POETRY

My pretty castle valley, now much a riverbed,

Where Daugava and Perse sweet embrace,

That I might do the same with my lover, who was slain,

Then I shall wait herein this sacred place.

A gardener’s wife I be, better than was chose for me,

Such woeful man loves lordship not a heart,

If not in life we wed then this valley be our bed,

In death my love will never be apart.

Whilst I lament my lover, I shall mourn at willow banks,

For I am but a widow, simple true,

My faith shall be my ring; I shall brush my hair and sing,

But I’ll not forgive the soulless men who slew.

You slay within my gaze, your blade so pierced my heart,

Then from the walls I wail as I will leap,

Your castle is your tomb, you too will meet your doom,

Whilst my lover in my arms will gentle sleep.

The maiden wanders still; she rests to brush her hair,

Not far from where they struck the final blow,

But together come what may, ever since that dreadful day,

Where Daugava and Perse gentle flow.

Legend has it that the maid of Koknese Castle, when she pledged her heart to the keep’s gardener, incurred the wrath of the fortress Lord. For her to give herself to a commoner was unheard of. Her lover was slain in front of her eyes. Wailing in grief, she climbed to the highest ramparts from where she leapt to her death

From that day to this the maid with long tresses can be seen sitting on the Daugava River banks, often seen brushing her hair. When approached she runs away but if a wanderer is fearful at the sight of the apparition and turns away from her, she follows in the forlorn hope that the person is her lover. Michael (Walsh 26.10.13)

When Latvians Sin

Yes I have sinned but sin no more; I’ll not confess to priest,

I am a Lett, the sin is mine and I shall not be fleeced,

By church or man, no celebrant,

Shall note my thoughtless ways;

It’s mine to bear, my sin to share,

With God who careful weighs.

My wrong on count of 1 to 10,

I cross my fingers, wonder when,

That He’ll pronounce what I must do,

As penance then what I eschew.

But, I forget, I’m proud a Lett, so pebble picked from shore,

On pebble I will write the sin that I shall take blame for.

Letts do things different, nonsense free,

I’ll have no truck with priest or Thee,

I write my fault upon the stone,

And to the sea my sin be thrown.

The Baltic Sea or river fair,

Will clean the sin without a prayer.

Now I am free of wrong and curse,

God bless the Letts, I could be worse.

Michael (Walsh) 28.10.13.

Writing sins on rocks, then tossing the rocks into a body of water, will allow a person to atone for their sins. This ritual is sometimes performed before weddings. The practice of transposing a sin onto an object to be discarded is similar to Eastern European folk remedies, which sometimes require transferring an illness onto an object and destroying it or throwing it away - thus destroying the illness.

Eye Wine

There’ll be no wine for me tonight,

But eyes may drink their fill,

For eyes like thine shall be my wine,

That bends me to your will.

Such gaze as yours a golden key,

When turns the lock my whims are free,

But they belong to only thee.

I’ll drink to drunk whilst under spell,

Blame not the grape on vine,

That I will blush from eye-wine thoughts,

Each time your eyes meet mine.

What need for drink from barley-wheat?

When eyelids rise and wine-eyes meet,

Then nectar best is rapture sweet.

Let others warm from grape of vine,

That sets their passions free,

But when I drink from ardour eyes,

Your soul will come to me.

No wine can change what sober seems,

No barley-juice release my dreams,

When I’m immersed in you.

Michael (Walsh) 25.10.13

No One Knows But a Mother

I am the unwilling mother,

Who gave her son to the tide,

And no one knows but a mother,

Knows of the ache inside.

Yet I am the mother also,

Who gave up her daughter to sin;

And no one knows but a mother -

Oh, no one knows but a mother,

Where the aching heart shall begin.

I am the unwilling mother,

Who gave up her son to war;

It was I who brought to the widow's cowl,

Such a blessed daughter-in-law.

Yet I am the mother also,

Who cast her kin to their fate,

And no one knows but a mother -

Oh, no one knows but a mother,

How to stand at the gate and wait.

I am the unwilling mother,

To whom wise fate decreed,

That no one but a mother,

Must provide for those who need.

Yet I am the mother also,

Whose heart must be turned to stone;

For no one knows but a mother -

Yes, no one knows but a mother,

How the wind blows seed when sown.

Michael (Walsh) 1990s

When all that is left hangs on

memory’s threads;

Threads far more rich in number

Than are fair hairs of your head.

Which of those memories shall I dwell on?

Will it be the moment when moonbeams,

Slept upon your lovely face;

When my tongue was stilled by your eyes,

Or love words breathed as passions died?

When each idle thought stills time

Of moments past:

And such thoughts are wine thoughts,

More than I could ever count.

Which thought will pierce my heart?

The joy and hope that greet the starting,

Sad regrets of final parting?

Who knows where love lanes twist and　lead?

Whose hearts will rise, whose hearts will bleed?

Michael Walsh 1999

I Talked With Boyhood Self

Dreaming back to early days, my thoughts arrived with stealth,

The boy with whom I passed the time none other but myself;

I mused that I was once again a sweet and callow youth,

If I could be a boy again would I perhaps learn truth.

Curious, I asked that child what he had done of late,

Self consciously he told me that his thoughts were stream in spate.

I sat, I dreamed and watched the trout and wondered if they too,

Think idle thoughts and wonder if their dreams would turn out true.

An older man who’d lived his span, his boyhood was my past,

We sat beside the river and the older man then asked:

And you, whatever crossed your mind that you might better do,

The question was direct at me then how those hours flew.

Have you dreamed as young boys do, as I did years ago?

What fate would place in progress way,

From what these my dreams might grow?

I would be a sailor, then when my feet were dry,

Then I might wed a lively maid, each night by me she’ll lie.

But what of you, I asked the lad whose future was yet cast,

Follow in my footsteps, the footpath to my past?

Perhaps I will, I dream as such, I am adventure prone,

For you and I are one the same before the man had grown.

Michael (Walsh) 08.09.13

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Tonight we’ll light a candle, dear, that we might dine in style,

What need for silver service when your eyes alone beguile,

How I delight the contrast of the rustic way and mood,

Your charms will lift my spirits and no longer will I brood.

The wine will flow between us; together we shall dream,

By candlelight that dances light that love may be our theme.

So let us light the candle then, until the candle dies,

Reflected dancing ripples in your blissful loving eyes.

Let us drink to your enchantment and celebrate mystique,

A mystery that shrouds you in a form that is unique,

The candle bright will cast its light where other light shall fail,

That I will know at journey’s end I found my Holy grail.

Tonight we light the candles, we exile light untrue,

For candlelight and wine are one as I am wed to you.

One night can never compensate for years of bitter rhyme,

Tonight’s recall of candlelight will last until the end of time.

Michael (Walsh) 12.10.13 quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

A Double Bed for Sale

A double bed is now for sale, no option for return,

But other things I’m lost as what to do.

Where do I place the bedding, the pillows and duvet?

Intended like my heart for only you.

The table I shall keep but the chairs I need just one,

Perhaps if placed elsewhere my friends suggest.

There’ll be wine and more to spare, far more than I can bear,

I think another’s home would be the best.

There’s a wardrobe standing empty, surplus to my needs,

I offer it for sale and bought as seen,

The fragrance still inside, how it wounds my foolish pride,

A king is but a knave without a queen.

Things beyond my need but who needs such sweet recall?

The price tags will be neither here nor there,

Small things we took for granted but now of such import,

And most of all a heart that’s going spare.

How do I sell aromas breathed so sweetly every night?

Your scent so much a part of inner me.

Reorganize mementoes, the pictures put away,

Am I a slave to past or wander free?

Michael (Walsh) 04.10.2013   quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

The Immortality of Love

“I am no more afraid of dying than I was of being born.”

- Spartacus.

All is true and all is real,

Where mystic instincts I conceal,

And yes, there’s folk though pleasing be,

Who never reach the inner me.

Instinct tells we lived before,

The Reaper Grim closed mortal door,

In other world between, I slept,

Till mortal once again I wept,

To see your face so pure and kept.

In reveries where dreams come true,

I instant fell in love with you,

A kindred spirit who once was bliss,

When I alone would breathe your kiss,

Sleep sweet between I reminisce.

The Reaper Grim we cheat avoid,

When soul mates reach across the void,

Linked as one in endless chain,

Together we will love again,

And so I sleep but not in tomb,

But wait for you in Heaven’s womb.

Michael (Walsh) 22.09.2013

quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

At the stroke of midnight, whatever hour that be,

I heard a distant barking and I held you close to me,

Then I thought of faeries and the darling buds of May,

When midnight hour struck stroke of twelve the day was far away.

I thought of forest stream and moon, of solitude and peace,

I hoped that trolls would slumber on and live to honour truce,

That gnomes of war would cease; to break my heart and bring to woe,

The folk who never were a foe,

A pestilence of fire and flame - and worse they do it in my name.

While humble folk were sleeping in their happy little homes,

Far away were plotting, the warlike little gnomes.

Oh, how they scurried, born to loathe such humble folk as me,

I turned but sleep would never come, would never set me free.

Ah, futile gesture, pen to pad, so helpless I am lost,

I pay the price and suffer then I also bear the cost,

The highway hare is pinned by light,

The lovelorn moth is stilled in flight,

We’re mesmerised by powers strange,

Much darker than the night.

Michael (Walsh)     quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

Sad Ticks the Clock

The clock is ticking sadly, for me it’s drumbeat shrill,

That penetrates my every waking thought,

Like a man condemned to meet his fate it will not let me go,

My goals to swindle fate have come to nought.

You can’t deny the ticking clock but I wish it not so loud,

It strikes in steady rhythm with my heart;

It tells a sad lament that my time with you is spent,

And we’re once again where we were once at start.

Those steady moving hands are relentless in their chore,

The ticking strikes my heart with every blow,

Each tick is sad recall of when we gave our all,

When every ticking-tock was sweetly slow.

Michael (Walsh)

25. 09.2013  quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

She was haute couture, a vision,

With expensive taste to match,

But dare I cross the social railroad track.

Private school no doubt, no end of social clout,

But once I made my choice no going back.

They greeted her at Harrods,

Cardin would bend the knee,

But I was just a common working lad,

Chanel and Christian Dior, dare I cross the social floor,

And could I meet the price if things went bad?

A silver service maid,

She knew her social mores,

But I was gauche and clearly out of depth,

I knew not fork to choose, she said tipple I said booze,

Of private means whilst I knew only debt.

She turned heads on every entrance,

Green envy was my fate,

Her smile was wide as was her broad-brimmed hat,

I was not the Ritz, Savoy,

But a common working boy,

And nothing that I said would alter that.

By the way I said to her, what does your father do,

A politician false with blood on hands,

From war and plunder, loot, he’s a liar and a brute,

The only class he knows is dollar shaped.

But if you choose to honour, to ask and marry me,

Then I shall cross to you the great divide,

He will taste the bitter fruit, his shares in bitter loot,

But I’ll know love and be your lifelong bride.

Michael (Walsh) 04.10.2013  quite_write@yahoo.co.uk

THE KISS OF THE WIND

The kiss of the wind that I love best,

Brings the tang of the open sea,

The warm moist air that breathes the west,

Is the breeze that sets men free.

Where the wheel may turn neither north nor south,

As he sails to the siren's lute.

Where a man may go to the farthest shores,

To return by an obscure route,

The west wind's drift where the ocean lifts,

To the mournful sirens sigh,

Sets my spirit free on the western sea,

When it's time for the last goodbye.

The eastern gales chant the Viking song,

And a peasant may be king,

But it bitter blows from the open steppe,

It laments for the Arctic ring.

There’s a league or more to the folk next door,

Where the life be weather run,

And a man may sleep by his ten-league moat,

Till his life is complete and done.

Where the wolf and bear hold a message clear,

That a roving man will heed,

For its crisp cold song with its message strong,

Is a pledge for the land you need.

But the northern gale is a biter wind,

And it flirts with the Arctic waste,

The days are short they are bitter cold,

And the sun sinks down in haste.

A man may go to his rendezvous,

With defeat and a frozen death,

I have searched for myself, not an earthly end,

Is the curse on his dying breath.

Better the kiss of the warmer wind,

The tang of the open sea,

The soft moist air that breathes the west,

Is the wind that sets me free.

The southern wind is the plunder wind,

Where the spoils of war are spent,

In the bankers vaults and the whore’s bed,

And the sword is smelt to cents.

This warm wind blows from a southern clime,

Where the pirates, bankers, priests,

With their enterprise and their bible lies,

Win the hearts of the men they fleece.

Oh, the Southern wind is a restless wind,

With a perfume filled with spice,

It beckons me to the Coral Sea,

And the lure of Paradise.

Michael Walsh 1998  quite_write@yahoo.co.uk