October Odes

 October Odes Twenty Twenty

Be Gentle

Be gentle with yourself, not cruel

Be generous with yourself, not mean

Love yourself in a wholesome way 

As God has always loved you. 

And yes, we will mess up and trip 

Like brother Jesus on the cruel path

Our cross will fall on the desert road

It’s not in falling but in rising

Forgive yourself and leave the fall behind 

Do not embrace it or let it curdle 

Move up and on and face the sun 

A new hope, the gift of every dawn. 

Dance with joy and abandon 

The waltz of life and the tango

Forget the crowd, dance for joy

Become again a carefree boy. 

Dance, dance to nature and to love. 

Judge no one and least yourself

All that He created was good and true

Dance til we drop and the night turns blue. 

Murrisk, County Mayo. 

It was in Murrisk, Mayo,

Where the love affair begun

A love for sea and mountains 

In July fifty one. 

May I  be remembered

In the shadow of the Reek

Where Patrick stayed and prayed

Fifteen hundred years ago

Remembered to this day. 

Croagh Patrick is the name

The Irish give his mountain 

That overlooks Clew Bay

Three hundred isles and counting. . 

And so began my first love

Of sea and sky and where they meet

Where heaven and earth embrace

So gently and softly weep

For souls who left this shore

For far off lands

And those who stayed to till 

The fields encircled by the stones. 

And so I finally return 

To the village whence I came

Down by the Atlantic Coast

Now so different but the same. 

Quakers praying at an angle 

Quakers praying at an angle 

Eyes half closed in meditation

Silence fills the simple structure

Cleanly built without a steeple. 

An hour may pass without a mention 

Without a hymn or prayer to God 

Then perhaps a small reflection 

On a bird we heard en route to Meeting. 

The stories told are close and personal 

Not borrowed from a book or breviary

Testimony to God’s presence 

In the simple and the ordinary. 

It’s an invitation not a summons 

A silent call not a triumphal hymn

That leads the soul down chambers

To the truth that lies within. 

It’s a form of worship not given to many

It’s quiet discernment without a choir

It’s almost invisible yet unyielding 

Leading us forward, inviting us higher. 

It’s the eighth of October

It’s the eighth of October

And the sun is now setting

Slowly but surely over Dun Laoghaire pier

While bravely the swimmers

Clamber pink skinned

Across the cold steps 

Down at the deep Forty Foot. 

Around in the Harbour

The sun is still smiling

As children and dogs

Brave a stiff northern Breeze

Across in the city

Now quiet with virus

The tall buildings are catching

The last rays of the evening. 

A season now parked 

Between summer and winter 

Extending the leisure

For walkers and swimmers. 

We need courage for winter

Even  experts are puzzled

And the first call of life 

Is to survive if we can. 

Our nerves are all shredded

Our daydreams are haunted 

By a plague that’s relentless

And strikes if we taunt it.  

The Harbour is filling

With women a bobbing 

Hair in a bun

Laughing while swimming. 

Blond hair in a bun

Parting the water 

Heading into the sunset

Proclaiming a victory

Over death and the virus

Over newsfeeds and papers

Striking a blow

With a maritime show. 

Adeline Fagan 

I’m weeping for a girl I never met

The Belle of Lafayette 

Aged only twenty eight

She gave her young life

While seeing in young lives 

Under the blue Texan skies. 

A world away from friends and family

Dying slowly in a Covid bed

She who worked the wards 

To help the new babes

And the grateful moms. 

Anger and sadness wrestle and compete

As I try to understand 

How an angels wings were shorn

As she ministered lovingly

Around the cribs of the newly born. 

Adeline Fagan, your name sounds Irish

So we’ll adopt you anyway 

We’ll keep you a place in the Emerald Isle

Where your memory shall be kept alive 

Where we cherish your sweet smile. 

Advent 2020

Advent has come early in Ireland

As leaves still fall from the trees

October dressed orange and russet

The Summer clock still reigns

And the year feels oddly strange

Preparing for a finish not a birth 

A season that ends in the unknown

The fairy lights of Christmas 

Are promised but may prove a mirage 

In our autumn Advent desert. 

The promise of deliverance next Spring

Seems vague, an act of faith

While we practice patience and restraint  

In a world that has suddenly rebelled

As we swim to heaven from hell. 

Wise men argue among themselves

Leaving us mere mortals unsure

Where to follow, when to hide

And yet the answer lies meekly

Within our grasp and reach. 

Time for courage though unsure

Where the sea of life will bring us

Hoping more than knowing

Feeling more than proving 

That Advent may bring us closer. 

Happy those who have seen 

The distant Christmas lights

Happier still those who see 

Round the corner in the night 

Choosing courage over fright.

It’s late in October 

It’s late in October and we’ve reached level five 

A strange accolade, but at least we’re alive

Bravely  the sun tries hard to shine on the Bay

That stretches from Dalkey to the station in Bray. 

Sitting on steps that are warmed by a sun

That peers through the clouds and then it’s gone 

We panic and fret it will never return

Till winter has come and winter has gone. 

Panic early, panic often is what we normally do

Now faced with a plague that’s tormenting too

On a track up above the train whistles and creaks

As it enters the tunnel to posh Dalkey shops

The same train will whistle when next summer comes round

When we’ve grown older and wiser under a frown 

When children are taller and  their legs have turned brown

By a sun that holds firm, whatever the sound 

Made by papers and media, TV and tablet 

The fizzing of twitter and the echoing chambers 

Metal on metal, a consoling hymn

To the steady accord between heaven and men. 

Three narrow months 

Three narrow months lie ahead

Beginning now til January ends

When the sun lies tight and low 

When the heart beats short and slow. 

Three narrow months with tiny days

That often end at lunch

When sullen mist and soaking rain

Steal what’s left of limpid light. 

The rays of sun are struggling now

To clear the hedge and garden wall

While longer shadows linger 

Around a pool of light so small. 

Flowers softly go to sleep

Sleeping through the winter darkness

Should we also copy them

Wake up a season later?

The time has come to drop a gear

A time to mend old shoes and sweaters

An opportunity to change and steer

The boat towards clearer waters. 

To greet the New Year feeling fresh

Dumping cobwebs and old prejudice 

Facing February with a hopeful eye

Feeling grateful, aiming high.