Category Archives: Poorhouse

Abandoned Child

Unwanted gift.

Will this child get short shrift?

In swaddling clothes and a free manger.

Deposited by a stranger.

Delivered to the door.

Do you want more?

Another mouth to feed.

How do they breed?

Children in need.

He will grow up to be a man, if allowed.

Who wants his shroud?

Rain brings flowers from every cloud.

Baby, baby cutchy coo.

Is that you?

Happy Christmas too.

Tich Ennis

12th December, 2017

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My Life

I want my life to be my own, leave me alone.

Yes, I want to be with you but I have my own things to do.

Do I sound like you?

I do nothing from time to time and other times a lot.

Thanks a lot for all your help, if I didn’t say it I forgot.

My way is my way, I need to fit in.

Some of you are great, I am beginning to begin.

Slowly slowly catchee monkey someone said.

Darwin said my dad’s an ape, I have got out of bed.

Tich Ennis

24th October, 2017

Problem

Must I beg, borrow and steal to bring the world to heel?

What about how I feel?

Far be it from me to impose, I speak in rhyme, not prose.

So it goes.

The fair name of poetry has been maligned but not by me.

People think poets speak no sense, they’re not far wrong, get thee hence.

To revert once more, where can I get money?

I want to buy your freedom with a book both true and funny.

Problem, no money.

Tich Ennis

8th September, 2017

Fifty

My fifty is broke, how will I smoke?

I’ll smoke butts, I’m nuts.

Tich Ennis

23rd August, 2017

Love Is The Word

In the beginning was the word then it became absurd.

Love became hate and shut Heaven’s gate.

Lies were chosen, love was frozen.

War and misery putting first me.

Bitter fruit we eat, when may friends meet?

Triviality came first, the best lost to the worst.

Are we cursed?

Once more the word will be when truth is set free.

Free us all from Hell, this prison cell.

The jailer is me, I was blind, now I see.

Turn the key.

Set us free.

So the best can be.

Say the word.

Love is heard.

Tich Ennis

8th July, 2017

Open Letter to John Carey

John Carey emeritus professor of literature at Oxford university and beekeeper

Dear Professor,

I admire your book reviews in the Sunday Times. It may have been you, and I think it was, who said the great writers possess greatness of soul. Also that eighty per cent of what is accepted as art in any age is not art. I write. We can’t all be Pushkin or indeed Russians of any description. I write poetry and what have you. Another said I write rhymes.

Avoidance of cliches, such as ‘the struggle of the artist to get his voice heard’, is important. I have said, and I quote, I breathe new life into old cliches. Truisms are nonetheless true for being self evident.

I have written possibly a thousand poems and am seventy-six years old, but enough statistics. I call them poems, and why not? Also plays, essays, stories mostly suited to the short attention span generation. But does anyone pay attention? Some, yes. A poem of mine, Snowdrop, has been spoken of in the same breath as the work of Seamus Heaney, Nobel prize winner. Not by an emeritus professor but by a farmer’s wife.

Pardon me for writing to you, but a cat may look at a king.   You may quote Oscar, I don’t know you but your manner is familiar.

Now, serious matters. John Kennedy Toole’s masterpiece A Confederacy of Dunces was not published until after his death by suicide and only then after his mother gave it to a literature professor who recommended it for publication, when it won the Pulitzer prize. History has been said to repeat itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.

Now, farcically, I provide you with links to recent writings of mine which please share if you feel so inclined.   Cliché. There’s no harm in asking.   There’s lots more where these came from.   I and my writing exist more than merely in cyberspace. But, yes, there.

Now, links:

https://tichennis.wordpress.com/2017/07/01/thats-all/

https://tichennis.wordpress.com/2017/07/03/my-mind-wanders/

https://tichennis.wordpress.com/2017/07/01/renegade/

Question: Does a sense of humour preclude one from serious consideration? What about Dostoevsky? Catch 22?

Regards,

Tich Ennis, birth name David, although that may be disputed.

3rd July, 2017

Depend

You can’t depend on the weather in Ireland or anything else at all.

Hear politicians talking, they might as well be talking to the wall.

They make no sense at all.

Ireland is rather small.

Does it punch above its weight in anything or is it fate?

We’re not bad at talking, when will we start walking?

We wrote some books, we sang some songs, we tried to right some wrongs.

Occasionally, once or twice, we get it right.

We emigrate, take flight.

Beannacht De libh, good night.

Alright.

Another wonderful day, as Beckett said.

Cheer up, you could be dead.

Tich Ennis

30th June, 2017