How can you ask me to pretend, To smile and go my way indifferent, And busy myself with useless things And not cry, Though the tears are bursting from behind my eyes.
How can you say “time makes a difference” And I shall forget it all, When I really don’t want to forget, But to gently remember The time and times we shared In the moments before yesterday.
How can you say you’re sorry And not wonder Why the earth will not stop wheeling, Why the stars don’t lose their sparkle And why, oh why My sad heart will not break to sorrow.
But even as I ask the questions I know that I am sorry, too, And ask forgiveness, For I’m not myself at all Since she left this place Forever.
End
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary. [With my Thanks]
[Dedicated to Thurles Sarsfields Hurlers of the past.]
Still now the hurling hero’s hand
That wedded to the ancient ash of his camán
On green and glorious fields of youth
Forged memories magical.
Abandoned now the stalwart hurl of pride,
Hewn from the ash of Killough Hill,
That in many a field of trial had fashioned
The powerful poetry of play.
The game is over,
The nets are down,
The passion spent,
The hero’s home.
He hurls but now in memories
On dark, cold winter nights
By the fireside’s of Cuchulainn’s Gaels.
Or wherever hurling folk assemble
With the ash in their head and heart,
To play and play again
The stirring games of yesterday.
End.
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
I have lived my life on the bright side of loneliness. Scorned the darkest secrets of within, Laughed at them nervously and then Resolved to on and onward go again, Till those dark shadows Steal around my soul once more. Unbidden, unexpected and dark as black, Memories of some deep hurt of yore. Life is what is, you can’t take back, But yet I hold this world a splendid place, And splendid too each feeling, human heart. And every girl I loved had special grace, And every man some virtue to respect. Little after that I sought – a roof, a bed and fire, A little bit to eat and drink and love. And I have all and no more to desire From this great earth or from my God above.
End
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co.unty Tipperary
The Abbey of the Cross stands sentinel
In the evening summer stillness,
Dumb, splendid witness to a thousand years of time
To such as now in the ease of a May-bush summer.
The cuckoo calling,
Take time lightly
In the midst of summer scents and cherry blossom pink,
As the waters surge by the old stone bridge to the sea.
Laughing summer children tease the fish and wish,
And old men through a purple haze from pipe tobacco
Dream and dream
Of summers close to heaven.
From a quiet place beyond the weir
The river softly sings tranquillity
With its centuries old hymns to creation,
And languid by the old mill wheel – silent and still
Young lovers lose their hearts
To the spell of the evening.
The swallows of the mid summer early
Chatter circle in symphonic joy.
In the sweet, balmy air by the bridge
A girl in a long, wine summer dress,
Whispers to the waters
Words magical.
Fishermen toast their catch
And old ones in the riverbank hostelry,
In the twilight lit by yellow lanterns,
Speak of hurling, horses, hounds and fickle fortune.
On the upland past the walnut grove of the priests,
Engoldened by the evening sun,
Dumb cattle in the lush, green grass lie,
Eyes lost to a far horizon.
White washed cottages of thatch,
By lime and blossom now half hid,
Give out the light of welcome,
And a couple in a boat in a secret cove
Quietly steal the moment.
Enthralled, I bask
In a quiet warm intimacy with all,
For, as in the loveliness
Of a distant summer youth,
I am so happy here.
Over the emerald fields of summer,
By the blackthorn bush of May,
The cuckoo wheels and dips
On this lovely summer’s day.
From afar, through blue skies travelled,
Cuckoo, hear her call
Butterflies, bees and posies,
She sings the joy of all.
Gentle harbinger of happiness
Winging over field and flower,
Cuckoo song enthralling,
Calling hour by hour.
End
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
Cuckoo Song
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