Sep. 28, 2019
When I was very young, a woman we called Mammy Hanlon came weekly to visit my Nana. She lived in one of those huge old folk’s homes run by a religious order where she worked in the laundry. She was allowed out on her own one day a week, which is when she came to visit. I often went to see her there. It was not a nice experience for a young boy. Anyway, one day when I came home from school, she was at home. In the course of chatting, she commented on how long my fingers were and said I should learn to play the violin.
I was reminded of that comment this summer for no particular reason and it sparked off the following poem. I am aware of the ageing process both physical and mental as I approach another birthday and the life changes that are occurring.
The picture here is called “Figures Lying on the Sand” by Salvador Dali and, it must be said, the hands bear no resemblance to my own.
Clíodhna
27.09.2019 19:29
Love this. Poignant and beautiful.
Latest comments
25.11 | 22:15
Grief is experience through the mundane. Simple but powerful. The accompanying image really compliments the poem.
07.11 | 11:14
Hi Peter,
A great observation! Social media can be a scary place... I also need to reduce my time there
Hugs,
John.x
06.11 | 16:24
A great one, Peter, in the context you describe. I don't read social media myself, I doubt my equilibrium could stand it. 'The balance of his mind disturbed' yes, I think it would be.
06.11 | 15:59
Yes, gossip is a weapon of mass destruction.
In my business as well as personal life I have zero tolerance.
Echoes of the Old on the New Battlefields
Warrior chiefs of the GAA were early on the field to prepare:
Posts and cones positioned to mark territories
Very young novices came later by parents’ chariots
clad and shod for the ensuing battles
Firstly, paced for speed, resilience and flexibility,
then marked off into opposing teams
Each warrior chief led a young squad of hopefuls
in further exercises to bring them to fit levels
There followed a huddle, an exhortation rant,
responded with clamour of intent and enthusiasm
Skirmishes began, speed across the field, hunt for the ball,
to be delivered as the goal, or to be prevented at all costs
Warrior chiefs egged on, instructed, altered the field of play
the young ’uns complied with fighting spirit
For every fall and hurt spells were cast on the side line
till fitness returned and they were entered back into play
Scores mounted, roars enhanced, casualties grew,
novices flagged and regrouped across the fields
Between bouts came the talks of encouragement
Stay back, pass, pass, pass, keep the pace.
Old hands passing skill onto new palms with dedication,
a gift of generous wisdom gladly given
Peter Clarke
20th April 2024