Happy
St. Patty’s Day! Before you start with the wearing of the green and the
Erin go Bragh-less and all that, let’s take a minute to remember that
Ireland has given us more than Guinness; Ireland has given us great
words. May the good Lord bless you with fine drink, good music, and
great company on this day and all the days of this fair life. Slainte!
Black ’47: An Gorta Mór
By Annmarie Lockhart
Shiver of black
crept across the sky
one side up and back
before crawling in and
turning my stomach
the morning I noticed
the potato took sick.
Slick mess of black
like the miscarried
babes of desiccated
mothers, unholy clots
dropped with no rite in
desecrated ground where
nothing grew but sick.
Bloody blade of the black
swept o’er the green, the
pocketed profit stole by
the law writ large and
the lords fed fat off blood
money traded in souls
of a people starved sick.
Left in black shadow behind
the bled-out exodus, we
stayed, offering penance
sowing export grain to keep
the lords fat and burying
the killed fruit of a land
gone to seed and worn to sick.
Wow! I’ve never seen anyone tackle the potato famine in modern poetry! You go 🙂
Annmarie, the breadth of your work is amazing! I am in awe of you.
Strong, strong, strong! Especially –
“Slick mess of black
like the miscarried
babes of desiccated
mothers, unholy clots
dropped with no rite in
desecrated ground where
nothing grew but sick.”
Makes my stomach ache!
You are a superstar.
You have an amazing voice. This is heartfelt and quite quite the visual.