I came across this little video gem during the week, written by children’s Poet Laureate, Kenn Nesbitt.
Mr Nesbitt introduces his poem by stating, “For those of you who are looking forward to Halloween at the end of the month, I decided to release a brand new video, along with my newest poem, ‘My Creepy Costume.’ I hope you enjoy”.
So, was Mr Nesbitt really writing for just children in this case I ask myself or had he those more senior in mind? You decide.
Kenn Nesbitt is an American children’s poet. On June 11th, 2013, he was named Children’s Poet Laureate by the Poetry Foundation.
Here is a powerful response to the recent historic events, which brought about large demonstrations in the Irish cities of Dublin, Galway and Cork, in the wake of George Floyd’s death caused by police in the US.
You Don’t Get To Be Racist and Irish
Poem by Irish singer, songwriter poet and multi-instrumentalist Ms Imelda May.
You don’t get to be racist and Irish You don’t get to be proud of your heritage, Plights and fights for freedom While kneeling on the neck of another! You’re not entitled to sing Songs of heroes and martyrs Mothers and fathers who cried As they starved in a famine Or of brave hearted Soft spoken Poets and artists Lined up in a yard Blindfolded and bound Waiting for Godot And point blank to sound We emigrated We immigrated We took refuge So cannot refuse When it’s our time To return the favour Land stolen Spirits broken Bodies crushed and swollen Unholy tokens of Christ, nailed to a tree (That) You hang around your neck Like a noose of the free Our colour pasty Our accents thick Hands like shovels From mortar and bricklaying Foundation of cities You now stand upon Our suffering seeps from every stone Your opportunities arise from Outstanding on the shoulders Of our forefathers and foremother’s Who bore your mother’s mother Our music is for the righteous Our joys have been earned Well deserved and serve To remind us to remember More Blacks More Dogs More Irish. Still labelled leprechauns, Micks, Paddy’s, louts We’re shouting to tell you Our land, our laws Are progressively out there We’re in a chrysalis State of emerging into a new And more beautiful Eire/era 40 Shades Better Unanimous in our rainbow vote We’ve found our stereotypical pot of gold And my God it’s good. So join us.. ’cause You Don’t Get To Be Racist And Irish.
In all their fairest finery, Silk and lace embroidery, Frills – petticoat and jewellery Beauts flock to the show at Littleton. Lipsticked, rouged ideally, Competitive to cruelty, Eyes flashing like rich royalty, The Queens of Littleton Show. From Killenaule and Brumminjam From every village, town they come To see their maidens now become The raging beauts of Littleton. Charming, multi-colourful, Fair and very beautiful, Ruby cheeked and jovial In Littleton to win. Factory girl and farmerette, Every beauty’s in a fret, Palpitating, who will get The title – “Queen of Littleton?” War may rage on foreign field, Armies conquer or may yield, But the crowning glory is believed To be the test at Littleton. Families,cousins, children too, Attired in every single hue, To cheer the beaut that wins the “Blue” The belle of all at Littleton. “Star” scribe and flashing camera man Attempt to capture, if they can The mighty splendour of the one That takes the sash in Littleton. Dress, deportment, if you please, Never mind your hunky knees, ‘Tis surely hard the judge to please At the show in Littleton. And when the judge the winner gives Nigh all but one right then believes That judges all are bat-blind thieves For the show at Littleton. I’ll dance and drink the cuppa tea I’ll kiss the Queen, just wait and see, “Prince Charming” may just envy me At the show in Littleton. END
Oh, you who loved all living things, ‘Tis not in a clay garden With marble monuments or beautiful flowers, I see you now. Nor in decay of any form, But alive in a beautiful memory Of times forever green and lovely. When the sun engoldened Your laughing face and hair, Standing by the kitchen window there, In a summer, floral printed dress. Or in winter in the chair in the corner, Warm with merriment in the peat fire’s glow. Oh, I see you young and beautiful, And warm, alive, And your thoughts and feelings, And all you were to me, Will forever be Mine In my memory. END
Tom Ryan “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
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