THE MUSE

A muse sat down inside my head

and made himself at home:

he gathered up some choice grey cells

And cooked himself a poem!

This entrée was so tasty,

such spicy rhyme and zing,

that once the muse reached full and stop;

-he started off again!

The first it was a stirring tale

of I can, you can, do!

The heroes danced with flashing swords,

-piercing evil through

The second was a lullaby

of feathers soft and deep;

amidst a verse where cherubs sang

-the muse fell fast asleep!

(finbarwright/Nov.5th mm)

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THE ALDER TREE

(A Song of War)

Underneath the shade of an alder tree

a young man said a prayer that he might be free,

he had seen the blue,

he had seen the grey,

he had seen the red

blood that ran away.

Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla!

Outside an open door where soldiers danced in hell

the widowed weeds cry ‘peace’ with candle, book, and bell

The flies now rule the world and all its crimson days,

they beat their sticky drums, black flags and wicked ways.

Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla!

Inside a feathered bed, her fingers in his hair,

the missile maker’s son eats cherry, plum and pear.

Great ’sats’ will bring him war, the journos and the brave,

but he cannot taste the blood, he cannot smell the grave.

Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla!

(copyright: Finbar Wright)

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(Editor’s Note: Moonshine is a poem that started as a school project for my daughter and, inevitably, I could not leave well enough alone, so we developed it into a collaborative effort)

MOONSHINE

The moon tonight is hiding shy

behind a great grey cloud,

he shines his light from time to time

from underneath his shroud

I wish that I could see his face

he sometimes smiles at me,

he floats across a silky sky

and gives us light for free

On windy nights ‘mid racing streams

he bobbles round in fun,

he checks to see the stars stay fixed

and wink at father sun

He loves to work till twilight shift

but when the sun comes up

he ducks around the other side

to shine the Melbourne Cup!

(Ileana & Finbar Wright/copyright/xxv.i.mmiv)

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MISSING

Where are you now

my pretty bird

the dawn you must betray

as she comes sneaking round my sash

to nudge and taunt my lay ?

The kettle whistles from the stove,

impatient at the station,

to hiss,

to rob

from scalded leaf

a horde of gold hydration.

The cook is on his mid-day stool,

two fish wait at his altar,

he fashions dresses for their flesh:

John Dory (and his daughter!)

Where are you now

my pretty bird

who must at evening call

the spirits out

to guard this night

from pain, from death, and all?

(The cat had dined alone last night,

-to him it did not matter-

two tasty eyes, twin spindly legs,

alas, they’ll get no fatter!)

(copyright/Finbar Wright/Aug. MMiv)

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FOUR SEASONS OF THE TREE

The hungry tree of

Spring

pushing

a shiny bud

tempting

a warm kiss

stretching

to be closer

The charming tree

of Summer

nestles

with the flirting bee

whispers

to the lady bird

shimmies

with the wind

The potent tree of Autumn

draping

a splendid hue

popping

to the fickle womb

wishing

a strong child

The honest tree of Winter

strutted

naked model

brazen

wooden hanger

ragging

mother for new

couture

Finbar Wright/i.xii.mmiv

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A CHRISTMAS CHILD

This child lay smiling in her arms,

familiar warm and true,

I’m sure I’ve seen this smile before;

could this child be you?

This child has goodness on his lips,

truth and beauty too,

I’m sure I’ve heard him say my name;

could this child be you?

This child has healing in his hands,

for times both sad and blue,

I’m sure his touch has made me strong;

could this child be you?

This child has love within his heart,

for giving, fresh and new,

I’m sure I’ve felt this love before;

could this child be you?

This child has made the world a home,

peaceful, warm and true,

I’m sure I’ve sheltered in his arms;

could this child be you?

(Finbar Wright/Christmas 2004/Copyright)

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NEWFOUNDLAND

We climbed on up to Signal Hill

this wild and windy day

the dancing wildflowers bowed and bobbed

St.John’s beneath us lay

The ships, the fishers, trawlers all

with maple leaf on high

plough up the choppy waters back

with shoal and flock and fly

We stood above where gulls float by

just daring us to try

to beat the gusty bracing bursts,

refusing, then they cry

McDermott sighed for Donegal,

for Glasgow and the foam;

Kearns saluted Ireland’s bold

who crewed the anchor home

My life has been in harbour safe

but few as grand I’ve seen;

a long way now from here to Cork

with Neptune in between

Marconi’s ghost stood quietly by

still fiddling with his kites;

he said he kept the radio on

to hear our songs at night

They say the women here are fine

to men they’re seven to one!

so if you haven’t found a wife

St.John’s could be some fun!

(Finbar Wright/copyright/xxvi.ix.mmv)

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The Blue Flower

Midst Newark’s bustling plain,

waiting on my humming perch

inside a hazy porthole,

I saw a blue flower grow

-on the edge, alone, a miracle,

resistant, potent, and defiant

as the eye of Joan of Arc.

I pictured a searching bumble bee

stumbling on this lonely prize

miraged among the gassy vapours;

his wobbling softened stripes

a welcome colour on this concrete cap

tight on old nectar’s hunting ground.

A new breed of cranky bees

with stiff slick wings

infest this unyielding lot

of glaring glass

and impenetrable crust

-another grey apron for Mother Earth.

I was proud of the bumble bee

bag packed

beating a true path home to his nest

dodging the hot and heartless sting

of these gatherers and scatterers,

toting to other hives

where rebellious blue flowers grow.

Finbar Wright – x.x.mmvi

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GO HOME

“Go home”, she sighed, “go back while you still can”.

A limp autumn sun coaxed us to linger

on a faded park bench in London town where

a brazen squirrel had scurried up un-announced

to gaze on me like a cheeky child;

then, chastising him, but humourously,

my voice had sprung a dark tune

in her grey-haired noble head

sculpted by winds long still

softened by mists long dead

A Cork lilt had

un-plugged her wishing well of tears for home

un-fastening old wounds to burst with bitter pus of exile

un-stuck, up-rooted

un-suckled, un-settled

shoved out

dry of milk

wet with bile

“I should never have come” softly

“There was nothing here for me” sadly

“but it’s heart-warming to hear your voice” she smiled.

(finbarwright/copyright/xv.xi.mmvii)

Note

This poem has its setting in the autumn of 1987 in London, where I was studying at the Guildhall School of Music.  It describes a chance meeting with an elderly lady from Ireland whom I had never met before or since.    She was hopelessly heartbroken at having left Ireland so many years before.  Her pain was so intense that her dramatic yet dignified out-pouring of her life-story gave me an insight into the sufferings of her generation and the hardship of emigration that I had not imagined until then.  Her maternal words of warning and advice have stayed in my mind to this day.

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ONCIDIUM ALOHA IWANAGA

Dancing girl, you flower serene

if Tutankhamen’s orchid queen

your yellow gold would be his pride

with all your sisters by your side

poised and perfect standing there

shades of Henna in your hair

Nubian slaves would prune and pluck

honeyed eunuchs trim and tuck

round Amun-Ra your soul would twine

your heart light-feathered weighs divine

seekers scratching Luxor’s tomb

will find you here with me in bloom.

finbarwright/copyright/xi.mmvii

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54th & Lex.

i.

Light lays down

on a sticky sidewalk,

tired and distracted

at finding another corner to turn

in these possessed rectangles

of Manhattan.

ii.

They were strong and tall, my friends,

and I followed on to see

what I might see

for free

time has hungry lips.

iii.

A head I saw

with blue kerchief

at an open door,

the knitting hands,

a homely scene

Vermeer

might fix

inside his mystic box.

iv.

I saw two cats in grey disguise,

dispassioned,

at the open door to her magic carpet high above

floating

o’er

a frantic jungle

in scuttle and sweep

as dashing and dirty

as any Amazonian square

whose wind, a caffeine child

ashamed  of its sickly cousin the sun,

chases twixt the legs

of these sudden mountains,

in the unrelenting glee of having forgotten

the boredom of indian flat land,

to whip around the buttock

of

a cigarette,

a short black skirt,

a tainted exit,

a smoker’s joy,

a draw of fresher air than that which stayed within.

Finbar Wright/copyright/xvii.xii.mmiii

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