Luck of the Irish

Dark Hedges, Ulster Province

 —Poetry by Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, 

North Wales
—Public Domain Photos of Ireland

 

 

ANN GLOVER

It was a long way from the green fields and boggy
    moss
to the tropical heat of Barbados
where the ship took them,
those Irish peasants,
as seeped in idolatry as their homeland was in rain,
or that’s what the masters said
so far as she understood
their language
as harsh and severe
as the god they worshipped.

And it was a long way from the tropical heat of
    Barbados
to the master’s house in Salem
the last port of call
for some of those Irish peasants,
those who survived so far,
still enslaved
but called ‘indentured’ now.

She always believed it was her tongue
that killed her,
not its sharpness,
Irish was a gentle language, after all
and she never learned theirs
so their questions
could not be understood
or answered.

And what answers could she give in any language?
What language could tell them
who was godly
and who was devilish,
who was a witch
and who was a saint.

Only power could speak
and the Irish had none.
Only power can speak
and slaves have none.



(First published in Woodside Writers, 2025)

 

 

 

 

THE POTATO EATERS



The harvest looks good today
un-blighted
so we know that we shall eat
this winter
and there should be enough
to pay the landlord
and put a roof over our heads
this winter.
So we will kneel and say a prayer
that he will not ask too much.

 

 

 

 

FOR THOSE LIVES BLIGHTED


Once, in Ireland, one million died
and we’re still counting.
One million fled
for their lives
and we’re still counting.
Equivalent to the population
of Gaza
before
the avalanche
of violence
spread so thickly
it destroyed all
in its paths.
And its paths were everywhere,
rubble strewn deep as an Irish bog.
And before
the aftermath
when starvation ruled the land.

Starvation had ruled the land in Ireland
when the potato crop was blighted.
Without potatoes there was no food.
Without potatoes there was no money for food.
Without money for rent colonial landlords
    evicted,
and slave labour of starving men women and
    children
followed the rule of law
through occupation
and colonisation.

And no help came.
No Aid came
to help them.
And still
potatoes were exported.
And still
the landlords did well.
All the colonialists did well.
They always do.

So Ireland knows how it feels
in the depth of its turf,
in the depth of its being,
its rock, its stones,
its body-filled bogs,
its bleached bones
it knows the story
knows that
change comes
only
with survival
survival first
then to change
one step at a time.

And sometimes
words and money
can effect change
as readily as weapons,
that time the past shows
it’s the time to make a stand
against more political the manoeuvring
to undermine another respected decision
un-welcomed again by the most powerful.

And history shows its time.
For Ireland knows
how lives are blighted.



(First published in Dissident Voice, 4 Feb 2024)

 

 

 

 

LUCK OF THE IRISH

The Irish love their horses.

It’s a long tradition
which survives urbanisation
among young working class people
in parts of Dublin,
people seemingly like me.
They take them along the city streets,
into supermarkets, on buses,
even up in the lift to their new home
on the balcony of an apartment.
The stories are legion.

And the Irish love their stories.

But I was not like them.
I couldn’t be part of that story.
I find horses just too big, too strong,
too high from the ground.
Even on a seaside donkey I was afraid
I’d take a tumble from the saddle
or be nudged and trampled into the sand.
I was sure that it was only
by the luck of the Irish
that I survived.

Yes, Lady Luck loves the Irish.

But I know for certain now
that when I join that wild-eyed horse
on the balcony
the luck of the Irish
is bound to desert me.


(First published in Orange Blush Journal, November 2020)

 

 

 

 


THE CIRCUS OF MY DREAMS

In the circus of my dreams
the unicorns are are prancing, rearing up,
flashing their rainbowed hooves,
pointing with their golden horns,
with their unique golden horns.
Then, ridden by Leprechauns,
they’re dancing round and round
the circle of the ring.
Kicking up the gold-dust ground
from their droppings into
shimmering sawdust.

In the circus of my dreams
there is a rainbow.
A rainbow that has painted
their hooves with its light
as they climbed their way up
and slid their way down
to the crock of gold at the end.
Time for the little people to dismount
and mould the gold into hearts of love.
Time for the unicorns to use the gold
to nurture and replenish
their golden horns, their unique
golden horns.



(First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, February 2016)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Being Irish is very much a part of who I am. I take it everywhere with me.

—Colin Farrell

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

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