Poem of the Week: Paddy Keenan, Piper

Look! No hands no fingers nor any thumb
just breath, magic of the trade, now passed
through the bones and veins of the piper's ear
as he listens to the love of strife, of sorrow,
of father, son, of mothers, daughters who can
hear the cry of the dead living in the reeds
and can touch the pull, the push of life forcing
itself to say who it is I am, when it was
I will be, who will close my eyes, my mouth,
clean my feet and boots, pare my nails, making
my way on Shank's mare over every stile, inch
and island, the Blue Stacks of Donegal,
at home, letting me go on as I cling, cling
to the caw of gulls like nightingales
missing home, making strange, a child again,
playing for the pleasure of my people, the Keenans
who knew what they are born for, if they choose so,
laughing for the sake of crying pearls of pain,
all hands all fingers thumbs, the breath of magic
passed through my bones and veins, ache of all sorrow.
For Catherine

Frank McGuinness is a playwright, poet and novelist. His most recent collection of poems is The River Crana (Gallery Press, 2025)