What poem from your Junior / Leaving / school days stuck with you, even if you didn’t like poetry? Found some old school books recently. For me it was this poem by Paddy Bushe. We never studied it, but I still remember reading it and the feeling it gave me.

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  2. “Let us go then, you and I,

    When the evening is spread out against the sky

    Like a patient etherized upon a table;

    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

    The muttering retreats

    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

    Streets that follow like a tedious argument

    Of insidious intent

    To lead you to an overwhelming question …

    Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

    Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go

    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

    And seeing that it was a soft October night,

    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time

    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

    There will be time, there will be time

    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

    There will be time to murder and create,

    And time for all the works and days of hands

    That lift and drop a question on your plate;

    Time for you and time for me,

    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

    And for a hundred visions and revisions,

    Before the taking of a toast and tea.”

    ​

    The feelings of existential dread this instilled in 14 year-old me.

    *the whole poem is too long for Reddit in one post

  4. The shovel by Seamus Heany.

    It reflects beautifully on the nature of father-son relationships and how you parents pass down peices of themselves to you through such simple but masterful metaphors.

  5. “Dulce et Decorum est” by Wilfred Owen is one I’ve never been able to forget about, though might be because my English teacher *really* liked it.

  6. The Early Purges by Seamus Heaney.

    Having read poems in Leaving Cert which I would have memorized off by heart at the time, I can’t really remember any of these now, yet I still remember The Early Purges from Junior Cert. Give it a read online and you will see why.

  8. When I was around 8 years old we were given a poetry book to read at school, this was my favourite;

    By Stevie Smith

    Nobody heard him, the dead man,
    But still he lay moaning:
    I was much further out than you thought
    And not waving but drowning.

    Poor chap, he always loved larking
    And now he’s dead
    It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
    They said.

    Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
    (Still the dead one lay moaning)
    I was much too far out all my life
    And not waving but drowning.

  12. After Apple Picking by Robert Frost was one that has stayed with me for years and years.

    It’s probably one of my favourites even today. There’s something very surreal and melancholic about it, and I get something from it every time I read it.

    I’d also recommend Antarctica by Derek Mahon. It’s particularly haunting, given the subject matter.

  13. Strawberries by Edwin Morgan. I went to an all boys school and while I am a heterosexual male, a big “reveal” of this poem is its about two men.

    It really kinda hit home and really nails the feels.

    There were never strawberries
    like the ones we had
    that sultry afternoon
    sitting on the step
    of the open french window
    facing each other
    your knees held in mine
    the blue plates in our laps
    the strawberries glistening
    in the hot sunlight
    we dipped them in sugar
    looking at each other
    not hurrying the feast
    for one to come
    the empty plates
    laid on the stone together
    with the two forks crossed
    and I bent towards you
    sweet in that air
    in my arms
    abandoned like a child
    from your eager mouth
    the taste of strawberries
    in my memory
    lean back again
    let me love you

    let the sun beat
    on our forgetfulness
    one hour of all
    the heat intense
    and summer lightning
    on the Kilpatrick hills

    let the storm wash the plates

  14. Once bitten twice shy by I think Heaney and The Road not Taken by Frost, the latter really stuck with me over the years

    Edit: big thanks to all the other commenters, not the biggest fan of poetry to be honest but that’s my evening sorted now, hot whiskey, smoke and some poetry ☺️

  17. This one (which I have conflated in my mind with another, Tháinig long ó Valparaiso). Edit: Hm, is this poem actually about discovering you’re gay?

    ​

    ROMANCE

    Walter J Turner

    ​

    When I was but thirteen or so

    I went into a golden land,

    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

    Took me by the hand.

    ​

    My father died, my brother too,

    They passed like fleeting dreams,

    I stood where Popocatapetl

    In the sunlight gleams.

    ​

    I dimly heard the master’s voice

    And boys far-off at play,

    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

    Had stolen me away.

    ​

    I walked in a great golden dream

    To and fro from school–

    Shining Popocatapetl

    The dusty streets did rule.

    ​

    I walked home with a gold dark boy,

    And never a word I’d say,

    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

    Had taken my speech away:

    ​

    I gazed entranced upon his face

    Fairer than any flower–

    O shining Popocatapetl

    It was thy magic hour:

    ​

    The houses, people, traffic seemed

    Thin fading dreams by day,

    Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

    They had stolen my soul away!

  18. Paul Durcans poems.

    Poems like Nessa,
    Sport,
    the difficulty that is marriage,
    and my personal favourite Father’s Day, 21 June 1992.

    They explore relationships in such a human and humble way and I find myself coming back to them quite often.

  19. But you didn’t by Merill Glass, such a simple little one that stuck with me. That and the Listeners by Walter De La Mare.

  20. Epic by Patrick Kavanagh. It was the first poem I actually got, in that I understood what the poet meant, and it was relatable

  21. Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen and the Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.
    Both v relevant to me, given I chose a career in healthcare.

  23. Not the entire poem but just a line from ‘Nil aon ni’ by Cathal O Searcaigh.

    One of the lines is
    “ná radharc níos aoibhne ná buicéad stáin na spéire ag sileadh solais ar Inis Bó Finne”

    Which translates as “no nicer sight than the tin bucket of the sky pouring light onto Inis Bó Finne”

    Whenever I see rays of sunshine coming down through clouds my brain automatically says “Ah the steel bucket of the sky”.(somehow changed it from tin)

  25. Always loved “Faoiseamh a Gheobhadsa” by Máirtín Ó Díreáin. “September 1913” by WB Yeats is another great one.

  26. The Stolen Child by WB Yeats.

    “Come Away, human child
    To the waters and the wild.
    With a faery, hand in hand
    For the world’s more full of weeping
    Than you can understand”

    A beautiful poem about sudden infant death.

  27. Not poetry, but I remember we did a book about two Irish lads who go to war and one becomes an officer who has to put the firing squad on the other lad, who was just a private. Can’t remember the name and it’s only been a few years since I finished school! Pretty sure we did it at the start of 5th year

  29. Timothy Winters comes to school,

    With eyes as wide as a football pOOl,

    Hair like bombs and teeth like splinters,

    A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters.

  30. That poem called “let me die a young man’s death” that ended with the line-

    “Or when I’m 104
    and banned from the Cavern
    may my mistress
    catching me in bed with her daughter
    and fearing for her son
    cut me up into little pieces
    and throw away every piece but one”

    It’s worth thinking about that, it defo wouldn’t fly in 2022.

  31. Whitey on the Moon. By Gil Scott-Heron

    I never studied it in school but I heard it for the first time back then and it’s still as relevant and powerful today.

    A rat done bit my sister Nell.
    (with Whitey on the moon)
    Her face and arms began to swell.
    (and Whitey’s on the moon)

    I can’t pay no doctor bill.
    (but Whitey’s on the moon)
    Ten years from now I’ll be payin’ still.
    (while Whitey’s on the moon)

    The man jus’ upped my rent las’ night.
    (’cause Whitey’s on the moon)
    No hot water, no toilets, no lights.
    (but Whitey’s on the moon)

    I wonder why he’s uppi’ me?
    (’cause Whitey’s on the moon?)
    I was already payin’ ‘im fifty a week.
    (with Whitey on the moon)
    Taxes takin’ my whole damn check,
    Junkies makin’ me a nervous wreck,
    The price of food is goin’ up,
    An’ as if all that shit wasn’t enough

    A rat done bit my sister Nell.
    (with Whitey on the moon)
    Her face an’ arm began to swell.
    (but Whitey’s on the moon)

    Was all that money I made las’ year
    (for Whitey on the moon?)
    How come there ain’t no money here?
    (Hm! Whitey’s on the moon)
    Y’know I jus’ ’bout had my fill
    (of Whitey on the moon)
    I think I’ll sen’ these doctor bills,
    Airmail special
    (to Whitey on the moon)

  32. I caught a tremendous fish….and I let the fish go.

    Or.

    I get down on my knees and do what must be done.
    And kiss Achilles hand, the killer of my son.

  33. Junior Cert “Daffodils” by Wordsworth

    Leaving Cert “September 1916” by Yeats

    “Faoileán” le Michael Davitt

  34. Subh Milis. Thought it was crap at the time but it keeps coming back and punching me in the feelsack now I have children growing up too fast

  35. Don’t have much time for Yeats in general, (abnoxious tool) but the second coming kinda stuck with me all these years.

  36. I once drank a lot of mezcal and thought it would be a good idea to recite Antartica by Derek Mahon at an open mic night in Oaxaca, Mexico. So I guess it stuck with me.

  38. We learned the Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, and there was a lot of sniggering in the classroom at the lines:

    The Highwayman came riding, riding, riding
    The highwayman came riding up to the old inn-door

    One poem that was always a favorite of mine was “Hungry Grass” by Donagh MacDonagh. Hungry grass is a place where a famine victim starved to death by the side of the road, and the patch of grass became haunted. If you set foot on it, you will suddenly feel the weakness and starvation of the victim, and you will die unless you can drag yourself out of it.

    Crossing the shallow holdings high above the sea
    Where few birds nest, the luckless foot may pass
    From the bright safety of experience
    Into the terror of the hungry grass.

    Here in a year when poison from the air
    First withered in despair the growth of spring
    Some skull-faced wretch whom nettle could not save
    Crept on four bones to his last scattering:

    Crept, and the shriveled heart that drove his thought
    Towards platters brought in hospitality
    Burst as the caverned eyes measured the miles
    Like dizzy walls forbidding him the city.

    Little the earth took back from that poor body
    And yet, remembering him, the place has grown
    Bewitched, and the thin grass he nourishes
    Racks with his famine, sucks marrow from the bone.

    There is another poem by the same poet called “Dublin made me.” It starts off:

    Dublin made me and no little town
    With the country closing in on its streets
    The cattle walking proudly on its pavements
    The liars, the gombeen men and the cheats…

    He spends the whole poem taking the piss out of rural Ireland instead of saying anything about Dublin. It was a fun poem.

  40. I don’t remember what ones I did for the Junior but I remember the first poem we read in first year, Seamus Heaney’s mid-term break. So sad, even though I was only 12 when I read it it always stuck with me.

  41. The Listeners by Walter de la Mare, Raitlin Island and A Disused Shed in County Wexford by Derek Mahon, Stony Grey Soil by Kavanagh.

  42. Mirror in February by Thomas Kinsella. Dealing with getting old, the oxymoron of a crumbling place of growth has stuck me as I get older (only 28) but I see it with my own father who is slowing down and yet still growing a beard. Even though I don’t talk to my father I still think of him as he gets older.

    The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,
    Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
    Under the fading lamp, half dressed – my brain
    Idling on some compulsive fantasy –
    I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
    Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
    A dry downturning mouth.

    It seems again that it is time to learn,
    In this untiring, crumbling place of growth
    To which, for the time being, I return.
    Now plainly in the mirror of my soul
    I read that I have looked my last on youth
    And little more; for they are not made whole
    That reach the age of Christ.

    Below my window the wakening trees,
    Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
    Suffering their brute necessities;
    And how should the flesh not quail, that span for span
    Is mutilated more? In slow distaste
    I fold my towel with what grace I can,
    Not young, and not renewable, but man.

  43. The bicycles go by in twos and threes –

    There’s a dance in Billy Brennan’s barn to-night,

    And there’s the half-talk code of mysteries

    And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.

    Half-past eight and there is not a spot

    Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown

    That might turn out a man or woman, not

    A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.

    I have what every poet hates in spite

    Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.

    Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight

    Of being king and government and nation.

    A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king

    Of banks and stones and every blooming thing

    Patrick Kavanagh

  45. > poor old brown is dead and gone, his face we’ll see no more.
    > for what he thought was h2o, was h2so4

    I also liked two roads diverged and a ramble in Saint James Park.

  47. But death replied: “I choose him.” So he went,
    And there was silence in the summer night;

    WW1 poem, Siegfried Sassoon, The Death-Bed.

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