At_Last

At last ! Selected poems of G. F. E. McGuiness

in his own words !

Original works and Gaelige translations to American', by G.F.E. McGuiness, himself.

At last !

McGuiness - In his own words!

Thanks to Six-County-North Underground Press for permission to reprint these poems

There is no permission granted to further reprint or in any way distribute or retell these poems.

Any and all prior copyrights apply.

Note from the editor: These poems came to me through a very strange mechanism. I am not Irish. I was merely one of several persons accompanying a common lady friend to a 'Gaelic cultural evening of entertainment'. Several of the Irish men seemed to be right out of central casting for a Jimmy Cagney movie. We had a good time. The program included singing, piping, and brief one act plays. I enjoyed those, especially the manner in which the repertory players transformed themselves for each piece. There was, of course, plenty of Irish clogging, which they call step dancing. The best of the evening was last, not advertised, unanticipated by the audience, and unlisted in the playbill - poems of G.F.E. McGuiness, recited by a master Irish seanachie. It was a Mister Burns, I believe. Presented in their native Gaelige, they were spellbinding, even though I didn't understand a single syllable. It just didn't matter. The brooding rumble of this ancient tongue was mystical. The previously vocal and upbeat audience became totally absorbed. Curiously, as it went on, there were tears on many cheeks, my first clue that there were actually many people there who spoke this language. At the end, the exodus was - silent. Just silent. Reflective dreamy faces filed out without conversation. What happened here? Off the main lobby, in a vestibule, three of our party chatted with old friends who had also attended the show. I was pretty much out of these conversations and so asked a passing usher if, perhaps, there were available a translation of the McGuiness poetry. "No!" The tone of the response conveyed, "What? Are you stupid?" I was sure he had misunderstood the simple question that I had asked. I hesitated a moment and was about to ask it again, but more clearly. But then, a nearby gentleman with dark glasses, out of place in this dim lighting, a woolen cap pulled low to one side, and a well weathered Donegal jacket, turned curiously up at the neck, began to paraphrase the poetical works as our portico became increasingly thick with listeners. Wow! This was another event in itself! Why hadn't I heard of this poetry before? The answer was simple. It existed only in Gaelige. "Gaelic?", I asked and was quickly trounced with the correct term 'Gaelige' - Gaelic being an English, therefore unacceptable in this crowd, word for Gaelige. My response was something like, "Oh. Gee. Is he still alive?". A few gagged on laughter and indicated affirmatively. I shrugged, "You know, he really ought to translate his works into English." A brutal, deep, and incisive, "Devil's tongue!", from behind, cut the painful silence that followed my question. It was eerie. I could feel my foot in my mouth. But now, trying to

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extract it, only got it in deeper, "But does the poet want to communicate or not? I mean, it's like taking coals to Newcastle.", another badly selected reference followed by a group groan. Now babbling, "OK OK. Wait. I mean, OK, if he wants to be EFFECTIVE, I mean, you know, like, change minds rather than cement old relationships, then new ears have to hear it. Yes? Right? Like, they sure as hell ain't gonna be learning Gaelige! No? Why sell ice to Eskimos?". That was better than Newcastle, but still pretty shabby. Deadly silence followed. "Anyway,", I muttered, trying to extract myself, "If he's pissed at the English, he could translate it into American. You know? English is only one of a whole bunch of dialects. Right?". I could see that the mysterious fellow was thrown by this argument and visibly disturbed. My lady friend was giving me serious kicks in the ankle, so I apologized to him for my inappropriate remarks, but he waved me off and left after a brief conversation, in Irish, with one of the men in our party. I caught my name being tossed, but didn't pursue it. Eight months later, I received a package of poems with notations, philosophic statements, and historical fragments, but with NO INSTRUCTIONS ! Clearly they were from Gavin McGuiness via an intermediary. McGuiness in 'American' IN HIS OWN WORDS! Now what? Obviously I had to learn more about this man, whom I had once only heard of in the news as a terrorist. G. F. E. McGuiness is the pen name of Gavin McGuiness. When spoken by the right people, the G.F.E. part sounds like 'Gaffy'. The "F.E." portion of his name is derived, somehow, from an utterly obscure and unpronounceable Gaelige freedom war cry. My sources have given up trying to explain it to me. It defies spelling. My first detailed information about his past came to me through correspondence with Maeve McLonighan. Ms. McLonighan is a most respected Irish historian who investigated the mound mystery rather thoroughly and whose work on Tara is now a classic. She was, as a child, a close and intimate friend of a cousin of Gavin McGuiness and grew up in the very place where his travail began - near Bogside, Derry. Her quest into academic historical forensics began as a personal curiosity to sort out the truth of the pro and anti McGuiness tales which abounded in her county. Satisfying that curiosity took a level of scientific skill and logical prowess that would rival Sherlock Holmes. Gavin McGuiness was and is a wanted man. His alleged 'crimes' stem from his jail break even though he was not jailed for a valid reason. His jailing is related to three things. He was a good writer of a politically unpopular topic, his fiancee was taboo, and his father was his father. Officially, he was 'held for questioning' relating to his 'IRA support'. That turns out to be merely his vocal and editorial opposition to the abuses of power the local police

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perpetrated on selected people of Ulster. The 'kidnapping' of McGuiness by the police, as it is usually called by his supporters, was precipitated when he came to the aid of his fiancee. But there was more to it than that, a much deeper prejudice against this poet and his fiancee. She was a way to get at him and he was a way to get at his father. Gavin's father, of similar name, was a Republican freedom fighter whose attacks on the 'Black & Tan bastards' were brutally effective, earning a name that translates "Death Ghost". Such English military quasi-police thugs as the Black and Tans, and worse, the Auxies, were brought to Ireland to suppress support for the republic. They terrified the people with raids into the villages, random violence, and outright looting. Many a hapless farmer was killed for merely being in his field when they passed, like buffalo shot from trains in the old American west. Any man who complained was branded an 'IRA conspirator'. Interestingly, these thugs, many fresh out of English jails, seldom encountered the real IRA. The exceptions were when they were attacked in reprisal for their crimes, by the IRA flying column. The Black & Tans went after easy prey. Victory over Irish 'criminals' was then heralded in English newspapers. A very effective propaganda ploy was to twist every IRA reprisal - for a Black and Tan or Auxie looting spree - into a Catholic attack on Protestants. The fact that some of the victims of IRA reprisals were royalist Catholics and that some of the IRA were Protestant Republicans, was routinely censured from the news. The actual nature of the reprisals was always simply Catholics were killing Protestants. Period. A 'two houses for a house' IRA policy followed in which for every Irish farm burned or invaded, two English or wealthy supporter houses would be destroyed. That worked rather well. The howling in the House of Lords was quite loud and sustained. The elder McGuinness died in his later years of complications of a wound received in one such reprisal. Young Gavin grew up on the stories of the injustices. However, rejecting violence, he never took up the quest beyond his writing. At this he excelled. Love for his father reflected in the emotional accuracy of the retellings of the old stories. Rich with such material, these accounts really angered the totally politicized police. Gavin's stories were compelling, memorized easily, and were, therefore, retold endlessly. The factual details were easily confirmed. In short, they were EFFECTIVE. Gavin's fiancee was beaten up by the police for merely entering a bake shop which 'was under surveillance as an IRA meeting place'. It wasn't. They knew who she was and were angry at her being a Protestant in "league with an IRA mouthpiece". When she protested of her treatment to officials, they jailed her, without any official charge, for "questioning". Clearly her incarceration was a cowardly jab at McGuinness Sr. and, more importantly, a warning to other Protestant girls to not consort with the Catholics. Gavin, seeking her release, was likewise held for questioning. No charges were ever stated for either of them. Later, this 'lapse of procedural detail' was to actually aid his invisibility as typical arrest records were never forwarded from the place of confinement to the county headquarters.

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For four years Gavin and his fiancee were kept in separate unlit stone walled dungeon cells with wooden doors bearing slit windows and food slots. Some questioning! Rare visitors could only talk through the doors. The two youngsters communicated in whispers under these doors across the hallway at night - in Gaelige. Gavin, in the oral tradition of the Irish story teller, recited his poetry through an outside wall breach to any who would press their ears to the wall to listen. In this manner, his unwritten poems found their way to the underground press. It wasn't the IRA but rather an independent group called 'Brithem' who busted Gavin and his fiancee out of this dungeon called a 'holding house'. All the jailers present were slain. "Hacked to pieces" is how all the accounts describe it. The building and its documents were burned. Nobody was left alive who was unfriendly and who knew what McGuiness looked like. A false photo, supposedly of Gavin McGuiness, was later circulated by Brithem on posters seeking the outlaw. That image was really a long dead IRA man, a fact discovered only two years ago. Even now, McGuiness's best protection is his ghost like quality. He is not known on sight to any but a few. Gavin McGuiness is still wanted for 'questioning' as no records survived to show that he had ever been arrested. One such document put forward was quickly shown to be forged, to the embarrassment of the English officials. None of the acts of terrorism, attributed to McGuiness, have ever been proven to be by his hand. However, the sixty, or so, persons who were connected with that facility over the four years of 'the kidnapping' have been individually felled by violent 'acts of God' and justice. Brithem is Gaelige for justice, specifically the Bretanic codes. McGuiness is quoted, as the story goes, as saying to one of the perpetrators, just before the axe fell, "Have them submit their questions in writing next time." McGuiness's fiancee acquired tuberculosis while in jail and denied even supportive care died, severely wasted, in his arms shortly after the break out. The stories recount that it was she trying to comfort him as she was languishing in his arms. His last words to her were, "Katherine, my Caitlin, don't go." Ms. McLonighan points out that Gavin's sweetheart was named Katherine ("kay - TAH - drdeen"). McGuiness, interestingly, evokes her memory by the ancient Galige root name, his name of fondness for her, Caitlin. This is significant. Caitlin is a name of great Irish literary symbolism. Poetic readings tend to swap these two names interchangeably regardless of how written. Gavin's young 'Caitlin' cannot be distinguished from 'Caitlin ni Houlihan', a linguistic embodyment of Ireland as a female figure, additionally made famous by Yeats. When Gavin refers to Caitlin he means this girl of his tormented dreams and he means Ireland. There isn't a strong distinction . Therein is part of the magic. His love, his country, interchangeably murdered. A second biographical source, Brian Kelly, curator of the Irish Literary Historical League, has also allowed a brief synopsis of part of his own research, which is interestingly taken almost totally from English security sources. Kelly, employed by English intelligence before his current calling, has an account which isn't far off that of Ms. McLonighan. He brings out some interesting correlations and speculations.

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Gaffy's hatred of England is beyond measure. He totally abandoned English speech during his incarceration shortly after 1963 when he was nearly 17 years old. Caitlin was about a half year older. This jail break was almost a prelude, by four years, to a regional psychological implosion that, paralleled more broadly, eventuated in the Bogside riots in Derry in 1969. McGuiness was not alone. He was just the first and the best writer, able to retell history with passion. Generalized oppressive events, not long after his escape and Caitlin's death, escalated to the point of wholesale mass killings of Catholics and house burnings by heavily armed Protestant Ulster mobs incensed at pressures for political parity. English troops were called in, not to protect the Protestant interests, but due to extremely bad world opinion and American business financial pressures resulting from news reels of the massacres perpetrated in Ulster under the banner of Royalism which they called Loyalism. Local Derry and Ulster officials were very much into personal empire building and did indeed exploit the local populace. It is not merely accidental that the police did not create official documents for their many activities, as such a paper trail might later prove ruinous. This was the rule, not the exception. The deviant nature of these Northern Irish personages cannot be divorced from official English policy. Indeed, the long-standing "get tough" policies of the English were terribly off the mark. It was rather commonplace for English criminals with histories and convictions for mindless brutal behaviors to be "freed for rehabilitation". This was a nice way of saying that they would be enlisted along with the "Black and Tans" and sent to Ireland to "dull the green". It was exactly such a later day long ingrained group mentality, which the young McGuiness encountered. It was the incarnation of his father's words of warning. The Catholic - Protestant animosity, created by the British, was a drum played for all it's worth. Since the invasion of Ireland and brutal confiscation of land by William of Orange, there has been little deviation in its substance in the North. William wished that the local Irish populace would just die off, including the children. He said so. "Nits become lice.” It was policy. Laws were created to not just suppress the native Irish, but to keep them down "in perpetuity", identified by their religion which was systematically linked to landlessness. No land, no political voice, no representation or forum of grievance of any kind, forever. The English poet, Spencer (hence the term Spencerian Darwinism) mused about a 'final Irish solution', an elimination of Irish altogether from the isle. Driven from their farms, natives were forced to grow about the only thing that would grow on salty marshland - not potatoes , but - a certain kind of a potato. The blight was of this one breed of plant. The original farms were still productive and making great profits as produce was nearly all being shipped to England. The official dictum, voted in parliament, was that to assist the Irish starving in the famine was against the principles of 'Lassis Faire', an economic dictum hurried into practice. It isn't about religion, McGuiness aptly points out, as Catholics and Protestants in the larger southern Republic of Ireland get along fine under laws which do not discriminate.

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It is about privilege and those who seek to have and perpetuate it through perverted contrivances of law. There was only one dissenting voice in parliament decrying this lassis faire policy of systematic 'genocide'. He lost his seat for it. This was broadly supported governmental policy of the same type and on the same scale as that inflicted on the Jews by Hitler. It is uncomfortable. We gloss it over. But the generations of McGuinnesses who survived it have passed it on to be kept alive. Gavin McGuiness is the voice of those generations of outrage. His self imposed literary isolation lifted, in a new language - 'American' - a poetic Irish Rosetta stone is unearthed.

With pride, deepest humility, and a bit of fear, I give you

AT LAST !

M C GUINESS

IN HIS OWN WORDS !

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Away

G.F.E. McGuiness

Away Away, anchor! No anchors today! A baited rancor Of

Anger Might Stray Or still, wait langoured, Cankered, And Fade Away, anchored. Away! Weigh anchor to raid Til the young martyred green Of Easter 's Repaid.

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gainst You

G.F.E. McGuiness

Monster loosed, our land devoured, Venting fire, conceit empowered,

Borne of bloody lips A natal brat's aflame,

Whipped in fatal winds of servile fawning, Fanning holocaust of mutant's spawning. Yet, Another vital child of fire seethes From newly vented lungs. It breathes The stench of deadened ground

Choked of deadened leaves, Tinder spawned of evil deeds.

Therein is our hope, I pray, A seer of breadth of fire our way Scoffing vile dragon mother's flesh Enmeshed in kindling Of our very essence dwindling.

You! Who feigning peace yet would enslave, Instilled my thoughts and dreams with rage. Muse, entrapped, in Zeus's hammer,

Lost, alone, in screams at night, Staggered by this gavel's weight, Wakened late but fit for fight Metal bent, I crush the gate.

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My word is my promise. I promised words

Not thoughtlessly given Nor comfortably heard. They are the your child that will turn against you To censure the plunder unmeant you.

Candor revealed as artful gamble Dims the glow of sham, And tools the nay'ers of the soothe. Say'ers of the truth.

A thunder of shocking enlightening as sent through This infant will chancre the temper Hell lent you.

Your child, My charge, Will transform against you!

Don't point your poisoned talon at me. How was it we came so far and so badly? Can we exist enslaved and go gladly About our way As chattel of a presence, unconcerned? Is perdition something we earned? Is my venting vented madly? Is my sadness related too sadly?

No.

Not now!

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I vow A vow To turn this child about at you,

Sustaining till she has dispatched you. Weapons drawn of honor and song Will sunder the pride that unbent you. I'll sharpen her tongue with which She will rent you And suck the exhalings that vent you.

No. No regrets, No second guessings,

No daunting expectation of blessings From the enfeebled bought and sold For promises of tomorrows Paid in turn with greater debts Of unimaginable new horrors.

No.

I'll turn your daughter to hurt you, You cowardly killer of virtue. Embers, Inflections, Cons descending in Ire', Burn through the ayes, igniting the pyres Irreverently fanned in fevered desire For rosters with shamrocks impressed, And parleys on crimes unaddressed.

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So

Hold to your guns

To your drums

To your vests

To your oaths

To your rules

To your writs

To your tests.

To your chambers of scream quenching walls

To your hangings In dungeons To your shackles And balls.

Your chains are about to unwire.

Your spell is about to expire.

It brings me due joy to incense you, As I insight your child against you!

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lutch G.F.E. McGuiness

Beauty's in the fist So sure So clear Unmistakable Duty's in the fist Endured Inveighed Unshakable

There's booty in the fist Lurid

Smeared Unsalable

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Antrim, Armagh, Derry, Down, Tyrone, Fermanagh

In the fist Unforgivable

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aps

G.F.E. McGuiness

Lost? Me?

Is that a map of the past You have there?

Orange lines through Pastures of green?

The boundaries imply Strange ownership claims, From surveys Made for the Queen.

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But don't you quite see What a blind man can feel? These are the lines Of the march of the drummers, Not cattle paths, fields, Along mountains or streams, But attack lines Of club'ers and gun'ers. It is not I who've strayed From the way better taken Nor blinded by maps Such as these that you've shown.

I live on the corner Of Justice and Right. Don't tell me, I know the way home.

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Mavourneen (*my dear one) G.F.E. McGuiness

Scent of fair heather, ascending, Mavourneen.

Tiers of sunlight breaking,mending, Mavourneen.

Earth Mother in labor delivers you,

These hills on which I graze This green

Of Mavourneen.

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o t h e r G.F.E. McGuiness

What mother is this? My mother, she claims.

What mother is this

Whose child, she maims?

What mother is such

Who, for her own gain, Puts wee ones in green To the wall?

Why the black and tan whip

That she cracks till they fall?

Is this my own mother? My mother at all?

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Muse

G.F.E. McGuiness

How do I draw My feelings in words When passion drawn sabers Temper the night? How does breath Render the quiet of babies Faltered in hunger That they cannot right?

Do I engender the taste of pride swallowed By mothers whored to suppliant crawling? The savor of blood by murder through stalling? The smell of due vengeance For feigns as appalling as rape?

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Perfumed by station, By lies, By truth flailing in smothered reprise, Crushed by pomp that is galling, When, Just when do I rise?

Do I distemper to simply be quiet? When 'just us' is justice, Should I not riot?

How fares appeal Fettered in stanchion?

How does one steal Into deafened attention?

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Crumbling, Falling,

In failing my muse, I fail in my calling.

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Planted

G.F.E. McGuiness

Wetted haze of pallid air Clouded blown umbrageous tyke, Ascend to me in disrepair Waft as dust in upward flight. Lift abated, upward straining, Fail my hill in heedless fray Ambition's height thus unattaining, Chased so soon by noon, away. Aloft, alone, and out of reach I watch your morning billowed breach Ride the waves that play the beach, As I stand planted. Your moving spirit, Though it fails me, Rises more than mine Which jails me on this lofty rise You climb. While I, Gnurled, Hardened stone enrooted, Time enduring, Age reputed, Firm against the raging winds, Winds that change, As change rescinds -- I Stand planted.

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To a piper's nimble stroll at dawn Through shifting froth upon the beach Is all the more attention drawn By morning's subtle vision bleached. The twittered fading lofted voice

Descended, courts my straining gaze. She stays or fares with equal choice To feast or fly into the haze. And from this soul of balk, on stone implanted, Spirit limbs exhort appeal To bid of God to be enchanted Would these gnarled knees could kneel.

Would this knotted heart could feel. Though autumns add with silent chill Gelid strained, I Hold the sky. As aging leaves retreat this hill, So planets flee my grip awry. Monsters of the orb seen churning, Stars in spirals unrecanted, Spinning all. To all discerning It is I who lone stands planted. I Alone Stand planted?

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So winters come, winters go. More will come with more in tow And through the ageless swirling snows Duty yet upon me grows While I stand planted. The drifts, that cant upon me, Fall. As every surge and storm decays Righted steadfast in the squall, Instead of squalid or malaised, I stand planted.

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Am I, but one In all creation,

Marked to body forth the jacks, Twisted in perplexed damnation Proved against the wrings and racks? Do I, alone remain unmoved, To shelter and to shed in giving, Unsinning, my august unchoosing, Never deigning heedless living?

In never asking, Never granted? It seems thus that I stand planted.

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A Prayer

G.F.E. McGuiness

God, on my knees, for her,

I can but plead, for her.

You know I can't save her.

I can't save her, alone.

If empty tomorrows

Are fields I must harrow,

Glean them with pity, Lord

Gather us Home.

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A Promise Unkept G.F.E. McGuiness

I gave her my hand

She held it,

Wrapped in soft wool of my lambs

She was warmed

I gave her my fire to read.

In this light,

She beheld

My innermost blight.

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Caverned, eroded, in empty decay,

From an ocean receded

Which waved me away.

In pain

I stand withered,

Cold, darkened, and speechless.

I cast away notes in bottles,

Yet, beachless.

Should ever God grant me

Her tide again in,

To cast in her waters

I'll try again.

I'll try again.

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Soldier's Requiem G.F.E. McGuiness

To dismal graves We lower our dead. Give them our weary thanks.

King George still raves Therefore, I dread Still more will join their ranks.

Our hopes are raised On a field of green While soldiers bear the strains Composed of consciousness of rights, Of wrongly gathered gains.

It's a shame But we must stand To give our all for all.

Blinded, lame, Hand to hand, We cry, in killing, call . .

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Freedom! Now!

Freedom! Eire' Ever! Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!

This dust is our ashes Soil of birth Not merely meekly inherited earth. As a soldier I pray.

Yet, I confess A joy of life And Happiness.

I concede To love. And I conceive Dancing nymphs, Their hair in the breeze, Their loving ways they please.

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In silence Pray!

Bite your tongues, Still your hearts! Let not a voice be heard! We honor here The brave, who died, Our tears as they're interred.

Yea, though we walk through this valley of death, We walk with our souls held high. Patriots daring to pray here are bless'ed. Quitters commit matricide.

Ground the children Well in this, And let not one be spared, Or this shroud Spun of our blood Will rot and disappear.

Yet, I confess, A loss, for want of joy And happiness.

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I can dream... Of faith... Of love, And... I believe

In man made whole As a creature of soul.

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Sons G.F.E. McGuiness

Brian's sons and sons Boruma As gone Tara, passed Cashel down Til Murchertach MacLochlainn struck And to Tir Eoghain took the crown. Dermot kin of Mac Mael na mBo Smote MacFaelin thus made king. And so it went in Eire successions Dermot sailed from Norman strings Whose arrows pierced the manly myth Of majesty of burley arms To that of conquest drawn in secret, Guile, lies, and fatal charms. Were they selfless time field farmers? Planting us within their deeds? Are we weeds in Eden's garden Or the fruit of noble seed?

If reckless fate is all that matters Turloch, Strongbow, boil past. In caldrons of uncaring fortune Just how long can misery last?

Should our passion fail our cause, Forfeit dream and hope to fears, The burning needs we have will chill Of fire quenched in waves of tears.

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The Drum G.F.E. McGuiness

Bah bum

The drum.

Bah bum

They come.

Bah bum

The drum.

Bah bum

They come.

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The bastards beat their drums. Bum Bum

The bastards beat their drums. Bum Bum

The bastards stomping On through Derry

Burning the land They're in no hurry.

Killing and raping And stealing unworried.

Children who stand And cry are burried.

Bah bum Bum bum

Bah bum Bum bum

The drum.

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Tom Barry G. F. E. McGuiness To Ur I'd gone From ere I've come Dripping wet with blood of Turks So thick with which the Tigris runs Between the graves of ancient works. Through Euphrates reeds, the Hun Stole with deadly brace in hand As we their foe were made undone By baser foe in our own land. Snakes concealed in under-hangs. Others lurked within the rocks. The worst were those that hid their fangs And loosed their venom dressed in frocks. I'm Tom Barry, back from Eden, Still in soldier's boots and trunk. I heard of frenzied vipers feeding, Of Clark and Pearse and Connolly sunk. Stuporous kith in sad regress, Uprooted kin, embattled, sapped, Soiled, fouled without redress, Enjoined to mire. Baited. Trapped. From craggy cliffs to bogs they're pressed By serpents, spawned of would be masters. I'll consume the legless crawling pests And spit the soulless hissing bastards. Where has my father's garden gone? Is it our looted flower they're hanging? An invader blights my Babylon And dins the still with drums a'banging. I left, a boy, in thirst of war,

A spice which soured in my taste, So drunk of blood to wish no more And yet it was a quench in haste.

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Oh, my own, my Babylon A pestilent crop of silence sewn. We are naught but carrion If - stilled - we carry on at home. Home? Is this that place, that we so called? Where our children should be playing? Am I but one to be appalled As Ulster Auxie troops are straying? Where's our cattle? Where's their fields? Evicted to such barren rocks, That nothing but pained hunger yields To us, the livestock England mocks. I'm Tom Barry. I've come home. I'm here to ease your pain. We'll weed this field so overgrown I stood with pride and bayonet. Now they'd have me truckle down And put my very soul in debt? They will hang to pay the bill For this heart that they would sell. It's my crop that they now till And my heaven rot to hell. Yet, I have heard in Skibbereen Does my grovel please you sire? I could learn to bend much lower. Do your floggers ever tire? Should my praise be spoken slower? More I've heard in Skibbereen I yield through station that you bear Impressed by clothing that you wear. I bow to powder guns of powdered heirs, Frozen stiff by icy glares. And plant our crop again. As a soldier for the crown

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I've heard, too, of late, in Skibbereen I'll practice fawning, Grateful debtor. Although my starving daughter Does it better. As I am older, so it seems, Harder to divest of dreams. We'll Cork that cask from which they guzzle Sucking words. To spraying muzzle And with weary toll they'll watch The stream of silenced Sassanach. I'm not a man who's meekly bitter, Nor will I abide a quitter. Never has the time been fitter To cut against the grain. I've come to ease you of those pains. For I will wear their bloody stains, Stains of spit, stains of slaughter, They'll be blown from every quarter, As our column crashes down, To sacrifice on holy ground. Anointed by their rotting flesh, I am the heir of Gilgamesh, Emerald is my malachite My bog the wood for which I fight. I'm Tom Barry, late of Ur, I've come to turn this garden under. Be you the seed that once you were, I'll be the rain, the wind, and thunder.

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ouched

G.F.E. McGuiness

She touched my hand, Love came over me.

She held her breast, Want came over me.

She turned aside, Dread came over me.

She smiled in jest, Visions came over me.

She touched my yoke Liberty came over me.

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She softly spoke, Song came over me.

She cried.

Frozen to the hoe, In my field, Death came over me.

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V i s i o n Trees encumber the sky,

Morsels of sun sneak nonetheless by. Light blue kisses the green on the ken. Birds hang suspended, then glide once again. Calling, Calling, Calling on wing then from pine. Unbothered, cattle point the wind 's blowing. Windings, that out, yet, again, in again go. Streams, whose glitter blazes, dream freezes. Grabbing me fast, til released when it pleases. Rivers, aloof, thus churn, from this eye. Nor could I unfold my wings in that sky. Mind is made so wondrously well It papers, thus, my Desolate cell.

G.F.E. McGuiness

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aves

G. F. E. McGuiness

The beauty of the leaf Is such it floats so gently down. Thus it was with Caitlin. Now I'm back to sea again. Waves Waves Rocking me. Copper hues of auburn hair In braids apportioned as her crown In the fall of Caitlin, Take me back to sea again.

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Waves Waves Rocking me.

From sunless shadow in her cell Complexion only fairer still. The purity of Caitlin.

Now I'm back. Back to sea again. Waves Waves Rocking me. Grace me light for, dark, I dwell Unembered. Of her absence, chilled. My warmth was that of Caitlin.

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Now I list at sea again. Waves Waves Rocking me.

Falling, rising, mendless sea Wash me on, past now, from then. Oceans full of what will be Fail to whet the soul as when I was touched by Caitlin.

Now I'm lost at sea again. As

Waves Waves Wrack me intensely.

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Touched of gentle morning dew From a leaf so lightly set. Leave of Caitlin I so knew, Firmly in remembrance. Yet, Caitlin looms immensely.

Waves Waves Rocking me, Rocking me gone, Razing me on.

I'm back. I'm back to see again A spirit rum can never drown. Can beauty be of such a leaf To let itself so gently down?

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Thus it was with Caitlin.

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ords !

G.F.E. McGuiness

This is our own Magna Carta? Words upon words upon words upon words?

They read

As would read

If writ to the drum.

Word ratatat word ratatat word ratatat on.

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The map of your proof of your presence among us?

Words upon words upon scurrilous words?

Our proof's in our bottles

Our word

In our guns.

Word upon word upon glorious word

In this covenant such words we won't ponder.

In our own Eden

We're the apple you plunder.

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You are the Whereas

And we, the Whereunder

Word upon word upon Devil snake word.

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nsaid Words G.F.E. McGuiness

"Run away unmanly men." Her reddened words inflamed us.

"Feel your thunder in my womb." The words that deafened Seamus.

"Hide your faces stricken children." Her verbal noose to hang us.

"Feel your lightening in my womb." Her words that struck down Angus.

"Their father's fathers killed our fathers." I'd bring them back, but, none can.

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"Feel your heart beat in my womb." Her wreath of words on Duncan.

Liam, you alone can tell The truth these silent stones compel

That when descending hordes drew near We saw our brothers, once held dear.

Whose womb is this, so amply growing?

Whose seed has spent in all the sewing?

Where are our dwindling children going On knees, to words of knaves, And early to their graves?

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"From the depth their souls will rise," Spoke her voice again disguised.

"Only you can free them."

"It's his blood that warms my womb." Taunting to the wife of Liam.

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Gleann Naion (Valley of the Child)

G.F.E. McGuiness

Tir: The county as Depicted in art,

Is pastoral beauty, Wood land, in part, In part only, untamed. Farm land is the heart And soul of the county, In the county.

Leathton : Into the valley Dabbling mist Hovers on trails

Which gently twist Toward the hamlet. Good people subsist As heirs of the valley, In the valley.

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Graigin : Toward which village Sounds of cattle Grazing, unheard Today. Prattling

Children watch A wagon rattling Through streets of the village In the village.

Baile : A stolid home, Cornucopia, nourishing Those attending, From whom flourishing Voices of hymns Lament a babe perishing In the farm house.

Leachtan : Not from homestead

Nor village Nor valley Or county Is refuge taken in nature's bounty.

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He Winked At All the Pretty Girls G.F.E. McGuiness

Thinking back to younger days Which seen from here Are masked in haze

Of one slick fellow so uncouth In mannerism borne of youth. He winked at all the pretty girls. Just the pretty ones, for sure, From aspect of their face and form The twinkle of his eye inured Of momentary storm. Torpedoes launched from glance Were aimed At ships of dreams which we contrived. Heartless marked Were heedless maimed

As more were stilled Than sparse survived.

I, uncertain in my hour, Destitute by faith of doubt, Reluctant witness to that power, Learned what life is all about.

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From what was just A simple wink I watched my dream ship Sink. His willing harem did not prepared him. He went on in that manner For a while. Or, so I'm told, As they grew colder He grew bolder. Now he winked at every mention

Of any female, maid, or bitch. Perverted long of lost intention Winking crooked into a twitch. As his fleet of time sailed by Alone Ignored Undocked He died. Not a creature cried.

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I don't doubt that wink was etched Deep into the bony socket, Rotted, dropping free of flesh Where flirting had it's wanton locket. Still a deeper brand is found. Which women carry on their souls Virile condescension Damning spirit as it's goal. An indiscreet and hurtful scar Struck at juvenility. Is not each gem a guiding star Of some lone vessel on this sea? To balms of time Such wounds were healed But not before his coffin sealed. Sailing over every wave I brood for them and not his grave, For those who loved And waited, Cared, As I,

Whose ship repaired.

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Summer Lullaby G.F.E. McGuiness

Sleepy willows Leadened oaks Spread beneath tired skies. Shade cast your magic. Breeze, hypnotize. Yellow petals Peddle flowers. Fragrance soars. Dragons, fly. Wonder boats floating On dream seas Drift by. Subtle mosses. Musk dank mushrooms Fade In vespers' decline. Sleepyhead summertime Closes your eyes. Sleepyhead summertime Closes your eyes.

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Regal armed maples Lumber, Too tired to stretch Submitting leaves, Which wearily catch Drops of dew. Misted morning stained Verdure unwrapped. From a pine tree In exhaustion To fall unattached A pine cone To a dry bedded patch. Sleepyhead summertime Cuddled in thatch Sleepyhead summertime Cuddled in thatch

Faintly songs sung Echo airily Throughout feathered skies.

Grassy blades waving Silent good-bys.

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Though no thought lies In yawns, Stilled within, Breathes a cry: Winter's death Summer's sleep Life a short sigh. Sleepyhead summertime Closes your eyes.

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from Paul Verlaine [ Song of Autumn - first verse ]

Les sanglots longs des violons de l'automne Blessent mon coeur d'une langueur monotone

/ The long sobs of the violins of autumn \ \ Wound my heart with a monotonous languor. /

Editor's note: *********************************************** The 1944 BBC radio announcement, heard across France, that 'AutumnSong' would be read in an upcoming broadcast was a code to listen closely for a brief sample (the first line) in following announcements. If the reading reached the second line "Blessent mon coer...", the allied sea invasion of France had begun. Landings would occur within hours. French resistance was, by this signal, to immediately destroy rail lines, key roads, communications, and German targets. Invasion ! Normandy ! ***********************************************

McGuiness was secreted away, several years ago, in an American Legion hall basement. He befriended Dick Reilly, Capt. US ARMY Ret. whose own tales and whose death were the inspirations for a number of McGuiness poems. Except for the eulogy, these poems had been presented as gifts to his American friend and are dedicated to him (from McGuiness's own notes).

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To The Violins of Autumn G.F.E. McGuiness

Old Scratch sends proxies Time to time With gifts of bane of pox And crime. From his nether oozing slime Sounds the eerie vox humana. Moloch barbara voices chill The few not left behind, as killed, While bile on the sands was spilled Of victims to his hounds who sought 'em, Hell hardened to the tones of autumn. Rabid curs upset the still, Gorging on defiled land, Whose poison offspring, bent to ill, Gripped the disaffected strand. Columns, lock-steps, stiff salutes, Heads snapped right in grave attention, Seasoned ss-ence stomping boots Hoist the fall of man's ascension. Who are they To be so eager, Sullied hearts of ends so meager?

Yet, who are we? Do we dare them? Dare we spare them? Bayonets prepare to pare them! They will see.

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From our surge they will perceive, Through these clouds which roll the waves, Vision granted, to their graves.

For strings have tuned Whose sound aligns,

Infractions knot to cordon crimes. And so the violins have played. Each saddened note invokes accord All men to God if we have strayed Before we climb aboard. Our souls may gather yet today In teeming fields, as men who grow From boys, uprooted in the fray, Unraveled in the throe. Front to back to front entombed, Mortal millions in this plan Ride the fog in steely wombs Borne to take the sands. So enfertiled, carried thus, As fetal forms in she who brought them Lulled to pulsing waves which rush On monotonic strings of autumn, We are the spit across the breach Of killer whales whose vented anger Lashes out from blood stained beach To violins once played in languor. And so the eyes of Satan whet For none will live who would forget. From those ordained of murder's quest, The devil takes the wrest. A gallant shadow of the past Summoned from antiquity Pearled old stallion pushing fast To the bridge! The bridge across the See' !

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A gantry to a future bet Of purpose, inclination set. Avaranches, Mortain and on, Knowing not of what would come. On this bridge I held her hand Beholding secrets of my life For her worth I took his stand As though she were my wife. She was my own bridge to cross. I made the cross and charged head on, Unafraid of options lost, Doubtful any more would come. Bleating fete of mayhem bounding Trodden hearts of souls who brought them Tolls of rounds well spent resounding Echoes to the strings of autumn. From Avranche her tresses shook me To the strains. I felt no pain As her sorrow lifted, through me. We kissed and I moved on again. The Kluge of monsters sent to stop us Slain in kind as fury propped us. From taken grounds we disinterred The songs of life that once were heard.

Devils deaf to music's voices

Favor ill in nature's choices.

The bleak autumnal changing winds

Played out on sobbing violins.

„

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aded Memories

G.F.E. McGuiness

Memories.

Fantasies Of me as dear to you.

Too long.

At last, fading fast.

Dream Was the only means By which I could attain shadows, Failing substance cast,

Simply conjured, Simply passed, Past unclaimed.

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Your face. A glance. Dream in dread, Embraced in dance.

Simple notes of love returned, Prefer To symphonies of hope, unearned. Songs of passion singed these lips Until illusion's joy was stripped With my youth. In truth, Lost in wishes, not to be, Dreams by day are not for free. As logs ablaze Are we consumed with change? We can blight, Or we can warm the night. In this glow, we glean A yield we've never sewn before.

Fire's pleasures play As vapors drift astray.

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When, too, our shadows stall

Watch them lift

As we ourselves become this gift.

Rest your head on my lap. Drowse as whispered snaps Of what's spent sparks away.

Do we care that we never loved, till now?

Sustaining fire is reached

As older ash is breached.

Inflamed of love and care expended, Ill fated memory is ended.

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Marigolds

G.F.E. McGuiness

As Marigolds in Merrion Square

Yeats' reflections ever fare.

Ambered spirits, bold, enduring

Governance's cold abjuring.

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Bitter Lessons G.F.E. McGuiness

He sought my help.

I did not know The depth to which his need could go.

Could my gaze pierce solid pride Discerning pain he'd not confide Perhaps his child would not have died.

Perhaps.

Perhaps - or not -

Bitterness is duly borne, Yet, not so proudly worn.

No matter what this ache would have In this cavil there is no salve.

In sight No comprehension gains Free from soulless vision's stain.

Bitter lessons.

Bitter lessons Best unlearned,

As in them is our essence burned.

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Dingle Strand G.F.E. McGuiness

Salty water slips away On lapping at the grassy wedge Where long lost pasts touch yesterday. Harbors fringe the mountain edge. Sheep trimmed walls of gathered stones, Winding, train the greened patch slope. Peppered splash of rock pile homes,

A spice of style of simple folk Whose cattle graze this land, Grace the Kerry Dingle Strand.

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Toast G.F.E. McGuiness

I guess it falls upon me most To raise a voice in final toast To the clay that was this man The kiln, the fire, and Artful Hand Which formed him thus for us. Salute! Is beauty trapped in this bouquet? Could each petal's want be sound Enough to free and pull away Intact to flee the mortal bound? His life defined, our love inclined. Salute! I raise my hand to venerate The lowered taking soul to flight. In his arms was once our fate. Our hands in tribute to this knight In armor shining, self declining. Salute!

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Taken G.F.E. McGuiness

How innocent my young heart was! Oh, I had heard the stories, Surreal, detached from daily play. Who were these people anyway Reveling so in self served glories? No, the lessons were not real. My youthful mind so self possessed Spent away in dream, not doom, Nor on cherished love entombed, Nursed, unknowing, misery's breast.

She was taken by them! Don't come at me with artless talk.

My hand was raised on hallowed ground, Each sand grain which her phantom walked An oath to which my warrant's bound. She whose metal was her ring She whose timeless trace consumes What's left of me, This noxious waste, Which only fantasy perfumes, I was taken by her, My darling, Pulled away from me In cold indecent secrecy. And with her was my conscience slain. In raging unremitting pain

En masse or slowly one on one, Washed in blood, my will be done! They Will Be taken by me!

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Thus Siobhan G.F.E. McGuiness

For Padraigu Did Sheelagh span

Creating that one gift for man That only love and women can Thus Siobhan of Killearny

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On Whispers G.F.E. McGuiness

Asked if she might love me She said, 'Aye'. And giggled 'By and by.' My strength thus fed I lower bowed my head One leg enfolded as to kneel Sharing what my heart did feel And fearing for my very life Breathed,

"Would you ever be my wife?" With a sad and graceful sigh She said, "Aye." On whispers, low, through dungeon carried Were our spirits duly married.

As memory dwells These oaths reprise Such were Caitlin's lovely ayes.

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Ocean G.F.E. McGuiness

Have you seen my ocean? Have you seen my bay?

As gentle rains sweep the waters. A harsher reign keeps me away.

Have you seen the jetty? Are our sailors at the pier? I 'd take your hand and sail away But stronger hands would write me here.

My light house seeks me out In vain.

A friendless calling gull Laments.

By God, with you, I 'll sail again If only in an absence.

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Cladach Dubh (Black Shore) G.F.E. McGuiness

In autumn evening ebb of light Distant beaches wash from sight Draining seas of land to night As silhouetted masts cling a fading sky. Though eyes attempt the distant shore They dim as it exists no more. Darkness grounds in echoed sounds. But these, too, fall to just a play Of water lapping on the bay. A breeze of senses in the mist Whose gentle tossing Throws the hair Cools these lips in subtle kisses Touched of lulling chilling air. Vision Fixed Upon the black, Is she out there Looking back? Of this fantasy, No cure. Unsettled hearts must so endure. And so enduring see a ray Of light escaped from far away.

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Does it know a secret sorrow? Will it fade Before the morrow? Seldom is my fancy dulled Before the evening shade is pulled. Adrift on seas of loneliness Sad hearts seek bearings less than this. Whoever's fire, I pray them peace Before my wakeful grip's released. To bait like favor in return, Through my repose a candle burns, A humble frail and twinkling prod That someone pray

My soul To God.

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The Superficiality Song G.F.E.McGuiness

A new tune for the want to be's An old air from the bow to me's Learn it If you wish to please. It's a simple potent song With lyrics that duck right from wrong. Here is how it goes: I crossed a girl face down in mud She turned her head, all red with blood "I've been raped and beaten badly Help me.", she expired, sadly. With a superficial nod A fellow frowned and kept right on, "After all it she had a choice To simply not emit her voice. And thus have learned to get along. Why can't we learn to get along?" As one is smug, another cries. One sucks life from one that dies. And through cabal the only wrong Is that the hurt don't get along. But what of People flogged Of houses robbed Of systematic blocks to land To jobs The constant drumming mocks The gerymandered carvings And orchestrated starvings? It's not about religion ! See? But privileged class insanity.

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