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Edited by Aideen Devine, Thursday, 3 Mar 2022, 16:56

The poetry has been a tad neglected recently but this popped up today in my emails so I thought I would share it. We have lost out a lot in the last couple of years, I have said goodbye to two beloved aunts, my mum and several members of the extended family. I also lost a very good friend last year to cancer, whose name was Vincent, and his anniversary is coming up soon, so this struck a chord. I miss him very much and will continue to do so as he was one of the few people I could talk to about anything, and we used to have some great conversations. Time does not always heal but we do find ways to live with our losses and move on, to some degree. Ultimately, we have to, but I am thankful for having known all those lovely people and the good times we shared. Gone but not forgotten.

Time Does Not Bring Relief (Sonnet II)

By Edna St. Vincent Millay 

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied   
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!   
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;   
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,   
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;   
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.   
There are a hundred places where I fear   
To go,—so with his memory they brim.   
And entering with relief some quiet place   
Where never fell his foot or shone his face   
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”   
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

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There is a Haiku competition at work so I submitted a few and thought I would share:

The blind do not see

The beauty in the garden

Eyes without windows

A  life lived in fear

Worrying about dying

We forget to live

And my favourite of the three - 

I closed the door to

Keep death from entering, like

Canute by the sea.

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Granite - Mullach Dubh

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I was going through some work this morning and came across this poem I had written a while ago but never finished or posted it. So, I give it the once over and here it is. Mullach Dubh is an area near Bunbeg in Co Donegal, it has a beautiful beach, as have many places in Donegal, and there are huge blocks of granite on one side which were, at one time, part of the cliffs.

Granite - Mullach Dubh

Are these the fleshy forms of ancestral giants

petrified in time and set against the relentless flow.

Did they walk and tell tall tales

of ancient loves and battles,

fought and won,

or lost in the mythic mists of distant memory?

Were they once wizards who flew

with dragons that breathed fire.

Are you the voices that call to me

from twilight shores,

on long summer evenings?

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The Life That I Have

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Following on from the last post, this is the poem used by Violette, it is such a beautiful poem, I couldn't resist sharing it with you. It was written by Leo Marks in 1943

The Life That I Have

The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours.

The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.
A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause.
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Thursday, 29 Mar 2018, 18:56

Back to the vacated heart!  I have struggled with this one but think I might be on the right track now, so here it is, finished, almost finished, I think!  Although, I'm not entirely happy with 'tremble' but I will probably come back to it in the future. But in the meantime...

The Vacated Heart

A lonely wind meandered

through the hollow chambers

of the now vacated heart.

Fleshy forms, that once pulsed

with heat and passion,

have petrified into stony silence

and a will lies broken,

washed up,

on the unforgiving shore of life.

Moon-dark shadows haunt

the silent caverns

cast like lonely waves

that ebb and crash

over rocks.

Relentlessly counting

through the darkness -

to the returning light

that cracks

the concrete bleakness

and loosens Medusa's hold.

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The art of the creative

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Thursday, 29 Mar 2018, 18:58

I've been having a bit of a creative spurt recently, knitting, painting, writing a bit of poetry, so the blog has been a bit neglected.  Anyway, I found this poem which I had started many months ago and then lost. It was started on a scrap of paper one wet afternoon at work but then I couldn't find it and thought I had thrown it away accidentally but I was having a rummage through another notebook the other night, looking for a photograph I wanted to paint and found it and finished it.  Well, finished for now, because I've found poetry is sort of evolutionary, I keep going back and changing phrases and words, so this is the version for now which may change in the future.  The thing is, I carry notebooks with me all the time but sometimes, actually often times, I just grab a piece of paper and jot notes down or memorable phrases as the muse strikes, for future use, my kitchen table is full of them and there are pieces stuffed everywhere in handbags, books, pockets etc:  well, here it is - 

Wet Day (working title, liable to change)

The dreary rain,

dribbled down the dull, grey stone

as the woman in the dull, grey shirt

stared out the window and dreamed

of warmer places 

with kinder faces -

far away from the dull, grey streets

and rain-washed lives,


in apathy and quiet despair.

The steady drip, drip,





of the broken guttering

on the ledge of the window,

at the edge of life,

beat a soggy rhythm

against the drabs of water

that fell on the dull, grey roof

and formed

a puddle,

between the invading moss


the reckless shrubbery

that dangled precariously on the edge.

The adventurous offspring of some windblown seed

who dreamt of bigger things and better places.

The woman in the dull, grey shirt

stood up;

put on her bright red coat,

and left.


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Valentine poems & work

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Sunday, 12 Aug 2018, 18:01

We're doing a CICM Spectacular Failure at work for February (this is the boxing themed one, I devised, wrote and presented) and one of the fun events is to write a love poem for Valentine's Day, so I put pen to paper and wrote a haiku and a sonnet.


Sitting alone, night

falls, and warm embraces melt 

the hardening heart.


What can I say or tell you about love

When Shakespeare does it much better than me

Run off a line about the stars above,

Or tell a tale of how I, became we.

Create a metaphor, on winter’s cold,

How love sprang forth and melted the snow.

How I gave him my heart to have and hold

Playing Juliet to his Romeo. 

There are no words that can really describe

How true love feels and that moment of bliss

The magical spark it has to revive

You, when in their arms, and that first soft kiss.


So as you go forth, remember the stakes

And try not to be, another’s heart-break.

So, that was my busy afternoon at work! 

Talking about work, a friend of mine phoned me today to ask if I would help him with a job application this evening.  He's a bit of a handy man but hasn't had much work recently and saw a job for a street-sweeper advertised for the local council and thought he would apply.  I went in and looked at the form.  It's not a form, it's a 36 page booklet!  For a street cleaning job!  This is not a joke, it really was 36 pages long, this is totally insane!!  WTF is that about??

I spent a weekend recently filling in a 17 page application for a secretarial job, or an 'executive assistant' as it is called now.  It is the last application form I am ever going to fill in, from now on if they don't take a CV, I'm not even going to apply. I had also applied for another job as a Head Receptionist in a hotel where I have worked on and off for 10 years.  I didn't get it.  The criteria listed experience of reception work, hotel work and supervising staff, all of which I had.  But the job was given to someone who has never supervised staff, never worked in a hotel or done reception work!  

I was having a conversation with a work colleague recently, (he's in with the same agency as me) when I realised that the salary I am on now is exactly the same as it was in a job I was doing 10 years ago, for basically the same work.  This realisation along with all the recent joys of job-hunting have pissed me off big time.  So, I've been making a few decisions about work for the future.  So, along with the CV, I have decided I am not doing agency work again either, no-one is making money off my talents again except me. I am also not going to give anyone the benefit of my abilities or experience unless they pay a decent salary.  I would rather do minimum wage and I will!

Another receptionist/admin job I applied for sent me this lovely email:

Thank you for your interest in the Receptionist/Admin Assistant position at ...... We have reviewed your application. Unfortunately, you are not the right fit for the position at this time. 

So, this is what I emailed back to them:

Well, what a surprise, 'not the right fit for the position at this time'.  Is there ever a time I would be 'the right fit' considering this is now at least the 6th time I have applied to ..... for a position, clerical, accounts, administration, reception but never quite 'the right fit', and not once even an interview.
I mean what could someone with a degree, years of experience in admin, accounts and all office practices ever have to offer ......,  Not quite the 'right fit'.  What does the 'right fit' mean?  Not smart enough, or too smart, over qualified or under qualified, too experienced or not experienced enough or is it just that I don't have a 'relative' to smoosh with the right people and pull the right strings, because it seems that it's not what you know but who you know...isn't it ever???
Well, I guess I'll pass ........ over in future, no point in applying, not the 'right fit', not today, definitely wasn't yesterday and most certainly will not be tomorrow.

When my father passed away this summer, I rang in to work and was told if I wanted to take time off, then I could take it unpaid or out of my holidays. 

I came across 2 other stories about work this week too, so it's not just me being put through the wringer.  The first was about how Amazon workers in the US now have to wear a wristband to track their activity, sorry, to 'help them find the right packages quicker', or so says the company.  But more tragic is the story of Don Lane, fined for taking time off for a doctors appointment, and because of this missed his ensuing appointments and died.  He worked for DPD who deliver for Amazon, among others.  

Capitalism, it's all heart, isn't it!   Oh, the joys of work!

Workers of the world it is time to unite, change is coming and that revolution just might begin here...watch this space!


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The Vacated Heart/Capitalism

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Monday, 6 Nov 2017, 22:32

Here's a little poem I wrote a while ago.  I'm not sure if I've finished it yet as poetry is something that seems to evolve.  I've called it The Vacated Heart but now that I look at it again it could just as easily be called Capitalism - a health warning!  Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

The Vacated Heart

A lonely wind


through the hollow chambers

of the now

vacated heart.

Fleshy forms that once pulsed 

with heat and passion

have petrified

into stony silence

and a body lies broken,

washed up, 

on the unforgiving

shore of life.

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Monday, 13 Mar 2017, 20:30

I'm on a roll tonight, 3 posts in a row.  Well, I haven't posted in a while but now that the books have been put away the creative juices have started flowing again. This poem is from my level 3 creative writing course and has been hanging around for a while.  One of the things I learned from the course is that writing evolves over time and like good wine needs time to mature.  I got good feedback on this when I first wrote it and I hope I have improved it in this version. This could be the final version, I'll not know until I come back to it at some point in the future and see if there's something I want to change..I feel I'm missing a line or two after 'disapproval' but I can't think of anything I want to put in there yet.  Anyway, here it is....enjoy (I hope)

The Awakening

Ssshh!  She is sleeping, peacefully

under the frosted covers

and all is still, except 

the rhythmic cycle of her breath.

The children stand in silent contemplation,

swayed by the rise and fall of her chest,

her breasts: waiting.

Waiting for the light to lengthen the day

Waiting for the heat to penetrate the cold mantle of her skin.

Waiting to be called from the darkness

where they rest, to rise and dress


In a gorgeous cloak of velvet green.

Green!  Those greens!  Those bold and brazen greens!

Lively limes lust over flashy emeralds

but obstinate olive holds the ground

as sassy sage flirts outrageously

with dark broody bottles and precocious jades.

Vivacious, verdant mosses,

mass and march over field and hill,

in a luscious invasion of tree and hedgerow, 

Hanging with happy orange and laughing yellows

as those radical reds antagonize

the philosophical purples in a

cacophonous discourse on colour;

while blousy blues look on in disapproval.

Look! look! A snowdrop!

She is awake!

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Friday, 13 Nov 2015, 13:00

This is the first serious poem I wrote for A363 this year.  It's called Landscapes and it was based on a summer's day long ago when we used to have definite seasons, when me and a friend spent most of the day jumping from a fence into a pile of straw that was left behind after the farmer cut the field.  Our houses used to be surrounded by fields and they were great places to play.  Around the same time as the troubles were breaking out, the fields started to disappear as first factories were built and then the rest of them were turned into a large housing estate. The loss of playing areas was mirrored by the loss of freedom as society divided into their respective camps.   Then after the events of Bloody Sunday, everything changed for the worse and some dark insanity seemed to take hold of the world.  As the landscape changed so too did the political landscape. 

I've developed this into a screenplay which I'm working on again so I hope to see this on screen at some point in the future.  So I hope you enjoy it, comments as always, are welcome.


In the playing fields of childhood,

we spent a last, carefree summer's day

where life hopped, flitted and buzzed

in a concerto of movements and sounds

around us.

We gathered armfuls of straw and hay

and climbed and jumped, and climbed and jumped,

until legs, wobbly and weak

gave way.  We wandered home

like two happy drunks,

bodies tired but spirits light as

the warmth of day gently faded in the west

and the drifting hum of Sion mill

lullabyed us to sleep.

While we slept;

Darkness covered the land

An army of grey men,

Led by hard mouths

 - raised in anger,

invaded the land.

They screamed in fury

as they stripped the skin from the earth,

their unforgiving teeth

ripping into the soft ground;  Unopposed.

Uprooted homes were left to die

without care or ceremony.

The casualties fled in terror,

as fences deposed hedgerows.

Grey stone walls, set deep into the ground,

Divided, conquered, divided, conquered:

The gentle melodies of summer

were lost.

The dissonant cold of winter blew in.


no longer free, confined

by barricades, borders and bigotry.

Thirteen people lay dead

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One of John Jones on his anniversary.  There's no date on this poem so I'm not sure when it was written.  It's called Mr Fantasy and I've taken the liberty of doing some light editing on it.  I hope no one minds!

It was around the time

That beer had a password and

the mattress was strained 

with the thoughts kept from priests,

That I first ever listened 

to the quality of your wisdom.

I had no means of understanding

the sadness from your guitar,

for hadn't I yet to compete

in a game that wasn't cricket.

I hovered; and wasn't to know

there would be blood on the mistletoe,

and no one in the bandstands,

save for Timothy

clutching a well-chilled bottle

of shoplift wine.

He would be looking forward

to the soup run

and I would have to pray

to the moon for him

because it's not much fun

either side of the ladle;

That the kids in our footsteps

would wear badges and earrings,

and all their heads 

would be full of emptiness.

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Wipe out

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I've been feeling wiped out recently and now I'm off work with the worst dose of flu I've had, in quite some time, as if the interminable gloom of January wasn't bad enough.  We've had some snow recently and it is a welcome sight to see the white dusted fields of Croaghan Hill and the ermine covered shoulders of Knockavoe.  It certainly helps to relieve the grey misery of the longest month of the year.

If I wasn't so sick, I'd be off to Gortin Glen with my camera but my energy levels are at their lowest and a even walk to the local shop feels like a marathon.  There's nothing I hate more than being sick, except maybe the Tories.  Hmm, I think that's a good sign, the political pulse is still working! 

Anyway, I was to post more of John's poems over Christmas but between work and the general strains of the season I didn't get around to it so here is another one.

This poem is called FOR SEAN, I don't know who Sean was, I'm assuming he was a friend of Johns and it was written in June 1977, the year of the Queen's Jubilee and the Sex Pistols,  Vive le Punk Rock!  I remember it well!

For Sean

Your shoulder stuttered

under the varnished pine.

The weight was elsewhere.

It blurred the aisle

with your rampant tears.

Helpless from a pew

I looked on at 

a bearer conceived 

at a healthier happier time.

The sun was stubborn,

out of place and order.

It was a sad day in May.

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John Jones

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Sunday, 14 Dec 2014, 18:34

A while back I put up a poem written by a young man named John Jones who died at the tender age of 22.  His nephew found the poem on the blog and contacted me and then put me in touch with his mother who is John's twin sister.  We've been keeping in touch and she has given me permission to put up the rest of the poems so I said I would do that over the month of December.   The poems were all written back in the 1970's and this is the first of them. 

Conditional Surrender

Some want

A curfew on laughter

Graffitti void of frolic

Oil slicks for seafaring dodo's

Crimes for every handicap

Multiple pile-ups on easy terms

Mutual interest in select perversion

An empty ledge for every desperate man


An audience for the crocus

An encore for the rain

A meal for every stomach

An end to human pain,

A mother for each baby

A truth for every dream

Lovers for the lonely

Peaches with ice-cream

Stalemate again:

In trenches near and far

January, October 1976

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John Jones

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Thursday, 5 June 2014, 16:02

A while back i was given poems that were written by a young man callled John Jones from Enniskillen in Co Fermanagh who died in 1979, aged just 22.  Tomorrow is his anniversary so I thought i would put up one of them.  This is my favourite one and perfectly captures the dark misery that was 1970's N. Ireland.  It was dated Oct 1978 and this month also has deep resonance for me as it was one of the darkest periods of my life.

The Town I Love So Well

They sipped from cups of steamy welcome tea

and fag ends hissed as they hit the water.

The traffic lights were amber, the cinema closed

As they plunged once more with twilight sneaking.

The peckish crowds drew lots for a better view, 

Their consensus instability, despite his tender years

and that Daglish would surely hit the thirty mark.

The paper boy dripped when they brought him up.

His feet were encased in two large pumpkins

And already the pike had nibbled at his flesh.

He left no note and no one mentioned murder.

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Skyscraper Black

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Sunday, 23 June 2013, 09:40

This poem is dedicated to all those lost loves who have broken our hearts and sometimes their own too.  The title comes from a text message I received from my daughter one day, the sky was very heavy and dark and she had said in her text the clouds were skyscraper black.  I don't know if she mispelled something or if she meant that but it struck me immediately as a great description, and this poem just poured out it.


Skyscraper Black

Searching across a moon dark shore

Leaving midnight traces in the sand

I follow the trail of my lost love

To this distant other-worldly land


I feel the grief of other lonely souls

Moving in shadowed circles around my head

Crying for life and dreams not realized,

For hopes and wishes now long dead.


For I was loved, though he is now gone,

My heart remains clasped firmly in his hand

And feeling his presence still, I follow

His ghostly foot trails across the sand.


Now, standing alone along this darken'd shore,

Lost between his reality and my dream

I wait for the sun to rise and lighten

The skyscraper blackness in my soul



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Edited by Aideen Devine, Friday, 9 Sept 2022, 16:13

One for the working classes whose political voice is rapidly disappearing, in and out of Parliament.  Free market economics are fine if they apply to all, but workers are forbidden from joining unions and striking, the law is skewed in favour of practices that favour employers. Banks gamble and lose, and the tax payer is left to pick up the bill; so where is the ‘free’ in the free market?  Are we under the Orwellian, ‘everyone is free only some are more free that others’ or are those on top ‘free’ to exploit those on the bottom?  Time for a wake up call.


Alarm Call

Wake up the working classes!

Wake up! Wake up!

Your life is disappearing,

down the drain

While you watch TV

That’s rotting your brain.

A cell killing diet

of soap from the sink.

Until, you no longer know

what it is, to think.



Wake up the working classes!

Wake up! Wake up!

Your future hopes

Are being cut away,

While you sit dreaming

of stardom in X-Factor

for your son or daughter.

Blinded by celebrity:

wake up and face-up to,

the con of this ‘reality’!



Wake up the working classes.

Wake up! Wake up!

You’ve forgotten your history

The story of your labour,

What your ancestors fought and died for.

Remember Tolpuddle and Peterloo,

The Suffragettes and Miners

As citizens, not subjects,

This nation is not one class,

It is your country too.








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This poem is quite a heavy piece, I had always envisioned it as a performance piece and it's for all those who have experienced a trauma they would rather forget.



I wish that I could wash my brain

And make it clean and free from pain

I wish that I could wash my brain

And wash away the hurt and stain.


Brainwashing, brainwashing

Brainwashing, brainwashing.


I wish that I could wash my brain

And make it clean and free from shame

I wish that I could wash my brain

And wash away the dirt and pain.


Brainwashing, brainwashing

Brainwashing, brainwashing.


I wish that I could wash my brain

And make it clean and free from stain

I wish that I could wash my brain

And wash away the hurt and shame


Brainwashing, brainwashing

Brainwashing, brainwashing.


I wish that I could wash my brain

And make it clean and new again

I wish that I could wash my brain

But I can't....


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Edited by Aideen Devine, Friday, 13 Nov 2015, 13:12



I see them

On the streets.

Grey ghosts


in the shadows of life.

Breathing but not living.

These spectral corpses

move and merge


the grey of the road,

the grey of the walls,

the grey of concrete

glass and steel.

Crushers of souls.

These hollow-eyed,

grey shadows

disappear into the stony

wastes of life:

Where no colour lives.

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Monday, 5 Sept 2022, 15:21

I was in France a few years ago and the journey back took me through Normandy where all the WW2 cemeteries are. I visited the British and Canadian one in Bayeux, and the American one at Caen and, after leaving Caen, I noticed a signpost for a German one at Orglondes, so I went to see it. Well, I have never experienced anything like the atmosphere of deep sorrow that hung over the place and, even now, when I think about it, it still gets to me.

I know some people might have a problem with that but I make no apologies for what I felt. When you walk around and see the ages of the young men who died and that goes for all the cemeteries, it really brings it home to you what an insanity and a complete waste of humanity war is. The average age was about 19 and, at the time, my youngest son was 21 and I thought about him and his friends going out to fight a war and, to be honest, you could hardly have left them alone with a box of matches never mind sending them into the battlefields of Northern France.


In the Battle for Normandy, now long over,

this is the story of the losing side,

visible in the final resting places

of those known, and Known Only Unto God.

No glorifying memorials,

no quotes, no fine speeches.

Below a bell tower, an apologetic sign

Remains, a grey stone marker, six by one...


Onto the thousands, you fought and died,

you chased the dark dream, another ‘old lie’.

Youth sacrificed to an ideology,

that robbed so many of their humanity.


‘I did not think, I just went along’

‘My friends all joined so I did too

A boy’s own adventure, we thought’

‘I was afraid not to, I followed the crowd’. 

‘I believed in it, I was serving my country

I was proud.  I don’t believe now'.


So full of regret now, weighted in sorrow,

bearing down on me to grieve the tomorrow

that never came for this Lost Generation:


This is the story of the losing side,

that reveals the darkness that lives in us yet.

That negates the claims we make to civilization,

and reminds us to think:

Lest We Forget.


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Edited by Aideen Devine, Friday, 2 Sept 2022, 15:31

A couple of short ones today, the first one is a little poem to my grandfather who died when I was eight and whom I still miss every day.  

The second one is about the word commence and is self explanatory.  If I had my way I would outlaw its use completely,   


I miss you on those occasions

That mark our path through life

The turning points and celebrations;

But mostly when the clouds part

And I look up into the blue.



I have an intense dislike

For the word commence.

It’s full of pretence

And delusions of intelligence,

And people who use it

Are just the same;

They can’t start or begin anything,

They may only commence!


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Gortin Glen

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Thursday, 1 Sept 2022, 12:36

I wrote this poem last night. I was trying to get to sleep and I started to think about Gortin Glen where I like to go to ramble around and get away from the stresses of life.

I was trying to relax my mind and unwind my body, and then the first line came to me and so I got up again to write this.   

Gortin Glen 


In the quiet of the forest

Breathing in -

the silent scent of pine and fir


the hard edges of a life on edge.

Breathing out -

Tension and tightness unwinding

with each tentative step

on the needled floor,

as moisture laden mosses

drip gently into rivulets, running

to a strengthening stream,

gathering all the cares and

worries of the world away.


to dissipate in distant seas,

as I step softly across

the sweetened grass.

Gently now, slowly now,

My soul is restored.

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Thursday, 1 Sept 2022, 12:32

This is another one from the creative writing course. It came from memories of 1980/81 and contains some very personal references along with some of the political events of the time. It was the year I turned 18 and it was a pretty miserable year for me all round.


 10, Maggie’s Den.

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!



10, happy birthday,

Eighteen now, no child here.

What do we want?


10 Men Dead,

Black flags and funerals.

Political Status!


10 Gold medals,

Games without false tears.

When do we want it?


10 years gone,

Wondering where you are,


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Edited by Aideen Devine, Thursday, 1 Sept 2022, 12:36

This is another poem I wrote which I use it to remind myself to challenge my own thinking. I have often found that very few people ever challenge their own thinking and when you question them on it, it often turns out that their beliefs are not their own but what they have been told, or brought up to believe.  I'm often told I think too much but I think we don't really think enough about everything.


Ask yourself a question;

What do I believe?

Think about it for a while,

Then ask yourself - Why?

Then write it all down.

Turn it into a poem

Or even a play,

Set it to music  

Make it a song and sing it out, 

loud and long.

Then ask yourself another question;

What if it’s all wrong?

Then think about that.

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A little bit of politics

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Edited by Aideen Devine, Friday, 13 Nov 2015, 13:34

I wrote this poem last year on my creative writing course but it was much shorter and didn't seem finished, so now I have finally finished it, I hope you enjoy it.  Comments are welcome


The stated precedent of the Condem Government is:

To implement cuts to pay off the deficit.

When greedy bankers and free market Capitalism

Dramatically failed, they were saved by Socialism

And still they demand no tighter regulation

To control their gambling and reckless speculation

Even when it leads to third-world starvation,

Because profit is their only consideration.

And their biggest worry is double-dip recession,

Which if it lasts longer, will be a depression.

‘There is no alternative’ says Thatcher’s next generation.

‘Someone has to pay for this economic devastation’

As they roll out the old policy of privatization,

(Which also demonstrates their complete lack of imagination),

To sell off to the few, what belongs to the nation

And the cost will be yours and your children’s education.

Along with your health and your old age pension

While blaming the poor for the whole situation

Not to mention that other old chestnut- immigration

Because every government failure needs a scapegoat to aim for

And tomorrow the finger might be pointed at your door.

So, the next time there is a general election

Think carefully before you make your selection

And vote in the best interests of the entire population

Not for Oxbridge boys and their corporate connections

Who deceive us with rhetoric and tabloid machinations

In their lust for power and without any consideration

For the debt, they’ve dumped on future generations.

Because this legacy of poverty has been laid down for posterity

But not for the millionaires who’ve Condemned us to austerity

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