Daniel Mulhall
@danmulhall.bsky.social
Retired Irish Ambassador, author, consultant, media commentator, Director, #Carlichauns.
A feel of warmth in this place,
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
Naturally, we fall from grace.
Mere humans, we forget what light
Led us, lonely, to this place.
John Montague ‘Blessing’
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
Naturally, we fall from grace.
Mere humans, we forget what light
Led us, lonely, to this place.
John Montague ‘Blessing’
November 15, 2025 at 11:33 AM
A feel of warmth in this place,
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
Naturally, we fall from grace.
Mere humans, we forget what light
Led us, lonely, to this place.
John Montague ‘Blessing’
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
Naturally, we fall from grace.
Mere humans, we forget what light
Led us, lonely, to this place.
John Montague ‘Blessing’
On the water the accumulation of spume,
The hiss and purl of spiralling waves, the skid
And visible snarl of wind, horizon’s disintegration,
The glower & sharp glint of a tired sky.
…
Now for the decisions of night, the heart’s undoing:
The time where reason & emotions meet.
Valentin Iremonger
The hiss and purl of spiralling waves, the skid
And visible snarl of wind, horizon’s disintegration,
The glower & sharp glint of a tired sky.
…
Now for the decisions of night, the heart’s undoing:
The time where reason & emotions meet.
Valentin Iremonger
November 13, 2025 at 8:33 AM
On the water the accumulation of spume,
The hiss and purl of spiralling waves, the skid
And visible snarl of wind, horizon’s disintegration,
The glower & sharp glint of a tired sky.
…
Now for the decisions of night, the heart’s undoing:
The time where reason & emotions meet.
Valentin Iremonger
The hiss and purl of spiralling waves, the skid
And visible snarl of wind, horizon’s disintegration,
The glower & sharp glint of a tired sky.
…
Now for the decisions of night, the heart’s undoing:
The time where reason & emotions meet.
Valentin Iremonger
I pray for this unknown young man who has known
The lightening’s strict hour,the time of anger
…
May he survive unscathed the Dunkirk of middle-age
& cardiac decay,the Crete of married life,
The Peloponnese-like archipelago of children,to fish lazily
In the reaches of a quiet old age.
V. Iremonger
The lightening’s strict hour,the time of anger
…
May he survive unscathed the Dunkirk of middle-age
& cardiac decay,the Crete of married life,
The Peloponnese-like archipelago of children,to fish lazily
In the reaches of a quiet old age.
V. Iremonger
November 12, 2025 at 2:53 PM
I pray for this unknown young man who has known
The lightening’s strict hour,the time of anger
…
May he survive unscathed the Dunkirk of middle-age
& cardiac decay,the Crete of married life,
The Peloponnese-like archipelago of children,to fish lazily
In the reaches of a quiet old age.
V. Iremonger
The lightening’s strict hour,the time of anger
…
May he survive unscathed the Dunkirk of middle-age
& cardiac decay,the Crete of married life,
The Peloponnese-like archipelago of children,to fish lazily
In the reaches of a quiet old age.
V. Iremonger
Call the earth female, as of old.
She needs to be placed pronto
in the recovery position, gently hold
her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow,
hand above the head, palm facing down
— waving goodbye or hello?
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
She needs to be placed pronto
in the recovery position, gently hold
her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow,
hand above the head, palm facing down
— waving goodbye or hello?
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
November 10, 2025 at 11:26 AM
Call the earth female, as of old.
She needs to be placed pronto
in the recovery position, gently hold
her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow,
hand above the head, palm facing down
— waving goodbye or hello?
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
She needs to be placed pronto
in the recovery position, gently hold
her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow,
hand above the head, palm facing down
— waving goodbye or hello?
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
… let us also be healed
wounds closed,senses cleansed
as over our bowed heads
the mad larks multiply
needles stabbing the sky
in an ecstasy of stitching fury
against the blue void
while from clump & tuft
cranny & cleft, soft footed
curious, the animals gather around.
John Montague
wounds closed,senses cleansed
as over our bowed heads
the mad larks multiply
needles stabbing the sky
in an ecstasy of stitching fury
against the blue void
while from clump & tuft
cranny & cleft, soft footed
curious, the animals gather around.
John Montague
November 9, 2025 at 8:46 PM
… let us also be healed
wounds closed,senses cleansed
as over our bowed heads
the mad larks multiply
needles stabbing the sky
in an ecstasy of stitching fury
against the blue void
while from clump & tuft
cranny & cleft, soft footed
curious, the animals gather around.
John Montague
wounds closed,senses cleansed
as over our bowed heads
the mad larks multiply
needles stabbing the sky
in an ecstasy of stitching fury
against the blue void
while from clump & tuft
cranny & cleft, soft footed
curious, the animals gather around.
John Montague
To fly into risk,
attempt the dream,
cast off, as we have done,
requires true luck
who know ourselves
blessed to have found
between this harbour’s arms
a sheltering home
where the vast
tides of the Atlantic
lift to caress
rose coloured rocks.
John Montague ‘Edge’
attempt the dream,
cast off, as we have done,
requires true luck
who know ourselves
blessed to have found
between this harbour’s arms
a sheltering home
where the vast
tides of the Atlantic
lift to caress
rose coloured rocks.
John Montague ‘Edge’
November 8, 2025 at 11:36 AM
To fly into risk,
attempt the dream,
cast off, as we have done,
requires true luck
who know ourselves
blessed to have found
between this harbour’s arms
a sheltering home
where the vast
tides of the Atlantic
lift to caress
rose coloured rocks.
John Montague ‘Edge’
attempt the dream,
cast off, as we have done,
requires true luck
who know ourselves
blessed to have found
between this harbour’s arms
a sheltering home
where the vast
tides of the Atlantic
lift to caress
rose coloured rocks.
John Montague ‘Edge’
His grace is no longer called for
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Dennis O’Driscoll ‘Missing God’
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Dennis O’Driscoll ‘Missing God’
November 7, 2025 at 8:00 AM
His grace is no longer called for
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Dennis O’Driscoll ‘Missing God’
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Dennis O’Driscoll ‘Missing God’
… you told me how
I saw them in the morning going to school,
Tattering down the sallow sky of winter.
Now I know them well: I see them every mile
By flocks & companies in roadside fields
As I drive onwards through these snowcast days
To sit at your bed evoking them for you.
Bernard O’Donoghue
I saw them in the morning going to school,
Tattering down the sallow sky of winter.
Now I know them well: I see them every mile
By flocks & companies in roadside fields
As I drive onwards through these snowcast days
To sit at your bed evoking them for you.
Bernard O’Donoghue
November 6, 2025 at 2:18 PM
… you told me how
I saw them in the morning going to school,
Tattering down the sallow sky of winter.
Now I know them well: I see them every mile
By flocks & companies in roadside fields
As I drive onwards through these snowcast days
To sit at your bed evoking them for you.
Bernard O’Donoghue
I saw them in the morning going to school,
Tattering down the sallow sky of winter.
Now I know them well: I see them every mile
By flocks & companies in roadside fields
As I drive onwards through these snowcast days
To sit at your bed evoking them for you.
Bernard O’Donoghue
My review of ‘The Poems of Seamus Heaney’ @ The Irish Post: ‘Heaney was affected by the dramatic events taking place around him which he viewed from a northern nationalist perspective,rooted in his upbringing in rural County Derry. This book is ‘a fitting testament to his life’s work.’
November 6, 2025 at 8:53 AM
My review of ‘The Poems of Seamus Heaney’ @ The Irish Post: ‘Heaney was affected by the dramatic events taking place around him which he viewed from a northern nationalist perspective,rooted in his upbringing in rural County Derry. This book is ‘a fitting testament to his life’s work.’
You are like
that crazy old clock
in Winthrop Street
whose hands wind
ever backwards.
If Death took you now,
he would find
a six-year-old boy
in his arms.
Gerry Murphy ‘The Clock’
that crazy old clock
in Winthrop Street
whose hands wind
ever backwards.
If Death took you now,
he would find
a six-year-old boy
in his arms.
Gerry Murphy ‘The Clock’
November 3, 2025 at 9:51 AM
You are like
that crazy old clock
in Winthrop Street
whose hands wind
ever backwards.
If Death took you now,
he would find
a six-year-old boy
in his arms.
Gerry Murphy ‘The Clock’
that crazy old clock
in Winthrop Street
whose hands wind
ever backwards.
If Death took you now,
he would find
a six-year-old boy
in his arms.
Gerry Murphy ‘The Clock’
The knifing wind shivers, but no tree rustles
No sedge whispers; only the numb rocks,
...
Around the shore, the breakers constantly rush
With snow-smash explosion & overhead
A slush of grey cloud is forever melting
And running to the edge of the sky.
Seamus Heaney ‘Aran’
No sedge whispers; only the numb rocks,
...
Around the shore, the breakers constantly rush
With snow-smash explosion & overhead
A slush of grey cloud is forever melting
And running to the edge of the sky.
Seamus Heaney ‘Aran’
October 27, 2025 at 11:27 AM
The knifing wind shivers, but no tree rustles
No sedge whispers; only the numb rocks,
...
Around the shore, the breakers constantly rush
With snow-smash explosion & overhead
A slush of grey cloud is forever melting
And running to the edge of the sky.
Seamus Heaney ‘Aran’
No sedge whispers; only the numb rocks,
...
Around the shore, the breakers constantly rush
With snow-smash explosion & overhead
A slush of grey cloud is forever melting
And running to the edge of the sky.
Seamus Heaney ‘Aran’
Under a gay flotilla of gulls
…
Brown bread and tea in bright canfuls
Are served for lunch. Dead-beat, they flop
Down in the ditch & take their fill,
Thankfully breaking timeless fasts;
Then, stretched on the faithless ground, spill
Libations of cold tea, scatter crusts.
Seamus Heaney #IrishPoetry
…
Brown bread and tea in bright canfuls
Are served for lunch. Dead-beat, they flop
Down in the ditch & take their fill,
Thankfully breaking timeless fasts;
Then, stretched on the faithless ground, spill
Libations of cold tea, scatter crusts.
Seamus Heaney #IrishPoetry
October 25, 2025 at 10:03 AM
Under a gay flotilla of gulls
…
Brown bread and tea in bright canfuls
Are served for lunch. Dead-beat, they flop
Down in the ditch & take their fill,
Thankfully breaking timeless fasts;
Then, stretched on the faithless ground, spill
Libations of cold tea, scatter crusts.
Seamus Heaney #IrishPoetry
…
Brown bread and tea in bright canfuls
Are served for lunch. Dead-beat, they flop
Down in the ditch & take their fill,
Thankfully breaking timeless fasts;
Then, stretched on the faithless ground, spill
Libations of cold tea, scatter crusts.
Seamus Heaney #IrishPoetry
Passion or conquest,wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W.B. #Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W.B. #Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
October 23, 2025 at 5:35 PM
Passion or conquest,wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W.B. #Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W.B. #Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
A poetic thought for this day. The ‘honey-bees’ in this case are Middle East negotiators. Wish them well
“We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare”
W.B. #Yeats
“We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare”
W.B. #Yeats
October 13, 2025 at 11:35 AM
A poetic thought for this day. The ‘honey-bees’ in this case are Middle East negotiators. Wish them well
“We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare”
W.B. #Yeats
“We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare”
W.B. #Yeats
Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;
…
So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you & me
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.
Seamus Heaney ‘Scaffolding’
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;
…
So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you & me
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.
Seamus Heaney ‘Scaffolding’
October 10, 2025 at 6:27 PM
Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;
…
So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you & me
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.
Seamus Heaney ‘Scaffolding’
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;
…
So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you & me
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.
Seamus Heaney ‘Scaffolding’
From breath to breath
from dusk to dusk
let there be rainfall
when the soil is parched as rock
let there be sunshine
when the barley bends to be cut
let there be rainbows
when the days are short of light
let there be wind
when our boats are turned for home.
Jane Clarke
from dusk to dusk
let there be rainfall
when the soil is parched as rock
let there be sunshine
when the barley bends to be cut
let there be rainbows
when the days are short of light
let there be wind
when our boats are turned for home.
Jane Clarke
October 4, 2025 at 8:51 PM
From breath to breath
from dusk to dusk
let there be rainfall
when the soil is parched as rock
let there be sunshine
when the barley bends to be cut
let there be rainbows
when the days are short of light
let there be wind
when our boats are turned for home.
Jane Clarke
from dusk to dusk
let there be rainfall
when the soil is parched as rock
let there be sunshine
when the barley bends to be cut
let there be rainbows
when the days are short of light
let there be wind
when our boats are turned for home.
Jane Clarke
Behold this box of jumbled varicoloured lives
I once held daily office with; each a repository
for an imagined soul I would heap into piles
of the damned and the saved. I watched them
suffer many deaths, many resurrections.
Not all were assigned the daydreamt saga
of a hero …
Patrick Cotter
I once held daily office with; each a repository
for an imagined soul I would heap into piles
of the damned and the saved. I watched them
suffer many deaths, many resurrections.
Not all were assigned the daydreamt saga
of a hero …
Patrick Cotter
September 29, 2025 at 4:41 PM
Behold this box of jumbled varicoloured lives
I once held daily office with; each a repository
for an imagined soul I would heap into piles
of the damned and the saved. I watched them
suffer many deaths, many resurrections.
Not all were assigned the daydreamt saga
of a hero …
Patrick Cotter
I once held daily office with; each a repository
for an imagined soul I would heap into piles
of the damned and the saved. I watched them
suffer many deaths, many resurrections.
Not all were assigned the daydreamt saga
of a hero …
Patrick Cotter
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
W.B. Yeats
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
W.B. Yeats
September 24, 2025 at 7:01 AM
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
W.B. Yeats
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
W.B. Yeats
When I come to mind
don’t recall how, feisty,
I knocked nests of words
over the edge,
splattering on the rocks
to the crude squawks of other
ravaging, wing-elbowing birds;
rather think of the winged poems
I hatched, seen,
regardless of time & place,
gliding & gyring
with their own grace
Greg Delanty
don’t recall how, feisty,
I knocked nests of words
over the edge,
splattering on the rocks
to the crude squawks of other
ravaging, wing-elbowing birds;
rather think of the winged poems
I hatched, seen,
regardless of time & place,
gliding & gyring
with their own grace
Greg Delanty
September 23, 2025 at 7:01 AM
When I come to mind
don’t recall how, feisty,
I knocked nests of words
over the edge,
splattering on the rocks
to the crude squawks of other
ravaging, wing-elbowing birds;
rather think of the winged poems
I hatched, seen,
regardless of time & place,
gliding & gyring
with their own grace
Greg Delanty
don’t recall how, feisty,
I knocked nests of words
over the edge,
splattering on the rocks
to the crude squawks of other
ravaging, wing-elbowing birds;
rather think of the winged poems
I hatched, seen,
regardless of time & place,
gliding & gyring
with their own grace
Greg Delanty
Against her choice, I still affirm
That nothing dies, that even from
Such bitter failure memory grows;
The snowflake’s structure, fragile
But intricate as the rose when
Snow curls in on the cold wind.
John Montague
That nothing dies, that even from
Such bitter failure memory grows;
The snowflake’s structure, fragile
But intricate as the rose when
Snow curls in on the cold wind.
John Montague
September 22, 2025 at 8:29 AM
Against her choice, I still affirm
That nothing dies, that even from
Such bitter failure memory grows;
The snowflake’s structure, fragile
But intricate as the rose when
Snow curls in on the cold wind.
John Montague
That nothing dies, that even from
Such bitter failure memory grows;
The snowflake’s structure, fragile
But intricate as the rose when
Snow curls in on the cold wind.
John Montague
The nights midweek are secrets kept.
No soul on site,no signal/bars,
and zilch for company except
a zillion bright disarming stars.
I’ll flit through ambers,quicker, higher.
I’ll break each hamlet’s Stop & Yield.
I’ll fix some noodles, start a fire
& climb up to the topmost field.
Conor O’Callaghan
No soul on site,no signal/bars,
and zilch for company except
a zillion bright disarming stars.
I’ll flit through ambers,quicker, higher.
I’ll break each hamlet’s Stop & Yield.
I’ll fix some noodles, start a fire
& climb up to the topmost field.
Conor O’Callaghan
September 17, 2025 at 8:46 AM
The nights midweek are secrets kept.
No soul on site,no signal/bars,
and zilch for company except
a zillion bright disarming stars.
I’ll flit through ambers,quicker, higher.
I’ll break each hamlet’s Stop & Yield.
I’ll fix some noodles, start a fire
& climb up to the topmost field.
Conor O’Callaghan
No soul on site,no signal/bars,
and zilch for company except
a zillion bright disarming stars.
I’ll flit through ambers,quicker, higher.
I’ll break each hamlet’s Stop & Yield.
I’ll fix some noodles, start a fire
& climb up to the topmost field.
Conor O’Callaghan
His oil-wrinkled hands tug
the engine cord,
coaxing our boat
out of the cliff-shaded cove.
We withdraw
into the distance,
leaving a disgruntling sense
that we’ve only touched the tip
of these dark icebergs.
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
the engine cord,
coaxing our boat
out of the cliff-shaded cove.
We withdraw
into the distance,
leaving a disgruntling sense
that we’ve only touched the tip
of these dark icebergs.
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
September 16, 2025 at 8:31 PM
His oil-wrinkled hands tug
the engine cord,
coaxing our boat
out of the cliff-shaded cove.
We withdraw
into the distance,
leaving a disgruntling sense
that we’ve only touched the tip
of these dark icebergs.
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
the engine cord,
coaxing our boat
out of the cliff-shaded cove.
We withdraw
into the distance,
leaving a disgruntling sense
that we’ve only touched the tip
of these dark icebergs.
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
In cabin
and field, they still
speak the old tongue.
You may greet no one.
To grow
a second tongue, as
harsh a humiliation
as to be twice born.
Decades later
that child’s grandchild’s
speech stumbles over lost
syllables of an old order.
John Montague ‘A Grafted Tongue’
and field, they still
speak the old tongue.
You may greet no one.
To grow
a second tongue, as
harsh a humiliation
as to be twice born.
Decades later
that child’s grandchild’s
speech stumbles over lost
syllables of an old order.
John Montague ‘A Grafted Tongue’
September 12, 2025 at 12:54 PM
In cabin
and field, they still
speak the old tongue.
You may greet no one.
To grow
a second tongue, as
harsh a humiliation
as to be twice born.
Decades later
that child’s grandchild’s
speech stumbles over lost
syllables of an old order.
John Montague ‘A Grafted Tongue’
and field, they still
speak the old tongue.
You may greet no one.
To grow
a second tongue, as
harsh a humiliation
as to be twice born.
Decades later
that child’s grandchild’s
speech stumbles over lost
syllables of an old order.
John Montague ‘A Grafted Tongue’
The West a fiery complex, the East a pearl,
We gave our frail skiff to the slow-moving stream,
Ruffling the waters. And steadied on a seam
Of calm & current.
Together, both as one,
We lifted our dripping blades in the dying light
And thrust ourselves forward …
Thomas Kinsella ‘Downstream’
We gave our frail skiff to the slow-moving stream,
Ruffling the waters. And steadied on a seam
Of calm & current.
Together, both as one,
We lifted our dripping blades in the dying light
And thrust ourselves forward …
Thomas Kinsella ‘Downstream’
September 11, 2025 at 8:15 AM
The West a fiery complex, the East a pearl,
We gave our frail skiff to the slow-moving stream,
Ruffling the waters. And steadied on a seam
Of calm & current.
Together, both as one,
We lifted our dripping blades in the dying light
And thrust ourselves forward …
Thomas Kinsella ‘Downstream’
We gave our frail skiff to the slow-moving stream,
Ruffling the waters. And steadied on a seam
Of calm & current.
Together, both as one,
We lifted our dripping blades in the dying light
And thrust ourselves forward …
Thomas Kinsella ‘Downstream’