledge was amazing.
'A treble, full multiple odds … That's flat porter …
Another one … No, you're wrong about that thing I was telling you. .
Did you part with your filly, Jack? I heard that you sold her.…'
The students were all savants by the time of pub-close.

A year passed and another hurried after it
And Patrick Maguire was still six months behind life -
His mother six months ahead of it;
His sister straddle-legged across it: -
One leg in hell and the other in heaven
And between the purgatory of middle-aged virginity -
She prayed for release to heaven or hell.
His mother's voice grew thinner like a rust-worn knife
But it cut venomously as it thinned,
It cut him up the middle till he became more woman than man,
And it cut through to his mind before the end.
Another field whitened in the April air
And the harrows rattled over the seed.
He gathered the loose stones off the ridges carefully
And grumbled to his men to hurry. He looked like a man who could give advice
To foolish young fellows. He was forty-seven,
And there was depth in his jaw and his voice was the voice of a great cattle-dealer,
A man with whom the fair-green gods break even.
'I think I ploughed that lea the proper depth,
She ought to give a crop if any land gives …
Drive slower with the foal-mare, Joe.'
Joe, a young man of imagined wives,
Smiles to himself and answered like a slave:
'You needn't fear or fret.
I'm taking her as easy, as easy as …
Easy there Fanny, easy, pet.'
They loaded the day-scoured implements on the cart
As the shadows of poplars crookened the furrows.
It was the evening, evening. Patrick was forgetting to be lonely
As he used to be in Aprils long ago.
It was the menopause, the misery-pause.
The schoolgirls passed his house laughing every morning
And sometimes they spoke to him familiarly -
He had an idea. Schoolgirls of thirteen
Would see no political intrigue in an old man's friendship.
The heifer waiting to be nosed by the old bull.
That notion passed too - there was the danger of talk
And jails are narrower than the five-sod ridge
And colder than the black hills facing Armagh in February.
He sinned over the warm ashes again and his crime
The law's long arm could not serve with time.
His face set like an old judge's pose:
Respectability and righteousness,
Stand for no nonsense.
The priest from the altar called Patrick Maguire's name
To hold the collecting-box in the chapel door
During all the Sundays of May.
His neighbours envied him his holy rise,
But he walked down from the church with affected indifference
And took the measure of heaven angle-wise.
He still could laugh and sing,
But not the wild laugh or the abandoned harmony now
That called the world to new silliness from the top of a wooden gate
When thirty-five could take the sparrow's bow.
Let us be kind, let us be kind and sympathetic:
Maybe life is not for joking or for finding happiness in -
This tiny light in Oriental Darkness
Looking out chance windows of poetry or prayer.
And the grief and defeat of men like these peasants
Is God's way - maybe - and we must not want too much
To see.
The twisted thread is stronger than the wind-swept fleece.
And in the end who shall rest in truth's high peace?
Or whose is the world now, even now?
O let us kneel where the blind ploughman kneels
And learn to live without despairing
In a mud-walled space -
Illiterate unknown and unknowing.
Let us kneel where he kneels
And feel what he feels.
One day he saw a daisy and he thought it
Reminded him of his childhood -
He stopped his cart to look at it.
Was there a fairy hiding behind it?
He helped a poor woman whose cow
Had died on her;
He dragged home a drunken man on a winter's night
And one rare moment he heard the young people playing on the railway stile
And he wished them happiness and whatever they most desired from life.
He saw the sunlight and begrudged no man
His share of what the miserly soil and soul
Gives in a season to a ploughman.
And he cried for his own loss one late night on the pillow
And yet thanked the God who had arranged these things.
Was he then a saint?
A Matt Talbot of Monaghan?
His sister Mary Anne spat poison at the children
Who sometimes came to the door selling raffle tickets
For holy funds.
'Get out, you little tramps!' she would scream
As she shook to the hens an armful of crumbs,
But Patrick often put his hand deep down
In his trouser-pocket and fingered out a penny
Or maybe a tobacco-stained caramel.
'You're soft,' said the sister; 'with other people's money
It's not a bit funny.'
The cards are shuffled and the deck
Laid flat for cutting - Tom Malone
Cut for trump. I think we'll make
This game, the last, a tanner one.
Hearts. Right. I see you're breaking
Your two-year-old. Play quick, Maguire,
The clock there says it's half-past ten -
Kate, throw another sod on that fire.
One of the card-players laughs and spits
Into the flame across a shoulder.
Outside, a noise like a rat
Among the hen-roosts.
The cock crows over
The frosted townland of the night.
Eleven o'clock and still the game
Goes on and the players seem to be
Drunk in an Orient opium den.
Midnight, one o'clock, two.
Somebody's leg has fallen asleep.
What about home? Maguire, are you
Using your double-tree this week?
Why? do you want it? Play the ace.
There's it, and that's the last card for me.
A wonderful night, we had. Duffy's place
Is very convenient. Is that a ghost or a tree?
And so they go home with dragging feet
And their voices rumble like laden carts.
And they are happy as the dead or sleeping …
I should have led that ace of hearts.

The fields were bleached white,
The wooden tubs full of water
Were white in the winds
That blew through Brannagan's Gap on their way from Siberia;
The cows on the grassless heights .
Followed the hay that had wings -
The February fodder that hung itself on the black branches
Of the hill-top hedge.
A man stood beside a potato-pit
And clapped his arms
And pranced on the crisp roots
And shouted to warm himself.
Then he buck-leaped about the potatoes
And scooped them into a basket.
He looked like a bucking suck-calf
Whose spine was being tickled.
Sometimes he stared across the bogs
And sometimes he straightened his back and vaguely whistled
A tune that weakened his spirit
And saddened his terrier dog's.
A neighbour passed with a spade on his shoulder
And Patrick Maguire bent like a bridge
Whistled-good morning under his oxter
And the man the other side of the hedge
Champed his spade on the road at his toes
And talked an old sentimentality
While the wind blew under his clothes.
The mother sickened and stayed in bed all day,
Her head hardly dented the pillow, so light and thin it had worn,
But she still enquired after the household affairs.
She held the strings of her children's Punch and Judy, and when a mouth opened
It was her truth that the dolls would have spoken
If they hadn't been made of wood and tin -
'Did you open the barn door, Pat, to let the young calves in?'
The priest called to see her every Saturday
And she told him her troubles and fears:
'If Mary Anne was settled I'd die in peace -
I'm getting on in years.'
'You were a good woman,' said the priest,
'And your children will miss you when you're gone.
The likes of you this parish never knew,
I'm sure they'll not forget the work you've done.'
She reached five bony crooks under the tick -
'Five pounds for Masses - won't you say them quick.'
She died one morning in the beginning of May
And a shower of sparrow-notes was the litany for her dying.
The holy water was sprinkled on the bed-clothes
And her children stood around the bed and cried because it was too late for crying.
A mother dead! The tired sentiment:
'Mother, Mother' was a shallow pool
Where sorrow hardly could wash its feet …
Mary Anne came away from the deathbed and boiled the calves their gruel.
'O what was I doing when the procession passed?
Where was I looking? Young women and men
And I might have joined them.
Who bent the coin of my destiny
That it stuck in the slot?
I remember a night we walked
Through the moon of Donaghmoyne,
Four of us seeking adventure,
It was midsummer forty years ago.
Now I know
The moment that gave the turn to my life.
O Christ! I am locked in a stable with pigs and cows for ever.

The world looks on
And talks of the peasant:
The peasant has no worries;
In his little lyrical fields He ploughs and sows;
He eats fresh food,
He loves fresh women, He is his own master
As it was in the Beginning
The simpleness of peasant life.
The birds that sing for him are eternal choirs ,
Everywhere he walks there are flowers.
His heart is pure, His mind is clear,
He can talk to God as Moses and Isaiah talked
The peasant who is only one remove from the beasts he drives. '
'The travellers stop their cars to gape over the green bank into his fields: -
There is the source from which all cultures rise,
And all religions,
There is the pool in which the poet dips
And the musician.
Without the peasant base civilisation must die,
Unless the clay is in the mouth the singer's singing is useless.
The travellers touch the roots of the grass and feel renewed
When they grasp the steering wheels again.
The peasant is the unspoiled child of Prophecy,
The peasant is all virtues - let us salute him without irony
The peasant ploughman who is half a vegetable -
Who can react to sun and rain and sometimes even
Regret that the Maker of Light had not touched him more intensely.
Brought him up from the sub-soil to an existence
Of conscious joy. He was not born blind.
He is not always blind: sometimes the cataract yields
To sudden stone-falling or the desire to breed.
The girls pass along the roads
And he can remember what man is,
But there is nothing he can do.
Is there nothing he can do?
Is there no escape?
No escape, no escape.
The cows and horses breed,
And the potato-seed
Gives a bud and a root and rots
In the good mother's way with her sons;
The fledged bird is thrown
From the nest - on its own.
But the peasant in his little acres is tied
To a mother's womb by the wind-toughened navel-cord
Like a goat tethered to the stump of a tree -
He circles around and around wondering why it should be.
No crash, No drama.
That was how his life happened.
No mad hooves galloping in the sky,
But the weak, washy way of true tragedy -
A sick horse nosing around the meadow for a clean place to die.

We may come out in the October reality, Imagination,
The sleety wind no longer slants to the black hill where Maguire
And his men are now collecting the scattered harness and baskets.
The dog sitting on a wisp of dry stalks
Watches them through the shadows.
'Back in, back in.' One talks to the horse as to a brother.
Maguire himself is patting a potato-pit against the weather -
An old man fondling a new-piled grave:
'Joe, I hope you didn't forget to hide the spade .
For there's rogues in the townland.
Hide it flat in a furrow.
I think we ought to be finished by to-morrow.
Their voices through the darkness sound like voices from a cave,
A dull thudding far away, futile, feeble, far away,
First cousins to the ghosts of the townland.
A light stands in a window. Mary Anne
Has the table set and the tea-pot waiting in the ashes.
She goes to the door and listens and then she calls
From the top of the haggard-wall :
'What's keeping you
And the cows to be milked and all the other work there's to do?'
'All right, all right
We'll not stay here all night '
Applause, applause,
The curtain falls.
Applause, applause
From the homing carts and the trees
And the bawling cows at the gates.
From the screeching water-hens
And the mill-race heavy with the Lammas floods curving over the weir
A train at the station blowing off steam
And the hysterical laughter of the defeated everywhere.
Night, and the futile cards are shuffled again.
Maguire spreads his legs over the impotent cinders that wake no manhood now
And he hardly looks to see which card is trump.
His sister tightens her legs and her lips and frizzles up
Like the wick of an oil-less lamp.
The curtain falls -
Applause, applause.
Maguire is not afraid of death, the Church will light him a candle
To see his way through the vaults and he'll understand the
Quality of the clay that dribbles over his coffin.
He'll know the names of the roots that climb down to tickle his feet.
And he will feel no different than when he walked through Donaghmoyne.
If he stretches out a hand - a wet clod,
If he opens his nostrils - a dungy smell;
If he opens his eyes once in a million years -
Through a crack in the crust of the earth he may see a face nodding in
Or a woman's legs.
Shut them again for that sight is sin.
He will hardly remember that life happened to him -
Something was brighter a moment. Somebody sang in the distance
A procession passed down a mesmerized street.
He remembers names like Easter and Christmas
By colour his fields were.
Maybe he will be born again, a bird of an angel's conceit
To sing the gospel of life
To a music as flighty tangent
As a tune on an oboe.
And the serious look of his fields will have changed to the leer of a hobo.
Swaggering celestially home to his three wishes granted.
Will that be? will that be?
Or is the earth right that laughs haw-haw
And does not believe
In an unearthly law.
The earth that says:
Patrick Maguire, the old peasant, can neither be damned nor glorified:
The graveyard in which he will lie will be just a deep-drilled potato-field
Where the seed gets no chance to come through
To the fun of the sun.
The tongue in his mouth is the root of a yew.
Silence, silence. The story is done.
He stands in the doorway of his house
A ragged sculpture of the wind,
October creaks the rotted mattress,
The bedposts fall. No hope. No lust.
The hungry fiend
Screams the apocalypse of clay
In every corner of this land.

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Have You Thought About The Way

Have you thought about the way
So many people live today
They drown their fears in wine and dope
And uppers they say give them hope
And downers help them to be mellow
But turn around their backs is yellow
Some cant make it through the day
Without popping pills they say
Cant you see you silly fool
Getting high is the thing to do
It makes you more aware they say
This magic drug for which they pay
But now they’re down and life is tough
The magic drug is not enough

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