Mo’ Poems: Week 4
Mo’ Poems Week 3
This blog is a labour of love, and it will always be free. Over 1,000 people read every post which is incredible. And if just 100 people donate €2 it means that I’ll be able to continue doing all of this for another year. So if you like the work, it would mean the world to me if you considered making a donation. Thank you to everyone who already has this year. There’s no expectations, as ever, and I hope you have a lovely week. Donate here
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You’ll have to forgive me for the lateness of this week’s blog. I turned 30 on Sunday, and I just didn’t feel like I needed to do a blog on my birthday.
Alas – here we are. The poems are poeming! I hope you’ve been enjoying them. This is your last week to donate so please do if you can!
Take a read through and enjoy – we’ll see ye next week! If you want to donate to the fundraiser, you can do here.
Mo’ Poem #20: Patrick Holloway
Doppelganger
I see myself, sometimes
a tree sprawling branch & leaf
beneath the sun. The shade, unable to
step out of. The warmth trapped beneath
a blanket. The last corner of the house
that never catches the light.
I see myself, sometimes
the glint of green in your eye.
The way you use the wrong finger
to point. A dimple. An ingrown toenail.
Your crooked bottom teeth. The squeeze
of a hug you never want to end.
I see myself, sometimes
the memory of misguided hands
in mistaken places. Existing
in a terrain of whispers & doors ajar.
Shadows stretching more darkness
where there is only darkness.
I see myself, sometimes
the long white walls of waiting–
the unsuccessful suicides of my brother.
The way time unfolds like sand collapsing.
The way it confuses itself over & over
until what it was no longer is.
I see myself, sometimes
the last of the moon melting
like a sad smile. I see myself
in the curve of an empty glass,
in powdered sniffs & gluey gums,
in the bottom of a toilet bowl.
I see myself, sometimes
but mostly it is someone else.
He hurts me in acute ways &
I do not know how he got there.
How can I get rid of him? What can I say
for my words to leave his mouth?
Mo’ Poem #21: Alan Kavanagh
The Human Call: Are Men Ready?
Listen, when we reach out,
We often feel unheard, filled with doubt.
Hear the silent echoes in the air,
Yearning to be felt, longing to share.
We strive to remain strong,
Yet what we think is strength could be wrong.
Are men ready?
We’re ready
To show our humanity.
But we are trapped by this unseen man-box;
Struggling to break free, we baulk.
Our voices quieten, words often left unsaid;
In solitude, our fears are fed.
Are men ready?
Indeed, We’re ready
To live and feel, to be truly real.
To reveal our hearts, allow that helping hand.
Together we mend; together we stand.
In unity, we possess the key
To unlock loneliness and set minds free.
Are men ready?
Yes, We’re ready
To be seen as human too.
In the heart of vulnerability’s light,
Lies the courage to fight the night.
Unmasking truths in gentle stride,
Where strength and openness collide.
Are men ready?
We’re born ready
To be treated as human too.
Speak up again, let the world hear;
Cast away doubt, let go of fear.
Men with men, let compassion reign,
Sharing our struggles, together we all gain.
Men stand ready
To be masculine and vulnerable.
Surrendering to the fight,
Of what we thought was right.
Let’s answer the human call:
Create the space for men to be human too.
Mo’ Poem #22: Damien Donnelly
Damien’s incredible poem is available to watch here
Mo’ Poem #23: Colin Anderson
My Fifteen Minutes
I lay on the walls of Jerusalem
A perfect level of warmth
emanating from the stones below
Complimented with a gentle
cooking from the sun wandering
slowly across the sky
The people around me
The events of the last few days
The wall
The sun
The smells and noises of the old town
All fed a contentedness within me
that I’d not felt for what felt like an eternity
My fifteen minutes was here
My choice to be made
Roll to my left and the floor is 2 foot away
To my right?
A 200 foot drop onto rocks
I could go out on a high from a high
Choose hope for the future
Or accept this moment as the best
it is going to get
I hooked my left leg on the side of
the wall and anchored my foot to the floor
Stayed for a while longer, enjoyed
the sun and hoped for my future
Mo’ Poem #24: Emmet O’Brien
Mo’ Poem #25: Mikey Curran
Remembered In Pieces
Memories of you are fragments.
Stitches in time, that don’t stitch together.
Painting an imperfect picture.
I remember your trilby hat, shin-high socks, and green sweater vest.
Your shades that cover your squint and pain.
Your stained smile reveals a deep laugh.
I remember your camcorder permanently affixed to your palm.
I remember your hair, zero up top, flyover from the sides.
Floating in the wind as you relived All-Ireland glory.
Minor for you. Major for everyone else.
I remember Olympic decathlons, in our garden – the Pantheon.
I remember you teaching me how to bluff pots.
And covering in tiny white squares, your cheeky blood spots.
I remember your reactions to Solskjær and Calzaghe.
Stories of you taking the fight to civil rights. Ne’er a man to stand down.
I remember the fine things as the finest things.
Bags of Kola Cubes; bars of Turkish Delight; bricks of Rossi’s ice cream.
Mince for dinner – swimming in brown sauce. Tuna mayo – emphasis on the mayo.
I remember car rides down long and winding roads. Post-checkpoints. Pre-tolls.
That queasy feeling when dips were hit,
passing stone statues, of corners and loved ones taken too early.
I remember falling asleep to the sound of Whigfield, waking up to the smell of Marlboro Red.
Corduroy Volvo seat pattern imprinted white on my drowsy pink cheeks.
I remember the morning of your last day.
Wanting to pull a sickie, but not because you looked sickly.
I remember the decision against, then the decades of regret for.
I remember coming home and seeing your car, then never seeing you again.
To forget what happened, I tried to forget you.
But that hurt me in more ways than the unimaginable loss of you.
It gave way to panic, which became disorder.
So now I force myself to remember you, which heals me.
For fleeting moments, there’s no PTSD.
Just you and me enjoying away days in New York and Ballyshannon.
An imperfect picture, that feels nothing short of perfect.
The more I remember the man you were,
the more I wish I could be half of him.
The more I remember you –
the more I remember, and love you, dad.
Mo’ Poem #26: Daragh Fleming
You can watch/listen to my poem here