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Driven To Poetry

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 They held me down beneath a mountain of ignorance

they heaped upon it masses of intolerance

when the massive burden made no dent

they formed queues to inflict punishment

they hid the knowledge of the land

and let me build my house on sand

their house built on oppression and fears

can only last a few long years

cruel oppression don’t celebrate so

decayed matter makes things grow

a snowdrop bursts through the snow

you’ve taught me everything I know

while you were fighting with your swords

you identified my weapon…written words

 

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My writing is like a wild untrained stallion prancing on the royal green hills of Tara or a sparrowhawk soaring screeching hunting above the rude craggy cliffs of Connemara

I write about stout red-faced children’s laughter or the senseless killing and mindless slaughter of the people as they gathered in the square of Timosuara

I write about injustice and aggression

or bleak poverty and deep recession

of frightened children crying and weary parents dying beneath the burden of selective oppression why write ‘mid all this strife perchance I’ll save one small life

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