Three Poems From Erin's Isle

1. Swans Four swans transform into people, Aodh, Fionnula Fiachra and Conn Like molten rubber, stretching and writhing, They droop like stalactites over the silent garden Kissing swans touch beaks to form a heart But these are struggling, swans, war weary. splintering Reborn in a hard birthing of pain and troubles. When a vision becomes real It must bend its wings to the cage of mortal concerns Hobble its feet to the ground As Ireland has, with half an eye on myth Still half in love with the mist That bred its heroes. 2The Harp Declines to Comment The harp bears the coat of arms of the O'Neills It is the national symbol of Ireland, Depicted on national heraldry, Euro coins and Irish currency. Its right-facing image is registered As a trade mark for Guinness The other Irish Icon This marvel was made in Scotland Circa the fourteenth century Of willow and oak Its strings are brass It has a silver neck mount Embedded with crystal When played, it has the sound Of bell and harpsichord, wedded to a guitar It was coveted for cash by Joseph Brady Ex-British soldier, one-time IRA Who burgled it from its home in Trinity College Wrenched it out of its case to trade in ransom 11 Garda cars, watched in the stake out Money was dropped in a dustbin by Bull Wall Refuse, the ransom note warned And Ireland’s national treasure would be destroyed One of the thieves was chased, drew a gun, Thought better, threw it away. A man from Drimnagh Pleaded guilty to hiding the goods Two miles from Blessington, The harp lay in a sand pit Wrapped in black plastic, this wonder of wonders Like some old piece of driftwood The IRA chased Brady, shot him twice Two years in prison, he spent In fear of his life, a grass, an informer, a rogue The harp itself, was restored to its virginal splendour It made no comment to press on its ordeal Despite being silver tongued And having spoken to the hearts of kings 3.Brendan Behan Through a sharp squall of rain I spy the seated statue of Brendan Behan Trees, grass, even the bronze tip of his nose Drip water by the Royal Canal A woman in town to buy her daughter’s trousseau Ignores him, too intent On hoisting aloft a brolly to keep her spoils dry He has only a blackbird to brag to It’s as deaf as is mute That turbulent, roistering, witty, ebullient man The auld triangle no longer jangles his day