‘A beautiful meditation on the passing of time, loss, family and how we bear witness. Poems about harvesting a life, told with a gentle defiance, and unwavering honesty. A triumph.’
Elaine Feeney
‘At the heart of Phil Lynch’s second collection Moving On is a deep love for and delight in his beloved family, past and present, and the natural world that shaped each decade of his life. In these richly observed and meticulously crafted poems, he honours the rural life that raised him and the city life that birthed the poet. Keenly aware of how precious and precarious life is on a personal and global level, these poems are a moving testament to a life well lived and attended to.’
Anne Tannam
‘Here is an artist taking his place as custodian of what sustains us, life parsed into poetry. Phil Lynch’s work remains subtle while pulsing with soft power and vision, all the while infused with the trademark of a real poet, generosity. These intimate reflections on family, art, legacy, deftly placed alongside reflections on the joy and fragility of existence, resonate with hope, and will give your heart relief.’
Colm Keegan
Phil Lynch was born in Westmeath and currently lives in Dublin. He also lived in Belgium for several years. His poems have appeared in a wide range of print and online literary journals and anthologies. His work has been featured on national and local radio in Ireland including Arena, The Poetry Programme, Sunday Miscellany and ‘The Doc on One’ on RTE Radio 1; Rhyme & Reason on Dublin South FM and on The Celtic Show broadcast out of Atlanta in the USA. Podcasts in which he has been featured include: Words Lightly Spoken, Boundless & Bare and Eat the Storms. Some of his poems and adaptations of others have been recorded on CDs. He has been a winner, runner up and highly commended finalist in various poetry competitions.
Moving On
I am upstream east of Heidelberg
on the scenic Neckar when it comes to me
with more clarity than ever before:
I am more than what others demand of me.
The moment is hammered into the chain
that links memory to circumstance.
Time to put an end to the endless chasing
and second-guessing of diverse positions,
to be written up in briefings, on the myriad
of pros & cons of one policy position over
another. Time to file away the files. Time to
make my words my own and let them flow.
The late May air is warm, beer ice cold,
the cruise boat burps along in lazy chugs,
steep-sided banks of evergreens and vines
float past. I lean back like a sunflower
face to the sun and invite the future
to sweep me into its slipstream.
Reading the Sundays
After Sunday dinner (in the middle
of the day) they retreated to their regular
chairs to read the Sunday papers,
the Sunday Independent and Sunday Review.
Later the Sunday World, Press and Tribune
all became part of the mix.
As with the dailies, Dad’s first focus
fell on the death notices, to make sure
I’m not among them he would joke
while noting funerals to be attended,
before proclaiming, there are people
dying today who never died before.
Calling out snippets to each other
from various articles, their tone
of voice revealing whether the item
found favour or was being frowned upon;
the source usually informed the tone,
the more official, the greater the scorn.
Sections were swapped over
as each was read until the papers
were fully exchanged, their order
re-arranged and some parts discarded
in keeping with my parents’ interpretation
of the news and articles therein.
Dozing off mid-read was part of the ritual,
pages crumpling like rumpled blankets
on their laps or hanging sideways
half on the ground in a disordered tousle.
This was their day of rest unless something
of a higher order pressed itself onto the agenda.
Some sunny Sundays, Mam converted the car
in the yard into her personal conservatory
to finish the papers and grab a peaceful nap
while Dad lay back in his chair snoring
and dreaming that his much wished-for
six-day-cow had at last come to pass.
Direct Knowledge
It is said
we should have known
but mostly we didn’t
because we did not
have the knowledge
to know that things were
other than they seemed,
other than we were told
to believe.
It took decades
and tribunals of inquiry
to reveal truths,
extract apologies, promises of
no repeats.
Now we have the knowledge
to know that some things
seem other than they ought to be.
In another future
it may be asked again
why we did not act.
(All of the above poems are Copyright © Phil Lynch, 2024)
