Ronnie McGinn's Poetry Page
| If you have a poem you'd like to see published in The Irish Examiner then send it to:
The Poetry Corner
The Irish Examiner USA
1040 Jackson Avenue, Third Floor
Long Island City
NY 11101
or, preferably, you can email it direct to
ronniemcginn@eircom.net.
If possible keep your poem to 20 lines. You may choose any subject you like, in any form you like as long as it's original. We look forward to hearing from you. |
It is that time of year when a lots of people, from lots of different places, for lots of different reasons happen to visit Kinsale. Once in the area the topic of 'The Old Head' inevitable crops up. At the very least, the subject is highly controversial. It stirs old feelings in those who, in another time, could freely wander around 'The Old Head'. The most terrifying fact is that it could happen to any beauty spot. One of the most poignant, emotional and comprehensive pieces on the matter can be found in Billy McCarthy's poem 'The Rape of the Old Head'.
"Me Slippers"
Out in the God-given air and sunshine of long-lost days of yore,
The rocks, the sea and the bracing breeze of this isolated shore,
The gannets wheeling overhead on watch for their silver prey,
As we set up our rods and gear on the rocks above the bay.
If those same rocks could only speak of generations past,
Who laboured by the towering cliffs, who silent, watched aghast,
As lifeboat crews of selfless thought set out against the gale,
In answer to a May-Day call off the Old Head of Kinsale.
And stories too of folks like us who came here just for pleasure,
To while away some happy hours, to picnic at our leisure,
And children playing in the sand, no cares to mar their joy,
The Old Head that I knew and loved when I was but a boy.
Beneath the azure canopy of summers cloudless sky,
We sat and watched the miracles of nature passing by,
The echo of the rolling sea within the yawning caves,
As a million sunbeams danced upon the crests of half a million waves.
This world of peace and solitude, this heaven here below
Was ours to love and cherish, we reap only what we sow.
We'd not disturb the nesting bird, nor flora would we spurn,
So that our sons may come fishing too, with their sons in their turn.
Where once the foreign landlord reigned and deemed this land his own,
With fishing rights and shooting too, reserved for him alone.
The common man could have his sport outside of this domain,
We little thought we'd ever see such tyranny again.
But now the gate is locked once more, the landlord has returned,
His sport is for the privileged few. The common man is spurned,
Where fox and hare and snipe were once in gorse and heather seen,
Is now a barren fairway from tee-box to the green.
We have no say, we cannot fight the thoughtless powers that be,
Who authorised this scandalous rape of our heaven by the sea.
They have robbed us of our future, but fond memories will prevail,
Of our happy, carefree pastimes at the Old Head of Kinsale.
© Billy McCarthy
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