Falling Apples (3 page)

“They were all great, ” she said,

“It’s a pity they are dead.”

“Well I miss Dr. Jack-

When I think and look back:

How he’d call from the town

And come in and sit down.”

“Do you know Fr. Pat?

I’ll tell you now Matt:

He was here yesterday

And I said when I pray

My prayers in Irish I say;

I learned them when young,

Off by heart one by one.”

“In the old school in Clounmacon

There was skipping and jumping,

Ring a rosy and all kinds of fooling;

That time all the neighbours

At the end of their labours

Danced the polka then Patsy Haley,

And rose in the morning so early.”

She had an old local song

That was not very long,

It was all about poor old Michael J,

‘To O’Connor’s Grove

They used to rove,

All Tullamore did say.’

I could go on but Peig is gone,

With memories so sweet-

She might you know have the rest of that

When again, I hope, we’ll meet.

The cypress trees that line the road are tall and trim

Like sentinels of the forests and the fields

That clothe the Tuscan hills in green and gold.

Past the castle of Gargonza near Monte San Savino

And many hairpin bends that tease you as you travel,

You reach the gates of Siena-a city lost in time.

It’s Gothic Square is strangely shell shaped,

Houses standing seven stories high above you;

Shutters drawn for coolness in the afternoon-

Faded, old and medieval, like a massive backdrop.

Weary now, we had climbed up earlier to the city

Sometimes out of breath—not just from the beauty

That lay ahead or round about and down below;

The sun suggesting a long cool drink above.

On the cobblestones the students squat; children play,

Chasing the pigeons that fly low among them;

Red orange juice on the shaded restaurant table.

By the banks of the Nervión river

In the cool of the chestnut trees

I watched a wayward fallen leaf

Tumbling along in the breeze;

Touching my bare sandaled toes

It said ‘Time passes quickly by’

And I thought as it floated away

That it went with a hint of a sigh.

Trams green and black in Bilbao

That sound as low as our prayers;

Then a city centre bus sped by

And it made me sit up and stare

At a dressed up matron seated

With knitting needles and wool.

Or so I was fooled into thinking-

By an image so very well done.

Fear ard a chromann síos,

A leag a shúil ar ní thíos faoi:

Cúig cent ar lána an bhus,

A bhogann thart gan mhoill

Le teacht tráthnóna fhuadraigh

I gcathair chroíúil Chorcaí.

Micléinn ag flleadh abhaile

Chun ocras an lae a mharú

Thuas i seomraí ’tá acu ar cíos

Thall i dTobar Rí an Domhnaigh.

Cois abhann do shiúlamar:

Scathán de chrainn is binsí

Ag bun gháirdíní na n-uasal-

A gcuid staighrí sios le fána;

Lanúin óg ag blaiseadh póg,

Na lachain ag snámh le chéile.

San óstán tá siamsa is sólás,

Ceol faoi choinnleoir craobhach,

Seaimpéin is gloiní seanga:

Corc ag popáil, gáire is gean,

An oíche sa chathair ag titim.

A tall man bends low,

While there is time,

To pick up a lost coin

Lying in the bus lane,

Before the evening rush.

Students heading home

Hungry for their dinner

High up in rented rooms

Across the Shaky Bridge

Up there in Sunday’s Well.

We walked by the Lee,

A looking glass for trees;

First kisses on a bench

As wild ducks pair away.

Sunset on the Western Rd.

Now an avenue of gold;

Blackbirds begin to sing

Around the Pink Clinic-

Place of human healing.

On a building site next door

A dumper driver on overtime,

Working till the last light of day,

Dumps another load of rubble

On a heap of stone and clay.

In the new hotel, the Kingsley,

Champagne in slender glasses;

Popping corks, loud laughter

And the night falling in the city;

The sweet music of a harp

Scintillating under chandeliers.

Spin and pirouette petite fille

Spin and pivot chère Charlotte,

Spin round and round my head.

Spin when your coat is shed,

Spin the draw drum of my dreams.

Spin you dancing poppy doll,

Spin you airborne spinning top-

Spin me as well St. Malo maid.

Spin and kick above your head-

Spin until you reach the galaxy,

Spin with stardust in your hands.

Spin female phantom of the night,

Spin slow away and say goodbye;

Spin soon again, I’ll see you then,

Spin back to me and to me smile.

To the bodhrán’s beat your heart’s in harmony,

Sinews plainly dance in the player’s timing foot;

From head to toes our traditional music flows-

Like it does on piano strings it vibrates below.

The sitting down around, the resining of the bow;

The tuning up is done and a fiddler plays a tune-

The spirit of the session comes suddenly to life.

Now listen to the rhythm of the music of the night.

In Clonmel the earnest Fleadh lovers

Walk around the streets of the town

In search of the best of the sessions

While the river Suir flows quietly on.

The couples wheel round in full circle

In sets danced by the young and old:

Sidestep, swing and cross over again,

Round the house, now dance in a ring.

We Tennessee waltzed by Heron’s

To the strains of a sweet violin

Held in the hands of that talented man-

Jim McKillop from Antrim himself.

On Monday the sidewalk was sunny

By the walls of the Arm’s Hotel

And the royalty of traditional music

Were there from the county of Meath.

For us the newly crowned champions

Began playing to begin their new day;

Troy Bannon was the céilí band leader

On the concert flute showing the way.

High up over nearby Bantry Bay

Nails are hammered into wood

On the town library roof above us:

Maybe staccato accompaniment

To enliven poetry reading tones.

As every nail went home to stay

Like words and lines and stops

I couldn’t but imagine it was Him

From Nazareth-a carpenter’s son.

Son of the carpenter fix me too

And make my heart your home:

Tap tap the nails we never feel-

Your damaged goods in transit;

Tap, tap tap and hammer home,

Let hand and eye align each line,

Then finish off what was begun

The day you created me in time.

Make and shape me as you wish,

Perfect, direct and aim me straight.

Feed me with your spiritual food

To take me to your home away

And when it is your chosen day

Let me be in a sinless state;

Shape me sing me write me down-

Great poet and carpenter’s son.

One night we slept in Glendalough

Above the Abhainn Mhór river,

Its mountain waters wild and brown

From Parnell’s place in Avondale

To Moore’s Avoca winding ever.

The little fields climbed up the glen

Embroidered with sheep and lambs;

Deep down below a constant flow

That sounds around the river rocks.

Stepping stones to a trodden path

In the shade of the Wicklow woods

To walk to Saint Kevin’s holy lakes,

Each a glimmer in the eyes of God.

Calm lakes to quench a thirsty spirit,

Great shining sloes with silver souls;

On the shore a priest was speaking

Of hermits and of peace and healing.

A boy upon a new bike of his own

That day as he cycled from home;

It might have been his own chariot

And he could have been a Ben Hur.

He was cycling out into the country

To go to see some ponies he loved;

He was happy to be out on his own,

Going down the road he knew well.

The ponies ran round the field freely,

Their manes flowing wild in the wind;

He who used to talk to them kindly

Too soon would be tragically killed.

His dead body was found by the sea,

Near the strand many long miles away,

Lying beneath the bushes and briars-

Last seen on a bike, back on that day.

The long days of searching were over,

The one that was lost was now found;

Their priest stood praying over him,

Quiet Gardaí, some crying, all round.

We all had been rocked to our roots

To hear a lad like him was laid low;

Many had come to help in the search-

He could have been one of their own.

So we’ll remember him sadly forever

As he set out on the high road of life,

We will always see him just as he was,

That time, but a young boy on his bike.

Trough St. Mary’s stained glass windows

The sun that’s setting near Mount Brandon

Beams across the aisle, the sacred way;

A warm ray highlighting the varnished seats

Around where we are kneeling at the side:

The two of us by the Stations of the Cross.

A prince of peace has sat in Peter’s chair;

He came to make his home in Rome

From Poland-the holy Pope John Paul.

With his crosier in his hand he travelled

Near and far to preach the word of God;

He was the first to be a pilgrim Pope-

To wipe the world’s tear stained face;

He kissed the ground we walked upon

And told all young people “I love you!”

The man who gave a lasting gift to us-

Of himself and told us to be always true:

Semper fidelis; vowing he was totus tuus.

Une nuit du vent et de la pluie

Elle me vint en rêve sans bruit;

Une très belle hirondelle dans l’air,

Dans la tente au bord de la mer.

Je lui lentement étendis les bras,

Doucement elle descendit sur la main;

À mon coté mon amour apparut

Et avec plaisir je lui offris l’oiseau.

Elle tendrement accepta l’hirondelle-

Le symbol de l’amour éternal:

En rêvenant à nous tous les étés

En dépit de longs voyages de l’étranger.

Et puis elle me confessa gentiment

Qu’elle s’était senti très seul également,

En pensant à la nuit à la maison-

Les aux revoirs à l’idylle et sa saison.

Mais l’orage mit fin vite au bonheur

De retrouver l’amour de mon cœur;

Je me reveillai un être aux anges

En mélangent ces mots à sa louange.

On a night of high wind and of rain

Into my dreaming it silently came

As I lay in my tent by the sea-

A most beautiful swallow to me.

I gladly warm welcomes extended

Then on my palm gently it landed;

The swallow I gave to my love

Who came to me soft as a dove.

The look on her face was so tender

At the sign of true love that I gave her:

To Ireland it comes back with loyalty

Despite the long flight and its frailty.

She spoke to me and shyly confided

That my loneliness was not one sided,

That often she thought of the evening,

The goodbyes to romance at leaving.

Then the scene in the dream it ended-

By a storm it was sadly suspended;

Awaking, her praises I put to a tune,

Floating about- I was over the moon.

Red deer at dawn that come our way,

Quick and sleek and nimble, nibbling;

Drifting fog is weaving morning magic

Beyond the ruined castle by the lake.

Sensing there is someone somewhere,

On red alert their heads are raised;

Silently they fade away like daybreak,

Disappearing through the lakeside reeds.

The morning sky has a crest of a moon

Sitting up over my window’s horizon.

Tall conifers compete with chimney stacks,

Castle top turrets and white office blocks;

The trickling traffic from King’s Cross below

Meets life coming into the city.

It’s quiet out there at four in the morning,

(The calm before the storm),

While the lights of the street lamps