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Joseph Campbell
Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,
Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great,
And rides with the air of a squire of estate.
O Christ! and to see the man up on the back
Of a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!
There's not a horsebreeder from Banna to Laoi
Can handle the snaffle so pretty as he!
And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child,
A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.
No maker of ballads puts curse at his door:
He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.
For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,
Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
a thin book of days
to bury the dead in
elsewhere the wall
and no one able to pay for it
the mouths of poor people
are a considerable instrument
like absence
or doors in a wall
so high and melancholy
they trouble the heart
people sit in the street
begging for dinner money
I used to crave the stir
of a great storm
now I hear the way the dead
fear losing our ‘hood
the ice in my head
alone with my account
where I beg
if talking is thinking
an afternoon doing business
must cure the quiet possession
of some undiscovered prize
and we shall get free money
calling the poor to be ready
for our coming night
fine fish
from a wretched dirty sea
we bought four
easily persuaded almost to anything
offer us love
but never science
wrong the poor but make me thankful
for being at ease
in the city of the dead
the poor cannot have any bell
ring for them
we fear that public sand
fear being forced to lie there
like a little warren
pleasure is a spent country
having laws but no art
like pain
which the poor have perfected
and now refuse out of hand
an absence of red in the war
is a white lie
thin as corn
the bodies of the poor
street pretty
as a painted crow
that life all I need to look at
but her old body
dressed as if
she had been a road
thin answer
to the poor
in their claims against God
like a counterfeit head
blessing no one
or a hand all out of hands
like a devil
who cannot touch
or a god of poverty
spare measle
ticking tin
so ends the old year