Poetry « Thurles Information

“She’s Not Here” – From Pen Of Thurles Poet Tom Ryan.

She’s Not Here.

Courtesy of Thurles Author & Poet Tom Ryan ©

I sought my love in diverse places,
By land and sea and cemetery.
As all alone my heart races,
Seeking to solve the mystery.

I wandered over hills and glens,
Where once we strolled so long ago.
Blissful lovers were we then,
In ways that only lovers know.

Where once we strolled in carefree joy,
In quiet and quite mysterious ways,
Now all’s but tearful memory,
She was the light of all my days.

Oh, she was all and all to me,
With no one or nothing to compare,
And oh my ever aching heart,
That she’s not here nor anywhere.

So onward went each feeling, thought,
With prayer and human consolation,
But all in vain all came to naught,
And met with naught but desolation.

Till death seemed sweeter than this place,
Where love was gone and lost to me,
Till by her grave my seeking ceased,
Revealed to me the mystery.

Beautiful always with a smile,
Scented with humanity,
Sweet spirit by my side the while,
Both here and in eternity.
END

Tom Ryan “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.

July Wildflowers.

**Pictured yesterday on the Yellow Lough Road** *(R659)* **just outside Holycross, Thurles, Co. Tipperary**. *Photo: G. Willoughby*.

Wildflower.

Written by Clinton Arneson

The wildflower… bred by no one, uncultivated;
raised hard, raised rough.
No glass pane to shield you, nor tender hand revealed you,
standing all the sweeter ‘gainst the grass.
There may be some the fairer,
though none so brave to dare her,
wild, wild flower in the wind.
END

Field Buttercups On Emmet Street, Thurles.

“There, on stems waving in the air on a warm gentle breeze,
Buttercups, ebb and flow like restless tides on rolling seas”

[Extract from the poem ‘Sun-Kissed Flowers‘, by Jenna Logan]

The hairy leaved bright yellow field Buttercups growing on the west bank of the river Suir presently, East on Emmet Street, are indeed quite striking. But soon their petals will fall, leaving behind green spiky fruit, reminiscent of tiny chestnuts.

***View on Sunday last, June 13th, east on Emmet Street, Thurles, Co. Tipperary***.

Nowadays the younger generation are more fascinated by their mobile phone screens, rather than playing the childhood game of holding a buttercup under your chin to see if you like butter. As children adults had us believe that the colour of the flowers eaten by cows somehow got into the milk giving rise to the production of yellow farmer’s butter.

Buttercups will grow anywhere and have in the past been used to treat rheumatism and fevers.
The plants flowers contain a chemical ‘Ranunculin’, which, when the plant is broken, crushed or chewed, changes to the toxin called ‘Protoanemonin’.

Protoanemonin is a bitter-tasting oil that irritates the mucous membranes of the gastrointestinal tract, and is poisonous to horses, cats, and dogs. However, they generally don’t pose any real threat, because the toxin’s bitter taste limits the amount any animal will eat.

When dried these toxins which are part of the Buttercups makeup become harmless and so are edible for animals when found in dried hay.

Thurles Town’s Magical Riverside Walk.

With huge “Thank You” to Catherine Fogarty, Rona Sorrell, Una and David Crowley, Mary Joe Fanning, Eamonn Medley and Eamonn Mason and indeed all who have contributed their voluntary service to this area of Thurles.

Thurles Town’s Magical Riverside Walk.

The Riverside Walk is a magical place
With butterflies, otters and trees,
There’s rushes, wild flowers and ivy,
Bird houses and honey bees.

There’s bugs and nettles and hedges,
Long grasses and ducks galore.
And it’s nice to take a walk there,
Alongside the River Suir.

And as you go along the walk,
There’s something else to see:
The entrance through a little door
Inside a rotting tree.

A tiny fairy lives there.
She checks that you are good
And taking care of nature,
Like everybody should.

And late at night she comes to life
And flies through Thurles’ streets;
Checking under pillows
For unwanted children’s teeth.

So why not visit this fairy
And the otters and ducks and flowers?
Come stroll along the Riverside walk
And while away the hours.

END

Bluebells

The Bluebell.

By Anne Bronte
[Novelist, poet, youngest member of the Bronte literary family and daughter of Patrick Brontë an Irish clergyman.]

A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.

Yet I recall not long ago
A bright and sunny day,
‘Twas when I led a toilsome life
So many leagues away;
That day along a sunny road
All carelessly I strayed,
Between two banks where smiling flowers
Their varied hues displayed.

Before me rose a lofty hill,
Behind me lay the sea,
My heart was not so heavy then
As it was wont to be.
Less harassed than at other times
I saw the scene was fair,
And spoke and laughed to those around,
As if I knew no care.

But when I looked upon the bank
My wandering glances fell
Upon a little trembling flower,
A single sweet bluebell.
Whence came that rising in my throat,
That dimness in my eye?
Why did those burning drops distil —
Those bitter feelings rise?

O, that lone flower recalled to me
My happy childhood’s hours
When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts
A prize among the flowers,
Those sunny days of merriment
When heart and soul were free,
And when I dwelt with kindred hearts
That loved and cared for me.

I had not then mid heartless crowds
To spend a thankless life
In seeking after others’ weal
With anxious toil and strife.
‘Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times
That never may return!’
The lovely floweret seemed to say,
And thus it made me mourn.
END