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Poetry Magnum Opus



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Rain rain crash down on this hard old city

Where there is no love, where there is no pity.

Send down each drop like a hammer blow

To beat on the heads of the people below.

Turn over the hoardings, throw down the turnstiles,

Shatter everything, all, for a hundred miles!

Send glass shards, jagged, straight in their eyes,

And laugh and laugh when they show surprise!

End up as as quickly as you’ve begun

Then swoop up swiftly to the sun.


Wait, wait, then, for another day.


The populace, the people, huddle below,

Trembling in shock, and all think they know

(Philosopher-poets stand accused of treason)

That there has to be, must be, a logical reason!

Lambs slaughtered, a wild cacophony of prayers

Lift up, skyswirling, in piteous layers.

There don’t be nothing, old boy, like proper disasters

To winkle the Hobble-de-Hoy from their hidden piasters!

The greedy, the fearful, offer half their wealth

To humbugs promising them life and health.


Wait, wait, wait for another day.


Tension subsides: there are services, the dead are buried.

The life of the town picks up with the people still worried.

Can I go to the market, Dada? Get back to your room!

Step out of that door, child, you could walk to your doom.

Ah, but Dada Dada please, it’s been all of a week!

Enough now, alanna, don’t be giving me cheek!

Why's Mammy allowed out, could you tell me that now?

Ah, couldn’t give a shite what happens the oul' cow!

Nobody knows. Nobody knows. Nobody knows for sure.

If I live a good life, stop the nonsense, try to be pure?


The gods live beyond the clouds.

They live behind the sun.



They play desultory games,

Sleeping, now and then,

With one another’s wives.


Immortality, after all,

Wears you down.


Every now and then,

And just for the craic

They launch an attack.

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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David W. Parsley

Okay, this piece has enough interesting devices to bring down a rainstorm of commentary. I like the way the poem moves: fast meter and rhyme catching snatches like news tape stuttering our confusion and despair; eumenides appear with an abrupt loss of dinning music, lines are clipped and coherent, aloof from the chaos imposed or neglected. Even the "trite" rhymes echo meaning of the futility, the frustrated search for Meaning.


Works for me!


- Dave

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Thanks, lads. This bird hops pretty high, not sure it can fly.

Oh Lord, send me a real poem! Something I can get my teeth into.

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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Larsen M. Callirhoe

much enjoyed another treasure by you. what can i say after dave's remarks. i think he pretty much said anything i could of remarked about a million times better lol.




victor michael

Larsen M. Callirhoe

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