Some More of My Poetry

After the amount of praise I received for the last poem I posted, Bull Island, I’ve decided to share some more of my poetry. This post actually has nothing to do with Asperger’s, I just like to use this as a platform to share my other writings every now and then like the short story I posted in June. The earliest poem here, I wrote when I was 14 and the most recent is a few months ago. I’m happier with some of them more so that others. There’s a large variance in themes and subject matter, and I’ve experimented with several different styles.

On Visiting Auschwitz, August 2014 (Sonnet III)

The sun rises to meet brown-brick on Polish soil,
I never felt the tender sun shine so cold
In summer. Walls that saw such dismal toil
And echo with the sorrowed wounds of old.
No more cargo, the tired train lines sleep,
Concrete chambers hollow, death’s stacks awry,
Neither soldiers’ boot nor triangle crest creep
Past that callous promise: Arbeit macht frei.
Yet still, no passing songbird will rest here.
A white butterfly lay, as on a pyre
Of lost souls, reverential, without fear
Of death etched in the brick and barbed wire.
So pilgrim, who comes to gaze through the bars,
Walk slow, this is the grave of fallen stars.

Tadhg Ó Ciardha, 2015

Past that callous promise, arbeit macht frei. Image credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Eingangstor_des_KZ_Auschwitz,_Arbeit_macht_frei_(2007).jpg

The Lulling-by

Why the tear in your eye,
Écoutrice,
Adrift beneath a veil of dust?
A wall of sand
And mourning:
Elusive
Pale
Or sorrowful.
I’d like to take that tear
From your eye
And cast it into the ocean.
We will sit
And sing farewell
To the sorrow, that once bit us,
Yet has no venom in its bite
When you look back
On all the clocks
That did nothing but chime,
Because
What then seeming monumental
Has slithered all away
And old definitions;
Worn.
So we’ll sit and watch the wailing stream
And remember
That when we cry;
It is not in sadness
But with sadness passing,
One day!
If constellations are kind,
A day not far from the lulling horizon.
I can even hear it now:
The lulling.
A ship to sail,
The lulling.
A ship to fly,
The lulling.
A ship to sail,
And sadness lulled adrift.

Tadhg Ó Ciardha 2014/15?

A ship to sail, and sorrow lulled adrift.

Siúlóir na Scamaill (Wanderer of the Clouds)

“Canfaidh mé,”ársa an oíge.

“An amhrán na mblathanna,
in éineacht leis na héin;
Amhrán áithiúil, amhrán bríomhair.
Rithfidh mé
ó mhaintáin go maintáin,
ó fharraige go fairraige ;
chun gach rud a fheiciáil
chun gach rud a fhoghlaim.
Tar éis sin,
léimfidh mé suas sa spéir
agus piocfaidh mé
scamailín bheag bán
mar ghúna bainise
do mo ghrá dáthúil.”
D’aoibh sé le bród
nuair a d’inis sé dá sheanathair
ach ghabhair an fhir ársa:
“Dá mbeinn i do bhróga,
d’fhanfainn ar an talamh,
mar beidh an óige imithe leat
go gairid
Agus do chuid bhrionglóidí scamallach freisin.

Rithfidh mé ó mhaintáin go maintáin

English tranlation:

“I will sing,”
said the youth.
“The song of the flowers
along with the birds.
A beautiful song, a lively song.
I will run
from mountain to mountain,
from sea to sea
to see all things
to learn all things.
After that,
I’ll jump to the sky
and I will pick
a little white cloud
as a wedding dress
for my fair love.”
He smiled proudly
when he told his grandfather
but the ancient man laughed
“If I was in your shoes,
I would stay on the ground,
as youth will leave you
shortly.
And your cloudy dreams with it.

Tadhg Ó Ciardha, 2014

Beidh an óige imithe leat go gairid agus do chuid bhrionglóidí scamallach freisin.

Fickle Black Gold (Sonnet II)

If you wander beneath the eyes of night,
Through weeping oceans and dead cities of gloom,
Searching for a luminous place, where roses still sing and bloom;
You shall find none. No rose. No bloom. No song. No light.
You will hear there no friendly mortal sound.
The last shots that rang in those last bleak hours
Rang for that which now lies dry and wilted with the flowers.
You will find these words written on the bloody ground:
We were the Kings of broken glass:
Lords of ruin and emperors of dust.
We were but Kings of broken glass
Children of war and greed and lust.
O tell the young! O tell the old!
Of the fickleness of men and their black gold.

Emperors of ruin and Lords of dust

Tadhg Ó Ciardha, 2014

Donadea Castle

The timid stones remember with silent tears.

Among the oak and fir and beech, it lies,
The hollow ghost of ancient nobility;
Once lambent halls open to the lachrymal skies
And echoing with the icy hymns of bats.

Ivy devours pale crumbling walls
And bars the once welcome gate.
Thistles dance across the broken halls
Where euphonious laughter rings no more.

The timid stones remember with silent tears,
The night when flames drowned the keep:
Its lonely walls forever stand, where
Oaks and firs and willows now weep

Tadhg Ó Ciardha, 2013

Among the oak and fir and beech, it lies

Question Marks (Song of Sara)

Maybe sometimes the stars need another friend

Sometimes God may make strange decisions in the dead of night,
Sometimes every single eye may not see the light

And I can see you crying now
And I don’t know what to say to you
I don’t know what to say or do
But I can sing this song for you

Sometimes footsteps fall when the sky is dark,
Sometimes life is punctuated by the question mark,
And sometimes the flowers we plant grow
But other times, we can never really know.

I can see you crying now
And I don’t know what to say to you
I don’t know what to say or do
But I can sing this song to you

Sometimes quiet voices may go unheard
Sometimes we may not hear every single word

Sometimes the sea claws with a cruel hand
But maybe sometimes the stars need another friend
And maybe death is not the end
Maybe death is not the end.

Tadhg Ó Ciardha, 2015

Amhranái sna Ghleannaí (Songs in the Valley)

Chan an manach san mainistir.

Amhranaí a chanfainn uair sna gleannaí,
Amhranaí a chanfainn uair sna gleannaí,
Chaintear fadó i dteangaí aisteach;
Teangaí caillte ‘is imithe,
Mar fir is mná le críonna trom
Sna coillte, sna bhailí agus ar thaobh sléimbhe.

Chan an gabha síos ag an teallach,
Chan an feoirmeoir síos in a ghort,
Chan an manach san mainistir,
Chan an ard-mná sáínithe sa túr.
Seolann an ceol sciatháin daoibh
Agus lighfidh an grá tú saoir.

Amhranaí a chanfainn uair sna gleannaí,
Chaintear fadó i dteangaí aisteach,
Teangaí caillte ‘is imithe,
Mar fir is mná le críonna trom.
Seolann an ceol sciatháin daoibh
Agus ligfidh an grá tú saoir.

English translation:

Songs I sang once in the valley,
Songs I sang once in the valley
Were sung long ago in languages strange,
Languages lost and gone,
By men and women with heavy hearts
In the forest, in the towns and on the mountainside.

The blacksmith sang down in the forge,
The farmer sang down in his field,
The monk sang in the monastery,
The high lady sang, trapped in the tower.
Music lends you wings
And love will set you free.

Songs I sang once in the valley
Were sung long ago in languages strange,
Languages lost and gone,
By men and women with heavy hearts
Music lends you wings
And love will set you free.

Tadhg Ó Ciardha, 2014

Seolann an ceol sciatháin daoibh agus ligfidh an grá tú saoir.

That’s all for now folks!

Post any questions about my work in the comments below. 🙂