This Deluge of Words

By Michael Durack

Michael Durack’s humanity and generosity of spirit are evident in all his poems, leaving the reader nodding in agreement, often with a broad smile. He acknowledges that poetry need not always be serious, but he treats every theme with characteristic compassion. - Fiona Clark-Echlin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215030509

Michael Durack

Michael Durack was born on a farm near Birdhill, Co. Tipperary. He was educated at Nenagh CBS and UCD and worked as a teacher for 36 years. His work has been published in journals such as The Blue Nib, Skylight 47, The Cafe Review, The Stony Thursday Book and Poetry Ireland Review as well as airing on local and national radio. With his brother, Austin, he collaborates on a programme of poetry and guitar music, and they have produced two albums, The Secret Chord and Going Gone. His memoir in prose and poems, Saved to Memory: Lost to View, was issued in 2016, and in September 2017 his first poetry collection, Where It Began, was published by Revival Press. Michael now lives in Ballina, Co. Tipperary

Book preview

On Touknockane

On Touknockane I struck a match

under a grove of rampant furze

to feel a primal force unloose,

to hear the scratch and rasp and crackle,

to breathe the perfumed woodburn scent

and watch the flaring flaming waves,

smoke plumes billowing in the sultry air

towards Pedlar’s Hill and Annaholty,

to sense an adult electricity

pulsing through the fingers of a boy.

Today what’s left of Touknockane

is quarried lake and wilderness,

a colony of resurgent furze

all match-less green and blazing gold

above a roaring motorway.

Interior Design

My parents must have flipped and engaged

a museum curator or a Belgian surrealist,

the kitchen a dead zoo of body parts:

the heads of otter, rabbit and hare

mounted on wooden plaques above the door;

flitches of bacon dangling from the ceiling;

wearing his thorny heart outside his shirt,

a bearded Saviour watching over us.

Along came the rural electrification;

the gleaming light bulb banished the shadows.

In lieu of taxidermy a new divine trinity

of solemn Pope and two smiling Kennedys.

Facing the Sobell black and white TV

we worshipped the rock gods, Stones, Bee Gees

and Beatles, especially John and Paul,

their flowing locks like Jesus’s on the wall.

Hard Hands

On his deathbed my father remarked upon

the hardness of my hands enclosing his,

repeating the mantra, Your old hard hands,

still baffled that a life of pen pushing

had failed to plane the coarseness out of them.

Today he’s nineteen years in the grave

and I contemplate the still unyielding hands

bequeathed to me by farming forebears,

Duracks and Guerins, Clearys and Gildeas

who milked the cows and followed the plough,

and from the maternal limb of our genetic tree

tradesmen and herdsmen, Moroneys and Hayeses.

Raised a middle child of three, all sons:

the youngest coarse-palmed like myself,

having been a farmer all his life;

the eldest with calloused fingertips

from countless years caressing a guitar;

the stiff handshakes with which we greet the world

belie (we hope) the softness of our hearts.

The Music Of Milking

Milking the cows in that draughty barn

hands, teats and bucket

contrived to make music.

The discordant staccato of the tune-up notes

as jets strafed the empty galvanised pail.

Then between adagio and allegro

liquid on liquid as the milk accumulated.

And finally the legato sostenuto

of white rain drenching rich froth.

Cow and boy in warm harmony when

like Kavanagh’s mother outside in the cow-house

I made the music of milking.

The Boxers Of Our Childhood

The boxers of our childhood were not real,

not blood, not sweat, not bones, not flesh.

They lived in newsprint, they filled the pages

of Ring Magazine and Boxing News.

They were statistics: to each his catalogue

of venues, opponents, results, categorized

as won or lost, points, ko, rsf.

They