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At School On The Death of frost, 1963tc "At School On The Death of frost, 1963"
(i.m. Brayan MacMahon) tc "(i.m. Brayan MacMahon)         "

“�.. today, boys, is a sad day.
We have lost another master.
We will read him again,
but can no longer wonder letters
to him for his meaning. Today
we will celebrate his life
and compose an elegy.�

�Poetry is free,� our master says.
“you can take your ink wells
outside if you want, but boys who do,
better have something after twenty
³¾¾±²Ô³Ü³Ù±ð²õ.â€�

From the class I wonder my elegy,
its moments
and meanings for that poet with the cold name.

Faces tried to find the spaces
others weren’t searching in,
the air limit of the classroom
making us question this ‘muse power�: 
“I mean, Jesus, she can’t get through to all of us!�
Our master
kept his face down at his desk,
didn’t quaffle the messin�.

‘He’s sad for frost. D� you think he knew
him well?�

The fella in my poem tore himself with a saw
and bled and died,
we leave when his father finds him,
dies too with shock
and mourners flock over a hill.

I never kept it,
even though us boys knew
poetry was a mans game.

Born and lived in Tralee, Ireland.  His poems have been published in 21 countries in journals of repute.           –Ed.