The Irish Advocacy Network  Ltd.,                

Home   News      Discussion    Poetry & Writing   Events     About IAN     Contact Details      Links

Poetry: John Kirwan

John Kirwan lives in the midlands and attended university in Maynooth and Trinity College where he obtained an honours degree in English Literature. He won the Fingal Poetry competition and organised readings with young poets in Dublin and a literary evening with Brendan Kennelly. He is now working on his poetry and a collection of short stories.



 

John Kirwan

Oblivion

You passed your winter nights, on the bench

Beside the open hearth fire.

Your hands, tanned by the cigarette smoke

Until they gleamed, lying on your lap.

Your chin resting on your chest as you slouched.

Your eyes looked towards the heat,

But they could not see the glowing

bits of peat dispersed on the ground.

They had lost their purpose.

They are no good at all, you said in anger and frustration,

They are no good at all.



I used to join you by the fire

And you would ask me what I could see,

And I became your candle,

Illuminating once-known items for you.

You liked to be reminded



In summer you sat on the old car seat,

Especially placed at the bend of the road,

Basking in the sun, your hands now resting on your stick,

As you absorbed the sounds around you.

This is what you lived for, you told me,

To be outdoors and feel the life around you,

And picture it as it happened.

And when we were saving the hay,

in the field beside your cottage,

You could be heard tapping a route towards us,

Calling out from time to time to get you bearings.

And I loved to onfuse you - sometimes going past

You to bring you backward,

Sometimes making you proceed further than was

necessary. ''Your a little hoor'', you used to shout.



I was fascinated by your dissability.

Sometimes I would creep towards you as you sat,

And seat myself down siliently, for hours,

you not knowing I was there,

And I would watch your face with intense scrutiny.

Poor blind man, sitting in oblivion,

Mind making pictures.



-----------



Broken Child



Delve into the heartbeat

Of a brutally torn child

And reveal the abcess of its pain.



Wrap strong arms around the child

And send heat through cold cavity,

Which quivers with fear and fright.



It is in the darkness of the night,

Mother has gone and will not return.

I cannot answer the children's questions,

Only to say that tomorrow is another day,

And that is all.



The pained expression of the child

Creates a frigidity in me.

This cannot go on.



-----------



The Betrayal Of Christ

You stand amidst the throng, unseen,

Except by one,

And you hold up a lantern

To illuminate the greatest ever betrayal

Such expression as is in his face of absolute forgivness

Compared to the others, gathered, watching in disbelief or dismay

Or who are severe in the moment.

This man has fascinated you so much

That you were possessed to create this moment

With such careful simplicity

And stand close by; nobdy notices you

As the supreme injustice is portrayed

Of man against man, of friend against friend.

Judas stares in complete distress, wishing to explain,

But he has no need to. His friend understands.

But oh Caravaggio, why do you look so

At this one man?

Is it something in your own tormented life

Which compelled you to seek out this ordinary man?

This very ordinary man. He seems so real.

What has he that you wish to find?

A state of gracious humility, perhaps,

Of his acceptance and the symbolism,

Which that moment held and still holds for all of us,

When he had no friends to help him,

And needed none and gave of himself

To remind all of us of ourselves.



--------------