HALF CENTURY Others have not been lucky as we Who have shared these generous times, Welding together even in absence Every present moment, so that we become Almost one flesh, each self-sufficient Though interdependent. Siamese twins. It would not be true to say there have been No rows, no flurry of disparate views, Flaring to rooftop high Our loud sundering of old vows. They have been rare and only memorable Because of that. Yet our lives have not be placid -- The usual deaths, the common griefs, The surge and swell of children, Bad school reports, drugs in a window box, Even the policeman at the door. When I look back through my half century I am astonished to discover That for only half of it I have known you. The other half Collapses on itself by this default. That first growth seems in retrospect A kind of vagrancy, a maverick uncertainty Without anchorage. An unrewarded search. I am overwhelmed by the dicey chance of this. Other lovers write in praise Or in cherished recall of the intimacies Which, being secret, are shattered by a phrase. I cannot describe the puzzle we have made, Jig-sawing miraculously, fitting our variety, Our patchwork lives, our woven cloth, Many-textured, many-coloured, into this tent With which we clothe and house ourselves. These are the things we have together made, Gardens and houses, walls I know will stand Long after we are gone. Vistas have opened And closed to our command, And the buttressed land has been breached And yielded a little. All may remain When we unfold ourselves in twin plots And return separately to that dust Which gave us common sustenance. It is a grief I dare not ponder, our separate deaths. Will we, I wonder, for the next half Or half a century, with unexplored insight Unwind, unfold, untangle twined-over roots from roots. Unravel time itself so that we may slide Placidly back to birth, and finally divide? All those unsayable words You being private, regard as sacred Will have found their place. Can these things we have made Speak of them, our loves, our fears, our griefs? Or the nonsensical breakfast discussions, Politics, the day's bombings, the brute maimings, The tattered fabric of our outer lives? Is that what we will leave? Lovers who are permitted Mirrored glimpses of each other Forget the privilege and become familiar. We have somehow escaped such despair, Are constantly amused by the absurd. Perhaps we share A half-witted simpleness And regard the world Through the other's innocence. -- Maeve Kelly

Thanks Jean- I didn't even know I liked poetry! Keep them coming, Trudy -----Original Message----- From: Jean R. [mailto:jeanrice@cet.com] Sent: Monday, January 09, 2006 1:09 AM To: IRELAND-L@rootsweb.com Subject: [IRELAND] "Half Century" -- Maeve KELLY (contemp.) HALF CENTURY Others have not been lucky as we Who have shared these generous times, Welding together even in absence Every present moment, so that we become Almost one flesh, each self-sufficient Though interdependent. Siamese twins. It would not be true to say there have been No rows, no flurry of disparate views, Flaring to rooftop high Our loud sundering of old vows. They have been rare and only memorable Because of that. Yet our lives have not be placid -- The usual deaths, the common griefs, The surge and swell of children, Bad school reports, drugs in a window box, Even the policeman at the door. When I look back through my half century I am astonished to discover That for only half of it I have known you. The other half Collapses on itself by this default. That first growth seems in retrospect A kind of vagrancy, a maverick uncertainty Without anchorage. An unrewarded search. I am overwhelmed by the dicey chance of this. Other lovers write in praise Or in cherished recall of the intimacies Which, being secret, are shattered by a phrase. I cannot describe the puzzle we have made, Jig-sawing miraculously, fitting our variety, Our patchwork lives, our woven cloth, Many-textured, many-coloured, into this tent With which we clothe and house ourselves. These are the things we have together made, Gardens and houses, walls I know will stand Long after we are gone. Vistas have opened And closed to our command, And the buttressed land has been breached And yielded a little. All may remain When we unfold ourselves in twin plots And return separately to that dust Which gave us common sustenance. It is a grief I dare not ponder, our separate deaths. Will we, I wonder, for the next half Or half a century, with unexplored insight Unwind, unfold, untangle twined-over roots from roots. Unravel time itself so that we may slide Placidly back to birth, and finally divide? All those unsayable words You being private, regard as sacred Will have found their place. Can these things we have made Speak of them, our loves, our fears, our griefs? Or the nonsensical breakfast discussions, Politics, the day's bombings, the brute maimings, The tattered fabric of our outer lives? Is that what we will leave? Lovers who are permitted Mirrored glimpses of each other Forget the privilege and become familiar. We have somehow escaped such despair, Are constantly amused by the absurd. Perhaps we share A half-witted simpleness And regard the world Through the other's innocence. -- Maeve Kelly ==== IRELAND Mailing List ==== Ireland Mailing List website..surname registry, links, lookup volunteers,unsubscribe, change your subscription from L to D or D to L http://www.connorsgenealogy.com/IrelandList/