I meant to write this post in the actual month of July but the month ran away with me! This is one of my favourite poems by Patrick Kavanagh.  It’s of a time in Ireland that has since long past but the vestiges of which could still be found in the west as I was growing up.


Inniskeen Road: July Evening

The bicycles go by in twos and threes -
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone. 

I have what every poet hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom. I am king
Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.

-Patrick Kavanagh

Connemara Road

A Classic Stretch Of Irish Country Road

The High Nelly

The High Nelly – The Transport Of A Generation


Happy Birthday William

As regular followers of this blog will know, I’m rather partial to the odd spot of poetry.  Some keen observers may have noted that one of my favourite poets is William Butler Yeats, who just happened to be born on 13th June 1865.  To mark this legendary poet’s birthday, I’m sharing two of my favourite poems of his with you today.  Enjoy.


by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

HY should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
Black and white photo of yeats the  poet

William Butler Yeats

The Cloths Of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

How Writers Roll

It’s Monday. It’s raining. It’s beautiful.  The kids are gone back to school and I am surrounded by blessed silence tempered only by the drip, drop, pat, pat, pat of raindrops.

School holidays for me mean no writing and as much as I love and adore my children, this causes me a certain amount of frustration, especially because I’m not the type of person who can easily pick up a story, like a piece of thread and just start sewing it together again.  No, I need to ease myself back into it, to pick up the mood and re-acquaint myself with my characters.  That’s just how this writer rolls.

The story I’m currently working on is about a man who has decided love is not for him.  Of course fate has other ideas.  Over the next few weeks I will be dealing with the crux of the story and its main theme – love.  So, in order to “pick up the mood” and find some inspiration for hopefully some decent writing over the coming weeks I’ve been listening to Ed Sheeran and reading love poetry.  Not a bad way to pass a rainy Monday!  In my efforts to find inspiration I came across this stunningly beautiful poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox and I’d like to share it with you.  Its so incredibly beautiful and yet astute in its observation of the physical and emotional state that is love. It blew me away.  Enjoy.

Love’s Language

How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye–
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barges, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn’s swift force–
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek–
The sudden silence and reserve when near–
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear–
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarmed heart leaps in the breast,
And knows, and names, and greets its godlike guest–
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek–
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one beloved face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble–
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed in silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,
Between the shores of keen delights and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss–
Thus doth Love speak.

Wishbones And Backbones

I was all ready to get stuck into writing a post when I came across a poem that blew me away. Regular followers of this blog will know just how much I love poetry, so I can’t resist sharing this one with you all.  I particularly love the last two lines.  No.  I ADORE the last two lines which are attributed to Clementine Paddleford an American journalist and writer.



By Sarah McMane

“Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.” – Clementine Paddleford

Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes —
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.

Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women —
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.

Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.

Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.

Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress —
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.

Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear —
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.

Peeling Potatoes

It’s been a hectic and frustrating eight days since I last posted – compounded by a complete, total and utter computer crash.  Therefore, I don’t have the usual amount of time to craft a post as I have a backlog of stuff I need to finish – primarily author interviews and guest posts for my upcoming blog tour for Remember Me.  Exciting!

Usually when I get myself tied up in knots with frustration, I go for a long walk on the beach or a hike. However, with the temperature and humidity levels sky-rocketing this week, the walk / hike just wasn’t an option.  So, I contented myself with a bit of poetry instead.  Yes, it’s a fact, I find poetry incredibly soothing and when I’m fit to blow a gasket or two, I often lose myself in some of my favourite poems for a half an hour or so.  My top three favourite poets are W.B. Yeats, Patrick Kavanagh and Seamus Heaney.

One of my all time favourite poems is, In Memoriam MKH 1911 – 1984 by Seamus Heaney, a wonderful man who sadly passed away in 2013.  It’s Sunday morning here in Australia – a most appropriate time to share the poem with you all.

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives–
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

Irish Poet Laureate Seamus Heaney

Seamus Heaney

Have a good week – Roisin.