The Exquisiteness of Ladders

By Declan Furlong

“Declan Furlong’s themes are very strong, individual and unique, driven by an innate honesty. They are in fact, great drivers of the poems. Many of the themes are universal and will strike a chord of sympathy and empathy with their readers. They show an enormous depth of feeling. The poems of loss and of death are very sadly memorable in their heartbreak.” – Ann Egan, Poet and Editor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215472699

Declan Furlong

Declan Furlong is a native of Mountmellick, Co. Laois. Following time spent in the ‘80s and ’90s living in London, Malaga, and Bordeaux, he returned home with a body of work which has since evolved beyond the autobiographical. His poetry is informed by the characters he encountered, the magic of the seemingly mundane, and the natural environment of his native place.Declan’s work has been published in Laois Anthology (1999 and 2010 editions), Static Poetry and Outburst Magazine. He has hosted and participated in spoken word showcases and Culture Night events. A keen attendee at Listowel Writers’ Week, this is Declan’s first collection.

Book preview

Spent years blagging, bluffing, doubting –

mumbling my way through floury verbs –

trickery, assonance, dissonance –

disassociated from original thought: terrified!

Always waiting for the gifted to nod their disapproval.

One head shake away from the bubble burst –

until, finally, a whisper.

"Mine is the noise your pen makes

When it’s NOT telling lies.

Play loose with tight rhythm.

Scrabble, intone, linger a while,

then leave the lyric sink.

Distance splits the essence from the froth.

In time you must return,

for I sit, silent on the page,

perhaps just minor word-flips from the highest note.

Exercise your chords.

One’s trash is another man’s treasure.

Trust – Set free – Sing!"

Part 1

My Stretch Of Owenass

Two kingfishers blue-bullet by.

A flash beneath my Bridge of Sighs.

I head upstream.

In this Amazon where otters jest,

giant boulders rest;

black, slippy, dressed with skirts of moss.

Yellowhammers dart past wagtails.

Dippers cross from bank to bank.

Lank grasses shield sandpipers’ nests.

Great, gutsy wrens scour plants for pests.

Around the bend a heron waits.

His stock-still, solitary state

bamboozled by my skimming stones,

thrown just as much to hear him squawk

as save the brown trout.

I wade beneath three low-boughed, broad leaf trees,

slow water gently slapping at my knees.

All about me,

plucky swallows cut the air,

pick mayfly off with carefree skill,

and for a moment I stand still,

just long enough to hear among my throng,

sweet cries announcing, Tarzan, you belong!

Dog Days In Derrycloney

for Grouse

Seven years of age, one Sunday morning,

off to early mass, I met you,

crawling from the darkness of the turf shed.

With trembling legs, your belly curled up clay.

Reaching me, took my breath away

and I nearly broke your neck with love.

As we both grew up, you became so gentle.

I recall you, red-eyed, dozing by the nettles,

the ducks savaging your food.

That said, you hunted heavy from the first.

Fourteen years couldn’t quench your thirst

for the gun or for the pheasant.

Blessed with a nose! I heard dad say.

You knew it too; knew that on your day

you were wild scent and wind itself.

Steady girl – steady."

Man To Man Talk

Dad-eee.

Wha-hee.

If I was going to die I’d shoot you and mammy.

Why would you go and do that?

Because then, you wouldn’t have to live without me.

"If I was dying would you want me to shoot