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St.MOTHER TERESA

She’s born in Skopje, in Yugoslavia;
And came to Kolkata to be a nun;
She chose to serve Jesus, through her brethren;
Most admirably, the world, she could stun!
She chose the poorest folks, the world did shun;
The diseased, dying, orphaned, downtrodden;
And turned her life to a phenomenon;
All life, she’s busy, always on the run;
Like a goods-train, pulling a wearied ton;
There was no turning back; Life was no fun!
And rose to be the ‘world famous woman’;
Her heart was full of love, her main weapon;
That caused the hearts of millions, so stubborn;
To turn towards God, in life, once again;
To feel loved, cared for and their souls reborn;
To realize the truth why one is born;
To feel the world is not yet so forlorn;
To live in dignity, see one more dawn;
To sleep soundly, well-fed, until the morn;
To heal their minds and body-parts, some torn;

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poem by John Celes
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Ownage

She struggled with words
Thing or thingy came easy
Signified sufficiently
Even though she knew
A mosquitoes' trombone
To be a proboscis

She labored her phrases
With ahs and ahzza'z
Twiddling her tongue
Searching a cool adjective
Or frantically an elusive adverb
Tumbling expended on place mat verbs

Admirably she read
Despite her dyslexia
The funnies, the horoscope
The want ads, labels
Garnering her information larder
By excessive eco-surfing

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poem by Winston T. Gylles
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Punchestown

Twas the music took me there,
not the horses, funny that;
Bets and tunes in harmony interweaving,
busking like mad
the duelling whistlers
turned some heads
on ladies day.

Unlike Raifteirí we could
see our conceited audience
we played to the full
but tight pockets,
a crew that would make
Carolan himself cringe
or drive Dáibhí Ó Bruadair
into a rant
of satirical lampoon.

Hats, shades, zany dresses
and fake tan,

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poem by Ciarán Kelly
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Childhood Memories Two: Flight Of Bumble Bees

down the rabbit hole
of childhood memories
we tumble into lost world

chasing arriving bumble bees
hunting in prairie of Father’s
pumpkin plants stalking prey

bumble bees fly in proudly
wearing Westport rugby jerseys
in unseasonal yearly attire

buzzing in upon summer breezes
industriously gathering pollen nectar
pollinating all pumpkin flowers

flight from flower to flower flit
will ensure a harvest of pumpkin
baked in roasts in Mother’s oven

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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0012 Ego takes the stage

It’s a lovely old-fashioned tea-room
in one of those rare up-town hotels
that’s still a family concern; well-run,
staff been there for years; prices
reasonable. In fact the whole enterprise
is civilised. Even media types
for whom it stood in angry youth
as all they affected to despise, rather like it now.

It’s full though admirably leisurely
every afternoon – all friendly chatter,
silver-plate and fancy cakes. It stands
for exactly what it is, now rare – a tea-room.
Those who visit regularly wear the faintest sense
of self-congratulation. There was one
at every major London corner not so long ago.

Yesterday, suddenly, an intrusion:
onto the dais where a pianist plays
from four to five of a weekend afternoon,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Beautiful Crief

Ye lovers of the picturesque, if ye wish to drown your grief,
Take my advice, and visit the ancient town of Crieff;
The climate is bracing, and the walks lovely to see.
Besides, ye can ramble over the district, and view the beautiful scenery.

The town is admirably situated from the cold winter winds,
And the visitors, during their stay there, great comfort finds,
Because there is boating and fishing, and admission free,
Therefore they can enjoy themselves right merrily.

There is also golf courses, tennis greens, and good roads,
Which will make the travelling easier to tourists with great loads,
And which will make the bicyclists' hearts feel gay,
Because they have everything there to make an enjoyable holiday.

The principal river there is the Earn, rolling on its way,
And which flows from Loch Earn, and joins the silvery Tay
Above Newburgh, after a course of more than thirty miles;
And as the tourist views the scene with joy he smiles.

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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Each Morning At The Breakfast Table

Who’ll stone you when you feel unable,
eating at the breakfast table,
to answer who’s the great composer,
implying that you are a loser?
Not my wife, though she’s most brainy;
on my creations never rainy,
she doesn’t let me feel alone,
rolling like a lonely stone.
Less than I a fan of Bob
on no occasions will she rob
me of my confidence. Sure, Dylan
to her appears to be a villain,
because of his association
with other forms of inspiration.
but she won’t stone me ever, that’s
why I won’t settle for ersatz.
She sees through masks, including mine,
but never stones the wearer, she
is morning coffee, evening wine,
and midnight she is ecstasy.

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poem by Gershon Hepner
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Fresh Air

I

At the Poem Society a black-haired man stands up to say
“You make me sick with all your talk about restraint and mature talent!
Haven’t you ever looked out the window at a painting by Matisse,
Or did you always stay in hotels where there were too many spiders crawling on your visages?
Did you ever glance inside a bottle of sparkling pop,
Or see a citizen split in two by the lightning?
I am afraid you have never smiled at the hibernation
Of bear cubs except that you saw in it some deep relation
To human suffering and wishes, oh what a bunch of crackpots!”
The black-haired man sits down, and the others shoot arrows at him.
A blond man stands up and says,
“He is right! Why should we be organized to defend the kingdom
Of dullness? There are so many slimy people connected with poetry,
Too, and people who know nothing about it!
I am not recommending that poets like each other and organize to fight them,
But simply that lightning should strike them.”
Then the assembled mediocrities shot arrows at the blond-haired man.
The chairman stood up on the platform, oh he was physically ugly!

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poem by Kenneth Koch
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Egotism

YE powers fantastic ! goblin, sylph and fay,
Whose subtle forms no laws material sway ;
Ethereal essences, that dart and glide
Wherever pleasure or caprice may guide ;
Who leap with equal ease, if ye are bid,
A lady's thimble and a pyramid,
And scale, alike regardless of a fall,
The parlour fender and the Chinese wall,
Slip through a key-hole, 'neath the listed door,
Or from the smallest crevice in the floor ;
Or steer your way (and man's devices mock)
Through the dark mazes of a patent lock ;--
Of you I sing not--but my theme shall be
Of things as quick and volatile as ye,
--Those busy, subtle pronouns, I and Me.
Unsought, and unexpected they appear ;
No barriers heed they, and no laws revere;
But wind and penetrate, with dextrous force,
Through all the cracks and crannies of discourse.

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poem by Jane Taylor
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An Epistle Containing the Strange Medical Experience of Karshish, the Arab Physician

Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs,
The not-incurious in God's handiwork
(This man's-flesh he hath admirably made,
Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste,
To coop up and keep down on earth a space
That puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul)
—To Abib, all-sagacious in our art,
Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast,
Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks
Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain,
Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip
Back and rejoin its source before the term—
And aptest in contrivance (under God)
To baffle it by deftly stopping such—
The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home
Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace)
Three samples of true snakestone—rarer still,
One of the other sort, the melon-shaped,
(But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs)
And writeth now the twenty-second time.

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poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
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