Friday, 16 November 2012

The Stranger

We spied her in the Local
on Sunday morning cool,
Forty heads did swivel
as she graced the swivel stool.
She ordered West Coast Cooler
and moistened wine-red lips,
We traced the flimsy gingham
from her neckline to her hips.
She filled the fitted Levi’s
of perfect powder blue
And tossed blonde hair, she didn’t care
for blokes like me and you.
With dazzling film-star smile
she asked Paddy for a light,
The way she kissed that cigarette
was a rare disturbing sight.
The aisle from bar to ladies room
became a model’s ramp,
When she swayed in that direction
watched by every scamp.
She straddled lucky stool again
and ordered one more drink,
A sidelong glance, a sneaky look,
watched every sipful sink.
She paid her way with twenty
from a gold abundant purse,
And when she headed for that door
forty men did curse.
We met her on that Sunday
I remember well because,
While the others mourned her passing
I just wondered who she was.


  1. I sense in every muscle
    The way she drove them mad
    I've had that very pleasure
    Since once I was a lad
    Though time and tide has changed me
    I still give thanks to God
    That my head still turns
    When a body burns
    And summons with a nod.

    1. Perhaps, like mé féin, Séamus, you will always be a lad.Will be sketching/painting the well at Ratharney and this might acommodate one of the images for Abbeyshrule revisited.
      Thank you for the comment. Hope the quill is busy!
      P agus P.

  2. Replies
    1. Thanks for your ongoing encouragement Maddie. It surely helps.

  3. Seems almost to cast the question: "Who will stand apart from the crowd?"

  4. Some that come to mind are Jesus Christ, Martin Luther King, Joan Of Arc, Oscar Wilde, Siamanto.. and Vincent Van Gogh.
    Our philosophy in life is " NEVER BE PREDICTABLE!"

  5. Siamanto! Thank you for alerting me to the name! I had heard of one of his works, but I knew nothing of the person. There will be much to learn.

  6. The great man wrote these words; probably, they have lost somewhat in the translation but the message is unmistakable.
    Enjoy your new discovery.
    Patience and the Prodigal.

    To-night in a dream, sweet flute, once more I took you in my hand;
    You felt to my lips like a kiss—a kiss from the days of long ago.
    But when those memories old revived, then straightway failed my breath,
    And instead of songs, my tears began drop after drop to flow.

  7. Quick question re: "cigarette" in poem, above. In addition to anti-smoking public places, are there designated "smoking" bars in Ireland, as well? Or would this kind of thing represent an "exception" made . . . ? (potentially relevant to a future post - thank you)

    1. In the poem the 'stranger' merely puts the cigarette between her lips to indicate to the barman that she needs a light. She in fact has to go outside the bar to smoke. See separate e-mail re legislation.