I am the poet
carrying a luggage of roles
all of which I play with equal interest
I am the talkative lover
who knocks on the door of your heart
and having entered,
bursts into a torrid tete-a-tete
with your inner self
and sings fantastic flirtations
I am the justice in the court
betokening perfect impartiality
and never guilty of distorting the truth
None receives the least pardon from me
for any offence
I am the policeman
following the thugs
with a baton
and filing a case against them
I am the overpowering magician
My virility, more ebullient
than that of a gunman or a swordsman
In case they can only kill a person
Yet I influence the latter
and charge the battery of his heart
I am the labourer
digging out moth eaten rubbish mounds
and recycling them
Yet, I am the poet,
the very slight poet,
still struggling for perfection.
Outside whitewashed, pretty as it pleases
Inside imagination hides from the fear and pain
But death never comes to those who pray
Living grows you old
No escaping as a young
Freedom only comes to the elder and not in mind
Devastation is here like a child playing hide and seek with a vicious animal
There are smiles outside, the pillars holding up the heaviness in the mind
Inside see the wreckage of a small soul
Innocence is a bloom that withers in darkness
They say it is finished
they say they will do us well
more than the colonial masters
of the past
that we don’t need to worry about anything
but learn how to be slaves.
They say it is finished
they made us believe
the things for the deaf people
they say we don’t need to worry about anything
but learn how to be deaf.
They say it is finished
they put us here in this paradise
which prison is better of
they say we don’t need to worry about anything
but learn how to be prisoners
hoping to be free someday.
Beneath the broad columns of Herculean Pillar,
Weeps the springtime feather dance
Of freezing frothing blanket.
He lies on Irving’s rocks across the Henry,
Painting words of Freedom’s March across a furrowed brow,
Till tiredness creeps it’s feet on lonely eyes,
Counting mountains
As they frown down from above.
On the first crack of the distant Bell
A teary head raises from a bloody pillow,
And sings out the count, to defiant beats.
Flakes drift softly round a faraway moon,
As drizzle melts the lines of morning strollers,
With the hoofs their companions, embossed upon the heather.
His eyes close as he settles to dreams of futures possible,
Picturing rows of steaming turrets, sharpened blades
And crumbling fear, as they draw known faces on fancy paper.
He hears whispered talk of sagging brows and lobbing smiles,
Scribbling and Scripting our morning news where
New artisans paint Headlines in his head,
“Work, save, and Beg.
Make ends meet,
Work those streets,
Bare them writers, debaters,
Leaders, loiters,
Teeming with poor lice“.
Upset now, he straightens, filled with sculpted fear,
And flagging hope,
Devouring ideals of painful labour,
Darkened evenings and prose.
The Narrow Alleys echo his comrades screams,
‘They are Flogging the undesirables‘.
Cries of the deserted ring out
As sweat now pores on dirtied boots.
On A One page of women Jubilant,
Black Coffins swim across the oceans, and the Singing corpses chant the Voters Slogan
‘The great appear great,
Only because we are on our Knees’
The Parisians have embraced the soul of his youth, stole his heart,
Hardened his resolve,
And emancipated the print of the newest chapters.
He’ll fall upon the lords great will,
The ‘Singers’ and ‘Wobblies’ will call and cheer,
While unrest leaves lanes of torn and listed books.
It’s a world only make believe could make so real.
Locked in, Locked out,
Fattened Guerrillas stalking shadows,
In concrete jungles of law and lands.
Their people Long since, Ner’ forgotten,
For He hears their whispers in his sleep.
This Farmers land, had workers lead their kin to the gates of Slaughter,
Then scavenged, begged and stowed to the cloudy Hill
Of Overlooking
To remorse or return, is a question beyond the door of the living.
He must Shed not for the defiant butcher,
But more for the life now gone,
Since sold to an aging critic.
He was Born in to the Poor mans world,
But now freed from it’s chains,
Must help make what‘s fallow ripen.
On the streets where rubble were once great walls,
Where mounted high, the heavenly stag did Breed,
In fields where blight had starved their plates,
He would toil and drive and Dig and Build.
That day, That day in May,
Upon a hazy heather pillow,
A life of history filled a lonely man.
As He lay and held the hand of glories past,
He raised a fist to salute the one which had just begun.
He shakes hands in his dreams with the men of the mist,
Along hills,
And at the edge of great towns.
James Fitzpatrick
Seamus Mac Giolla Phadraig
James Fitzpatrick is an Irish Poet based in Dublin.
The passing of my Grandmother in 2015. She passed a day after my birthday, February 26th. It rained that day and snowed a bit. Pretty much the whole week leading up to her funeral, the weather was like that. But the day of her funeral the sun was out. I guess she had a warm welcome that day.
How long have you been writing poetry?
This is really like the second poem I wrote. I not really a poet. I wrote a poem a little before that called “No More Mr. Nice Ty”, it was like the opening of a short script I wrote of the same title. I thought it was sorta wack though.
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
I’m not really trying to have dinner with a zombie, bro. I don’t know. Maybe the old Kanye.
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
I got email out of the blue about submitting a poem. This was like the only poem I’ve really had. I’m writer battling writer’s block right now. Maybe my Grandma and my fam that I named in the poem knew I needed some inspiration and trying to align the universe up for me.
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
Yeah, the short script I mentioned earlier. I’m working on a pilot and feature right now.
What is your passion in life?
Writing, storytelling , creating. Just being able to create characters and come up with storylines. It’s like having a whole universe in your head. Right now I’m just trying to figure how to get it out.
I wrote what I felt would encourage anyone experiencing dark times.
How long have you been writing poetry?
Over 10 years and I’m still learning every day.
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
Maya Angelou. I would thank her for continuing to teach me how to make myself heard using the eloquence of simple words.
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
I dislike public performance. So your platform is the right place for me to co-share the skill of writing and performing with someone else.
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
I have published books on fantasy/adventure/educational tales with moral lessons. In the published portfolio is also a novella and anthology of thoughts. For anyone interested to know more, I am giving free books to visitors on my website.
What is your passion in life?
Inspire and invoke positive changes with my writing.
When Ink fails the writer
The ballpoint refuses to roll.
When the sheet isn’t looking better,
And some words are missing on the scroll,
Oh! How unfortunate are the readers!
When the motivational speaker runs out of words
Air refuses to pass out through his bucal cavity. When all he could have is vocal without
chords
And a deep touch of boring words with no sanity.
What a loss for the depressed and discouraged!
When the greatest singer of all time runs out of lyrics,
The best rapper can’t just get two lines to rhyme,
The builder becomes scared to touch the bricks
And the fastest man runs out of time.
What a funny tragedy has struck the surface of the earth !
Fill up your Ink o writer
Pick up some better pens
For the readers are waiting.
Wake up o motivational speaker
Be filled with the right utterances
For the depressed are dying.
Come back alive o singer
Be filled with melodious songs of hope
For some hopeless hearts are weeping.
Get your lines right o rapper
Cast away your fears o builder
For on you, many are relying.
Be strengthened o runner
I tell you it is not over
To win is your calling.
There are people with purpose. People who know what they are supposed to do. They have dreams, they gave goals to achieve. There are lazy people. People with no dreams. People who just get by…..and then there are others. Others who have dreams and goals to HAVE dreams and goals. To feel appreciated, to feel needed. Your words to them are daggers, more than most. One incling of failure and they are utterly defeated. But…you don’t see them, even as one, I don’t see them. They are Others. I am an other…and you don’t know. Others hide, praying to found, yet rarely are. We laugh, we cry…just like you….but we are not. We are different. Your words resonate within us so deeply we drown……Emotionallly, physically, spiritually….for the others, every day is the day we need to catch our breath, every anxious thought is an excuse to get out. Every cry for help is debilitating….every conscious thought is paralyzing…. Everything is other….we are other. I am other….and you will not understand.
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