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. |
Poetry is language. That is inescapable. It may contain ideas, but it is not ideas; it may tell a story, but it is not stories. It may express the whole range of human emotion, but unless its language is vital, fresh and surprising, those emotions will be blurred and ineffectual. This week I've attempted to demonstrate this point to the best of my ability, whether it works or not is something for you to decide.
Where the Black Puddings Grow!
"Whose pet did they kill to make puddings this way?"
Well I got a surprise when I heard myself say...
"It's nothing like that for I happen to know,
A field in West Cork where the Black Puddings grow"
Oh Dear God! Forgive me; I know I have sinned,
My brains a balloon that's been tossed in the wind
My sweet little girl with her innocent eyes,
Is too young to learn that her Daddy tells lies!
Perhaps she'll forgive me, perhaps she'll forget
It's highly unlikely to happen, and yet,
Could winters long watery weariness show?
A field in West Cork where the Black Puddings grow?
Oh no! Not a chance, so I must pay the price,
To be fooling one's child is not very nice,
Still I ponder and pout and try to pretend,
That maybe someday we'll be happy again!
Where trees glow green around bronze fields of hay
Up hills and down valleys we drive every day!
As my sweet little girl still asks me to show,
The field in West Cork where the Black Puddings Grow!
© Ronnie McGinn
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