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Poems and Limericks by Mike Crowley 80 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-2096; ISBN 1-4120-1719-X; US$13.50, C$15.37, EUR11.00, £8.00 You can reckon on God and the Devil, but here's what happens when you court The Muses.
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about the book
about the author
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About the Book
The poems are very varied covering a wide range of themes such as seasons, weather, erotica, emotions. They represent a cocktail of facts and fiction, of a reality inspiring the writer to manipulate the subject in a poetic manner.
The subject matter of the limericks is pure fantasy, the aim being to select words, (not necessarily related to the subject) but suitable to compose a perfect rhyming.
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About the Author
Mike Crowley was born in 1941 in Cork City. He lived in Dublin, Frankfurt, Perugia and Rome. Later he returned to Frankfurt, where he lives today. His frequent visits to Ireland have kept him in touch with the oul' country, a feature very prominent in his limericks.
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Sample Excerpts
INTRODUCTION
When I finally had to sit down and write this
introduction, the manuscript was already all set for
printing. However, it was with mixed feelings that I
went about the work for, on the one hand here was
my work about to be published - something every
writer should be happy about -, but on the other
hand this also meant that my poems were now no
longer private; my thoughts and ideas were now
going to be offered in the open market-place. If
anybody had ventured to foretell, even as recently as
one or two years ago, that I'd soon get the chance of
publishing my poems, I would certainly have passed
it off as a somewhat exaggerated joke, probably
remarking that he or she was a bad clairvoyant.
When I began writing poetry some years ago,
it was certainly not with the intension of becoming a
poet, much less of having my poems published some
day. It was not as if I had deliberated on the matter
for some time and then suddenly one fine morning
waking up, decided there and then, from now on I'm
going to write poetry. In fact the whole idea was a
kind of accidental. At some stage or other I
somehow got the feeling that a certain person,
object, occasion or event so impressed me that I
wanted to retain the impression of the experience
just as you might note down some special event in a
diary. But this experience did not just call for a
simple noting down of the facts. Rather did it urge
me to be creative about my wording of the
experience and here - much to my own
amazement - the experience itself seemed to supply
the words and the rhyme of what I was writing.
And just as a writer or painter carries a notebook or
sketchpad to capture the occasion, I too had a
notebook and pencil in my pocket to jot down any
useful thoughts. As my senses livened to my new
discovery, my sense of perception widened and
poetic creativity seemed to flow freely from my pen.
Poetry, I'm sure we all agree, is perhaps the
only subject that does not fair well at school. Apart
from the fact that children have to memorize long
lines of poetry, they seem too to realize that poetry
has little or no value for their future lives. While this
is indeed mostly the case and accepting the fact that
quite a lot of our day is taken up with work, there is
also much more to living other than the job. Just as
we in adult life enjoy music and art etc., so too can
poetry contribute to our enjoyment and help enrich
our everyday life. But the school child is not yet of
course conscious of this and knows only of the
ordeal of having to learn off lines of poetry by heart.
Of course not all children think like this. Many in
fact love poetry, especially those poems that rhyme
well. Many even try rhyming themselves. But for the
majority of children the poetry book is closed when
they leave school and unfortunately seldom
reopened later. While poetry is known among all
peoples, the environment one comes from has a very
great and vital influence on the sort of poetry one
writes with this background and environment most
prominently reflected in the poet's works. People
living in mountainous districts tend to write about
mountains, while those living along the coast write
about the sea, and then you have the Bedouins
writing about the sandy desert. I too haven't been
spared from such an influence. Indeed I must admit
that the natural, rugged beauty of Ireland together
with its rich Celtic/Gaelic lore and remote
countryside have found a place in the making of my
poems. Here I think Woodsworth would agree
...a poet could not but be gay in such a joked
company.
With all that stimulation and my love of
poetry at school, far too many years were to elapse
before I tried my hand at writing poetry. Like I
already said, the poems were not written for
publication, although I did show some of them to
people I know, and here I think I should add that it
was at the urging of these people with questions like
'well, Mike, when are we going to see your poems
in book form?' or 'why don't you get your poems
printed, Mike?' that I decided to go out and look for
a publisher. However for me writing poetry remains
a pastime, a form of relaxation. I write for myself in
the way I see the world using the tools of words and
fantasy; all only a game of words.
The poems are written mostly in freestyle
covering a great variety of themes such as weather,
seasons, fantasy, love, erotic etc. Though the sonnet,
villanelle etc. - also represented in this book - with
their set rules can to a certain extent make poetry
writing easy, I prefer freestyle where, like the
abstract painter, I'm not bound by rules and so can
give my fantasy free rein.
The following famous and exalting words of
Longfellow
Lives of great men all remind us
we can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
footprints on the sands of time.
have haunted me all my life and I suppose this slim
volume is the result of it. It is divided in two parts.
In part one the poems are presented and grouped
together according to theme, as far as this was
possible. In part two the limericks are in no selected
order. I know you will like and enjoy this slim
volume. Thank you for buying my book.
MC
Frankfurt 2003
West Cove
With the canvas bag in his hand,
we left the house and walked
over soft evening grass
to the road.
Turning right we went wessht,
then south to Westcove pier, Gog*
sending clouds of smoke from his pipe
into the Kerry evening.
Is the house still there? Who knows!
And the housheen over the bay?
Ah! Just the spot for a bard where
the rook's raucous call
greets Aurora, and the goddess,
gently touching the small window sends
a long shaft of light across the ceiling.
Up poet, up, sing praises to the dawn and
with sharp nib fill the blank sheet
with verses in black ink, while
children, still cuddling in sleep
dream of fairies.
With the bag full of fish,
all for two shillings,
Gog and I twilighted home.
Tomorrow there'll be fish for breakfast.
*nickname for my grandfather
March
Welcome march third month of the year
with lengthening days and soft rain.
Farewell snow and frost,
you're no loss.
Birds with joyful song at dawn
herald in the newborn day.
Nature feels no loss.
Winter's past.
The time of year when poets
awake from winter's slumber
to paint in verse with pen and ink
the same recurring wonder.
And see, the grass begins to green,
a new awakening in the air.
A something that you cannot touch,
but feel its feeling all the same.
Catalogue Information
