HomeSportsHenry Shefflin and Rhys McClenaghan celebrated in sporting Poetry Day Ireland poems

Henry Shefflin and Rhys McClenaghan celebrated in sporting Poetry Day Ireland poems

Date:

Related stories

Tony O’Reilly former owner of the Independent newspaper has died aged 88

Media magnate Tony O’Reilly, one of Ireland’s leading business figures,...

Tony O’Reilly, one of Ireland’s leading business figures, dies aged 88

Tony O’Reilly, one of Ireland’s leading business figures, has...

Tailteann Cup: Down, Fermanagh and Antrim all win in tier-two championship

Daniel Guinness, all from play, and Pat Havern both...

Down ease to Tailteann Cup win over London

Tailteann Cup Group 4, round twoLondon 0-10 Down 1-24A...
spot_imgspot_img

Thursday, April 25th is Poetry Day Ireland with readings and other events due to take place throughout the country ( see Poetryday.ie for a list of these events and activities in your local area). The theme set by Poetry Ireland, the national poetry organisation, for this tenth anniversary is Good Sports, celebrating the good sport in all of us.

Following a national call-out, 12 poems have been selected to mark the occasion, which will be showcased during April across the Iarnród Éireann (Irish Rail) network and in libraries across the country, including the following poems by poets Katie Donovan, Rosemary Jenkinson, Máirtín Coilféir, Patrick Moran and Enda Wyley.

Winter Heroes by Katie Donovan

It comes to this:
a frozen Sunday
and a team of six.
We almost miss it
because I’m lost –
sleep deprived,
cursing soccer –
navigating Drimnagh.

How he races,

across the field –

this boy who’s honed his skills,

suffered snubs, misses,

injuries, lumpy pitches,

slanted goalposts

and biased refs.

Once he’s positioned

the stalled game

can proceed.

It’s Cabo vs Bosco,

bony knees and green socks,

parents going mental

in the raw glare and gusts.

His team whirlwinds

through mucky tackles,

the lack of subs,

the unfair penalties,

studs hammering

across the turf.

Winter heroes, these:

outnumbered, away,

they take the game: 4:3.

from Off Duty (Bloodaxe Books, 2016)

Pommel Horse by Rosemary Jenkinson

For Rhys McClenaghan

He slaps the horse’s hide

Into plumes of white floury chalk

As his hands pirouette on the smallest stage,

His skin patting the leather

Until he grips the pommels, and feet

Pointed like a ballerina in the air,

He spins, scissors, spindles and flares.

The suspense is in the fractions

Between victory and defeat – one slip

Of the hand and it’s almost out of his grasp;

A gasp, but he arcs and arrows,

Circling five times like five Olympic rings,

And with one last swing of the hips

Traces the shape of a golden medal

And handstands into a land of blind belief.

Iomramh by Máirtín Coilféir

An seaicéad buí groí seo
a fháiscim orm féin le hurraim,
an bolgán mór geal seo
a theannann ar an mbolg orm –

gan é, ní leagfainn aon láimh

ar mhaide ná ar bhád

ná ní thabharfainn aon aghaidh

ar chrann snámha

ach seo mé faoi réir,

máta i gceann rámha

hulúiste haláiste

canú ag treabhadh canálach.

Gleam by Patrick Moran

i.m. Alex Higgins

Even when you’d shrunken

to a waifish figure,

hustling for a pittance –

your shots wobbling in jaws,

your would-be snookers

no longer deftly judged –

the glories of your prime

lurked in memory’s hold:

fugitive, stowaway…

There, in the arena’s

altar hush. Eyes defiant,

vodka-lit, you swagger

towards the baize, impatient

to pot the balls.

Disdaining caution,

you deploy spin and screw

and stun to keep a wavering

break alive: the testing brown;

a sweet cut on the blue;

that awkward pink rolled down

the table’s length. Leaving

the final sunken black;

your edgy gleam; the white

still on the speckless green.

(from Bearings, Salmon Poetry, 2015)

Henry Shefflin by Enda Wyley

(Portrait by Gerry Davis, The National Gallery of Ireland)

And who would not want to be
Henry Shefflin, turned from home,
standing straight-backed, head-high

his feet firmly apart on the Ballyhale pitch,

a hurley swung over his shoulder, the other

hand casual in his trouser pocket?

No muddied shorts and jersey now –

he is king of these grounds, a suited monarch

of all about him, facing the steely-eyed future

his past a sliotar struck far across the field.

Centre of all things, he likes to gaze up

the elegant stairs to Canova’s ‘Amorino,’

and is older than this marble prince, though

no less determined, both with hands raised –

one to a bow, the other to the hurley’s handle.

- Never miss a story with notifications

- Gain full access to our premium content

- Browse free from up to 5 devices at once

Latest stories

spot_img