JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

AN IRISH COUNTRY ROAD

The road just sort of ambles on,

While not in touch with time,

With no heed to the travellers needs

Or for the urgent nature they entwine.

It mimics a slow winding stream,

That has been cut by nature’s hand,

It takes account of solitude

And complements the land.

It sways around old churches,

Past abandoned famine homes,

Touches one deserted village

Snakes through fields of barley corn.

© Fingleton (Aibreán,2017) (Löst Viking)

A PASSING OF SHADOWS

In retrospect, we just stood around

Searching for our dreams

Not knowing they had been lost

Between the twilight and the Moon

Forced into the shadows

By powers outside our hands

Unknowing to both of us

That our plans had been condemned

Taken fully out of context

Because our souls were marked by scars

By that dreadful myth of original sin

And the guilt lines that it carved

So roads have taken different paths

From the sea to country lanes

And somewhere in that passing

Nothing, was allowed to stay the same

© Fingleton (Márta 2017) (Löst Viking)

ISLE OF INNISFREE

I wish the wind would blow me,

To the Isle of Innisfree,

Where Yeats spoke with the shadow folk,

And built a hive for honeybees.

The grass there has a fragrance;

The birds sing special tunes,

While its purple heather dances,

To the light of each Full Moon.

I’ve heard say, there is a peace there,

That nowhere else on Earth is found;

As if this was once where Eden stood,

And left a piece of ground.

If I could just rest there awhile,

To find my soul once more.

Then like Aengus, cut a hazel wand,

And wander from its shore.

© Fingleton (januar 2017) (Löst Viking)

QUINNS' PUB THE VENTRY INN

(Ventry Co. Kerry)

The old men come in everyday,

The same chairs

The same position,

The same old order, without a word;

Black pints that need time to settle.

The weather first is put to rest,

Then the sport comes into play,

The football all wrong since Páidi’s gone,

And the hurlers –

Have had their day.

Their pains and aches

Get more each day,

Joeine o Se has left a vacant chair

I suppose in time they all will go;

There is one less every year.

Their language changes

To accommodate all those who pass;

Sometimes they speak, with the Gaelic spelling:

‘The days are short, and the nights are long,

sometimes I feel my soul is ebbing.’

(‘Is iad na laethanta gearra, agus an oíche ar fada,

uaireanta is dóigh liom go bhfuil m'anam ebbing.’)

Photo Tom ‘Kaiser’ Kavanagh Painted by Liam O'Neill.

© Fingleton (feabhra 2017) (Löst Viking)

JUST ANOTHER DAY

Net curtains with a glass door,

And sometimes there’s a cat

Looking for to run into the street;

Dodging legs of children

As they make their way to school,

And early traffic for Asunción

Honking horns and blaring music

Smelling uncollected garbage

Black sacks of household interest

Undecided what to eat.

I sit while a policeman’s whistle

Is ringing in my ears,

Hot coffee, awaking my remaining senses

To this coming day,

His waving arms deciding who turns left or who goes right,

Unpersuaded by impatience,

Late for work excuses

Pregnant motorcycle passengers,

He has seen it all before,

For him and me, it’s just another day.

© Fingleton (Márta 2017) (Löst Viking)

THE LONG WALK

Fortune has restored my dreams

And allowed me to wander,

To cold lands North,

And hot lands South,

To take East and West asunder.

Re-find the paths I thought were lost,

When destiny was cruel;

Or did it just delay my fate?

Knowing I was young, and still a fool.

This time my steps are slower,

My lack of caution overgrown,

My old eyes see things differently,

But still recognises home.

I lived beside the cactus plant,

The thorn bush, and the rose;

A wilderness like Eden,

Where true peace had no repose.

My days were filled with trivial things,

Sometimes my flesh was raked with scars,

Or intoxicated by deceit-

A lost soul, a falling star.

There were some that thought I was dead;

And others wished it true,

But the long walk,

Was waiting in the shadows,

And I started out anew.

© Fingleton (Aibreán 2017) (Löst Viking)

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON : He was born in Cork City, in the Republic of Ireland. But has spent most of his adult outside of Ireland…Is at present in Paraguay. He speaks English, Gaelic, French and Spanish, but mainly writes in English.  He has been writing for as long as he can remember. Poems published in journals and anthologies in, Ireland, UK, USA, India and France as well as three plays produced.  He uses the name Löst Viking for family historical reasons.