Poetry Corner


Good firearms make good neighbors. Everyone’s very polite to each other.


FONTENOY 1745 by Emily Lawless

I. Before the battle, night.

Oh, bad the march, the weary march, beneath these alien skies,
But good the night, the friendly night, that soothes our tired eyes.
And bad the war, the tedious war, that keeps us sweltering here,
But good the hour, the friendly hour, that brings the battle near.
That brings us on to battle, that summons to their share
The homeless troops, the banished men, the exiled sons of Clare.

Oh, little Corca Baiscinn, the wild, the bleak, the fair!
Oh, little stony pastures, whose flowers are sweet, if rare!
Oh, rough the rude Atlantic, the thunderous, the wide,
Whose kiss is like a soldier’s kiss which will not be denied!
The whole night long we dream of you, and waking think we’re there -
Vain dream, and foolish waking, we never shall see Clare.

The wind is wild to-night, there’s battle in the air;
The wind is from the west, and it seems to blow from Clare.
Have you nothing, nothing for us, loud brawler of the night?
No news to warm our heart strings, to speed us through the fight?
In this hollow, star-pricked darkness as in the sun’s hot glare,
In sun-tide, in star-tide, we thirst, we starve for Clare.

Hark, yonder through the darkness one distant rat-at-tat!
The old foe stirs out there, God bless his soul for that!
The old foe musters strongly, he’s coming home at last,
And Clare’s Brigade may claim its own wherever blows fall fast.
Send us, ye western breezes, our full, our rightful share,
For Faith and fame, and Honour, and the ruined hearths of Clare.

  1. After the Battle; early dawn, Clare coast.

“Mary Mother, shield us! Say, what men are ye,
Sweeping past so swiftly on this morning sea?”
“Without sails or rowlocks merrily we glide
Home to Corca Baiscinn on the brimming tide.”

"Jesus save you, gentry! Why are you so white,
Sitting all so straight and still in this misty light?
“Nothing ails us, brother; joyous souls are we,
Sailing home together, on the morning sea.”

"Cousins, friends, and kinsfolk, children of the land,
Here we come together, a merry, rousing, band;
Sailing home together from the last great fight,
Home to Clare from Fontenoy, in the morning light.

Men of Corca Baiscinn, men of Clare’s Brigade,
Harken stony hills of Clare, hear the charge we made;
See us come together, singng from the fight,
Home to Corca Baiscinn, in the morning light."


But here there are no cows, mate.




Frost read that poem to group of Russian dignitary’s towards the end of the cold war. It was believed to have played a huge part in the tearing down of the wall. It’s understood the Russians who were present discussed it afterwards and said if the Americans agreed to stop subjecting them to poetry readings they would consider taking down the wall.



Beyond my fence there dwells a German
I’m fairly sure his name is Herman
He’s growing a rood of Christmas trees
Snagging a couple sure it’s a breeze
He’s on to me about thieving Paddy vermin.

You can have both it seems Choco.


The world owes you an apology
Not just the umpire
Not just the French Open
Not just racists who ask if you feel intimidated by Sharapova’s basic looks
Or being drug tested more than
The basic looking actual drug user
The nurses and doctors who ignored
Your knowledge
Of your own body
Almost causing your death
Every time they questioned your
They did so because of your skin
Asian parents who mold their children are
Tiger mothers
White parents who risk everything
Turn sex tapes into millions
Are momagers
But your father who made legends out of
Compton Concrete
Shaping you and your sister
Like Michelangelo chiseled David
He is loud
The world owes you an apology
But we know it will never come
Because first they would have to acknowledge
The hatred
The racism
It isn’t your black panther suit
Your beauty
Your millions
You venting to a umpire
A broken racket
Or a demand of proper medical care
It’s your blackness that offends
Your power when you should be powerless
Your confidence
When you should always grovel
Always remind yourself
That you should thank them
for allowing you
To be on the courts at all
As if a Queen tells the jester
thank you for her
You are the living breathing embodiment of
The dream of our ancestors
The power of our foremothers
The strength that the
Middle passage
Jim Crow
and America
Could not break
Your are more than the
You are goddess
More than tennis
You are a living black legend
And they hate you for it
#Serena #GOAT #USOpenTennis #JustDoIt #ShareYourSSunday
#FistAndFire #Buymybookifyouwanna book link in bio


I love a poem with a nice hashtag in the middle, gives a really contemporary vibe.

Maybe I should post more here, Derek Walcott or TS Eliot or the like. I read a lot of poetry and it’s sad to see this thread fall out of use.


Sharapova is better looking than her though…


And she’s not a darky.


You can’t say that. It’s racist innit?


I get the impression that Sharapova thinks she’s the greatest thing since the shite from her arse. And she’s middlin’ to poor in the overall scheme of things.


Kerry I thank you…

Up to Croker in ‘97, my dream it began

Standing in the Nally, I said ‘Maybe I can’

The famine was ended and Kerry were back

As a minor four years later, I’d give it a crack

Thank god I’m from Kerry, we sure are the best

History, tradition, st Brendan on the crest

I played right on the edge, not a backward step taken

Will I ever apologise? You must be mistaken

By God, it was special, the Green and Gold on my back

I did my job well, in the air I’d attack,

To the jersey I love you, I wore you with pride

Didn’t win them all but so hard I tried.

The future is exciting, we must support our team

It’s been so emotional and we’ve shared the dream

That’s a big part of it, that’s what we’re about

It’s the jersey, it’s Kerry, It’s ‘Up the Kingdom!’ we shout

I’ll never forget ye, ye know who ye are

Bonded forever, on the pitch, at the bar

We climbed all the mountains, they look good from the top

Celtic crosses in our pockets, those memories won’t stop.

Fitzgerald stadium was home, it’s where I kicked my last ball

After hugging my brothers, the tears did fall

I shouldn’t be sad, we were good for each other

Now’s the right time to hand it to another

The next chapter is here. Oh I can’t wait

No ifs, no buts, only total faith

Hilary, Lola Rose and Indie by my side

Made it a no brainer to eventually decide

My Kerry, my Family, my Mom and my Nan

Donaghys, Fitzgeralds and the O’Connors are my clan,

This sums up my journey and one thing’s for sure,

In the words of John B, ‘I’m one lucky hoor’"


You can’t say tinker either. Even though it’s in the Oxford English Dictionary.


World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,


CC @chocolatemice and @Gman


Well I’m glad that she copyrighted that because otherwise the whole internet would be taking credit.