Peadar O’Donoghue


Peadar O’Donoghue






She did The TwoMileBorris Tango


Without a rose between her teeth.

I lost my religion and found heaven

beneath a vagrant lamppost.

Quick flicks and luscious licks,

this was a 99 with double flake,

raspberry sauce and sprinkles.

We sat, we stood, we knelt, we lay

beneath barren yet starry skies,

invoked the black of night

to blanket all the whys

and wherefores, because ‘this’

was the only answer we needed.

No need to stoop to conquer,

so we never stopped to question if

the lovelight was just the lamplight,

reflected in our eyes?






Up come the chords, down go the drumsticks,

kerrang, wadoof , wadoof!

We are one sweating unit of a thousand people,

launched up, down, up, down,

no room for anything except unison,

communal hearts fully alive for two hours,

pumped-up like the decibels from those speakers as big as a house.


The music goes out through the top of your sweating skull,

too loud to contain as your ears shut down,

you feel it in your chest like a resuscitating punch,

this is a pukka fight for life

where everyone is winning

after five days losing in the factory,

the office,

the building site,

the shop,

the café,

the system

that tries so hard,

but never quite manages,

to grind us down.




The Catholic Church


It’s like Linked-In or The Hotel California,

you can give it up, sure,

but you can never leave.

So she rings every night at midnight,

the witching hour, and our incantation

is The Lord’s Prayer ,The Our Father.

So small a thing, so huge,

it’s the most and least I can do.

I keep my head down

and the cat in the bag,

mumble unforgotten, un-believed  lines

into the receiver,

and worry for my soul,

if not for hers.




Now the winter.


Feel it closing in through the night,

the words backwards, time wrong,

waiting, wait.

Pressure on, brakes off,

this last is, could be, now,

three times fallen,

pleasure from the fun-lit days,

not a drop left,

I found a fourth salvation,

cold setting in, snow on the way,

the Northern Hills

the high ground,

typically atypical

perishing in a doorway

yards from the power.

We walk, we sleep, we die,

in silence.











Peadar is a poet and photographer from Co Wicklow in Ireland. He co-edits PB magazine with his wife Collette. They work in a shed high in the hills have a team of well-trained Wicklow goats to help them. Peadar’s first collection ‘Jewel’ was the best-selling title on the Salmon website. He hopes to become rich and famous with his second collection ‘The Death of Poetry’ due out later this year.


Articles similaires