Steering By The Stars

By Matt Mooney

To borrow a line from the author, here is a book "where dreams are born again". Mooney is clear-eyed, exact and precise in evoking the places where he has been gifted with insight, in recalling the people, who have so evidently made his a rich and treasured life. He knows, and the poems show it out clearly, shining with inner light, that we live in this mysterious, terrible and beautiful world in the company of each other, that we "enjoy the fruits of earth” in a common celebration. To mark down his gratitude in these poems is both to acknowledge the gifts he has been given and to share them with us in a most generous gesture. The late, great, Michael Hartnett once challenged Mooney with "are you a poet?” STEERING WITH THE STARS offers the question answered. — Theo Dorgan

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: May 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005088071

Matt Mooney

Matt Mooney was born, a farmer’s son, in Kilchreest, South Galway in 1943. He later settled in Listowel, Co Kerry, where he has lived for many years. A graduate of UCG and a post graduate of UCC, Mooney was a vocational teacher in Listowel until his retirement in 2002. Steering by the Stars is Mooney’s fifth collection. His first - Droving was published in 2003, followed by Falling Apples (2010), Earth to Earth (2015) and The Singing Woods (2017).

Book preview

High tailing it in high doh

half trotting it to Glenine

on the crooked cow track

up through Larry's fields

leachtáin along the route

rutted through sheep gaps

barefoot bonded siblings

straight after hay making

to the Roxboro river bend

for a quick dip to cool off

in pools we knew so well

drying out without towels

by a simple helter skelter

up a hill racing to the top

light breezes in our faces

tumbling back intoxicated.

Nomads

Nomad caravans plod on

in the hourglass trap

of unrelenting heat

on unceasing pilgrimages

with their flocks

across the Sinai Desert,

without signposts,

setting their sights

by sun, moon and stars,

low winds erasing

footprints in white sand,

nothing left behind

for anyone to follow

but against the odds

they survive, to arrive

through milestone dunes

or Mount Sinai's crags

with their healing flora

and pitch their tents

to eat and drink

Bedouin daily bread

on ice cold nights

where waiting waters

flow for the weary

camels, sheep and goats

- all that they possess.

Second Hand Dreams

Focused, without even looking

at us, the waiting lone wolves,

the agent steps out of a BMW

fumbling with a bunch of keys,

finds the one to open up at last

and out of the corner of an eye

you take stock of other viewers,

your likely bidding competition

and you quietly curse your luck

as they saunter up with purpose

at the only time of open viewing

for this three bed house for sale

standing in the Village of Rialto.

Once your name is cross checked

you can roam around this home,

someone else's castle of dreams

under your feet about to be sold;

upstairs, downstairs, out the back,

in the silent hunt of the city pack

driven by the urgent need to flee

being fleeced by greedy rent hikes.

Northside, Southside, City Centre,

apartments all sizes, high and low,

a houseboat on the water looked at,

a last chance Noah's Ark solution,

in the ordinary layman's scheming

to own a home with a bed to lie on.

The Girl on her Bike

As we pedaled