Brie Encounter by Brian bilston
the skies are gruyere since she left me
i’ve never felt so danish blue
caught between a roquefort and a hard cheese,
i stilton’t know what to do
don’t give edam about the future
now my babybel’s walked out the door
can’t believe i’ve double gloucester
i camembert it any more
i’ve ricotta get myself together
and build my life back caerphilly
cheddar tear for the final time
say goodbye to us and halloumi
Anyone else got the new MDH poetry to music yet?. Its sensational!
I’ll be murdered here but this is extraordinarily beautiful IMO.
Perfect for a gaeilgeoir like yourself, but translated into English as well.
It’s a Louis DePaor poem mixed with the John Spillane song
Everybody should read this at least once a year
Death of an Irishwoman
Ignorant, in the sense
she ate monotonous food
and thought the world was flat,
and pagan, in the sense
she knew the things that moved
at night were neither dogs nor cats
but púcas and darkfaced men,
she nevertheless had fierce pride.
But sentenced in the end
to eat thin diminishing porridge
in a stone-cold kitchen
she clenched her brittle hands
around a world
she could not understand.
I loved her from the day she died.
She was a summer dance at the crossroads.
She was a card game where a nose was broken.
She was a song that nobody sings.
She was a house ransacked by soldiers.
She was a language seldom spoken.
She was a child’s purse, full of useless things.
© 1975, The Estate of Michael Hartnett
That is as good a line as I’ve ever read.
“I loved her from the day she died” is the kernel of it
Thats deadly
There’s some knock out lines in that poem,goes perfectly with the song
Dont we love everyone from the day they die?
From Dublin town came a flyer named Jim
Who’s Áras chances they were grim
He withheld a lads rent
Made him live in a tent
We all then knew that he was just dim.
Jim Gavin thought he had the Áras in the bank
Among Irish aviators, he was first rank
Micheál Martin and Fianna Fáil, he wanted to thank
Some of us thought it was a prank.
Then Jim on the telly looked like a plank
He sounded more and more like Apres Match Frank
And lost more and more votes the more Roy drank
And the voters left the Gavin box blank.
None of those Limericks flow 
The Sunday Game
By Dennis O’Driscoll
September 5, 2011
How alive, how excitable
they were back then,
when they congregated
in the neighbor’s kitchen
for the Sunday game:
the one neighbor with TV.
Every spot is occupied: painted form,
squat milking stool, squeaky
Morris Minor seat, with vinyl trim,
reincarnated as a sofa.
They get stuck in: loud wheezy cheers,
blunt denunciations of the ref . . .
Tension so immense that if
a Cathay Pacific jumbo chanced
to touch down on the dung-plated,
sun-saturated farmyard
not one would cast a living
glance in its direction.
Except, that is, the woman of
the house: she lifts the kettle off
the hob again, fills it from a shaded
bucket, the summer-blistered
hall door open to all comers.
No questions asked.
