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Cathal not averse to a bit of man on boy coupletOriginally Posted by kieree
Whoever said learning poetry was a pain in the hole must have had Cathal O Searcaigh as a teacher
Gardai contact Nepalese over leading poet's sex with boys - National News, Frontpage - Independent.ie
By the way- THIS is poetry
YouTube - John Cooper Clarke : Kung Fu International
has to be paddy k
nbt
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I hereby say
That poetry is gay
As voted for by
The lads on E-I
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Ah come on mouse, don't be so hasty, the poll is still open, anything could happen yet...........
"It's far easier to fight for principles than to live up to them."
L
me
I'd do better myself.. remember u would have to stand up in class & replay line for line poems u were revising all night before 'I wandered lonely as a cloud' etc....? Looking back What a load of bollicks
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Come on, don't tell me you've never been struck by the simple personal tragedy of Heaney's "Mid-Term Break", or the lustful admiration in Clarke's "The Planter's Daughter", or the exasperated nerdery behind Kavanagh's "Iniskeen Road", or the tumultuous political commentary of Yeat's "September 1913"?
No?
No?
AAAAAANNNNNYYYYBOOOODDDYYYYY?????
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one of me favorite living poets in peter makem 'Lunar Craving' by Peter Makem.
p. makemThe Hunger
At the parting of forty seven
In the great shedding of skin
We moved still wet
Out of our cracked scale.
We had known this of old and thought
The tide of things re grow
Its flesh and all scar and heal,
Watched it now crack again
Layer after layer until
By forty nine the bare bone
Bone dry of marrow
Ended our expectation.
2
We had thought until then
That they who lorded over us
Must have mercy on us.
We had thought the great plight
Might bring the great repeal
And name our names, raise us, raise us,
Christ, we prayed night to night
We prayed to dream and child’s call
And call again, and dream again,
Into gull and gannet’s wail,
Into voices telling us
Nature itself was evicting us.
3
Out on the Atlantic shoreline
The tidal lungs of ocean move.
Beyond drought, beyond rain,
Beyond the river’s offering
Flow and hollow fill and leave.
We stay awhile, we stand and hear
The turn at dawn, the morning roar
Into evening’s long lament
Face past our moment,
Sound past our lingering.
And now must ride the ghostly boat
And enter blindly to it’s keep,
Enter down the ocean’s plight
The lunar craving of the deep.
4
Slow movers in the Sinai
Forge their sandy waves.
Behind, the Red Sea line
As a glow of distant land
Holds out on the horizon.
They stop. They turn. They face west
The great concourse,
A minute’s silence to their saviour
Thinning between heaven and earth.
The dust settles to their quiet.
The moments hold the vast peace
Until a shout breaks it up
And all turn and move again,
The city on the march
In full deliverance,
On toward the kingdom,
To the milk, to the wild honey,
Old heads full of freedom.
Young heads full of victory
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