‘Rough Night’, Gerard Hanberry’s first collection of poetry was published in May 2002 by Stonebridge Publications, Ebbw Vale, Wales. A second collection ‘Something Like Lovers’ was published in October 2005 also by Stonebridge. Publications. In summer 2004 Gerard won the Brendan Kennelly Sunday Tribune Poetry Award. Gerard Hanberry’s poetry has been published widely in many literary journals and newspapers and as been shortlisted for many of Ireland’s top poetry prizes including a Sunday Tribune/Hennessy Award in 2000, Strokestown 2003 and RTE’s Rattlebag Poetry Slam 2003, he was runner-up in the Firewords City Poetry Award (Galway) 2005. In 2000 Gerard won the Originals Short Story prize in Listowel Writers Week. He has been invited to read at many literature festivals and been broadcast on Lyric FM, Galway Bay F.M., Cape Cod Radio in US and RTE’s Rattlebag, Sunday Miscellany and The Enchanted Way. Gerard has also worked in journalism and for many years in the 1980’s and early 90’s wrote a weekly column for the Galway Observer under the name ‘Joe Barry’. These days he teaches English at Saint Enda’s College, Salthill. A performing musician in the singer/songwriter tradition, he gigs regularly around the West of Ireland playing ‘classic acoustic’ songs. Gerard has a First Class Honours MA in Writing from NUI, Galway and runs a weekly ‘creative reading’ workshop in Galway Arts Centre called ‘exploring contemporary poetry’.

Kenny's Irish Bookshop

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Kenny's

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Galway Arts Centre

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Poetry Ireland

SELECTED POETRY

by
Gerard Hanberry

LISTENING TO LEONARD COHEN

For those who come to nothing
in the end,
despite the promise,
the long dark night,
For those who drive their partners
round the bend
with tall talk
of what could have been
and still might.

For those Everest climbers,
the chosen few,
who plant flags
photograph each other
at that height
then wander home
wonder what to do
snarl if a loved one murmurs
please put out the light.

For those,
and here I count myself,
whose two score years
has left the page pure white,
for all the tall talk
of what could have been
and still might,
despite the promise
the long dark night.

© Gerard Hanberry

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THE NIGHT THE MUSIC DIED

Round brown bass notes
Rolled off the edge of the stage,
Along the floor,
Out the door,
Down the littered street,
Before dropping, like rusty cannon-balls,
Into the cold canal.

© Gerard Hanberry

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LISTENING TO TOWNES VAN ZANDT

The lights are out upstairs at Rosie’s,
the honky piano-player has gone back east,

the poker table’s silent, the barkeep’s apron
hangs like a strangled chicken from its hook,

there’s a whiff of kerosene on the dry breeze,
balls of brushwood roll through the empty streets.

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That light up ahead could be the moon,

or a half-shot musician on his roof in the ditch.

© Gerard Hanberry

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LISTENING TO BEETHOVEN

She trembles, wondering how it could have befallen her again
despite memories of childhood nights
spent huddled in hidey-holes between wardrobes and walls,

dank corners where she cowered like a fawn
pleading with God to stop the fury raging through rooms below,
Mother’s whimpering, silence seeping like December fog.

Ruined birthdays, friends sent away, left comforting dolls
with the promise of a future full of soft voices
and presents that were not apologies.

When older, she took to practicing piano in her head,
going over her pieces, Chopin, Beethoven,
volume swelling to match the mounting terror of her helplessness.

Tranquility came at last with a place of her own,
a room in a creaky town-house, flowers on the hallstand,
a sea-blue poster taped above her bed.

Late-night shouts in the street below could stir the silt of fear
that had settled for life in the pit of her stomach, but even this
black undertow was stilled by his whispering cello-drone.

As she splashed in the dazzle of first love, how easy
to miss the foul-weather warnings, the sea-birds sheltering
from the dark clouds gathering in the corner of his eye.

© Gerard Hanberry

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MEET THE PUNCTUATIONS

At least you know where you stand
with Full Stop –
ole’ door slammer,
time-bell chimer,
back-of-the shovel tapper
to the full-bellied grave.

Don’t let him get a liking for you
and watch for his schizophrenic
half-brother Semi-Colon –
that nod-and-wink weathercock,
whatever-you’re-having-yourself merchant,
Mr Wishy-Washy and his side-kick
Apostrophe, the grabber,
first sub’ on the local team
when the Vowels fail to show

Then there is Flash Harry himself
The Dash, back from Amherst,
all arty airs and breathless indecision,
out of work a lot these days, typecast
or so he says after that big thing with Emily.

You could only pity poor stick-in-the-mud
Colon putting up with them all,
keeping sentry at the gate,
with his clipboard, ticking the list,
the quartermaster of the family
left holding the fort when Dash
took off for the New World.
Dependable though, he will keep order

unlike the real playboy of the family
the volatile E mark !
the most erotic of the Punctuations.
Look at him standing there,
proud, erect.
Cast your eyes at how simple words
like Ouch! Yes! Oh! and even Ah!
are putty in his sleazy company.
In fact no word is safe from
Mr Ever Ready.
Use me, he insists,
use me often,
especially at weekends
when the neighbours are
away!!!

© Gerard Hanberry

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CIRCLING, CIRCLING

the story is of a man refused in love
half demented
abroad on the hillside
he makes his way to the ring-fort
limestone walls eight feet deep
and twice as high
his mind in a swirl
found there three days later
famished, lips chaffed from thirst,
swearing that try as he might
circling by daylight and moonlight
the gap with the heavy lintel
refused to show itself
no toehold could be found between the stones

© Gerard Hanberry

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THE MAN WHO BECAME A GOLDFISH

When his skin grew oily and cold
his wife moved into the other room.

Hours were spent standing inside the big
window, eyes popping, mouth in an O.

Then he took to circling,
moved the furniture away from the walls
to give himself a fuller swing.

The morning neighbours found him
naked on the lawn,
flapping, gasping,
they sent for the White Coats.

His wife visits once a week,
she thinks he is happy there,

they have a swimming-pool,
he would live in it, if they let him.

© Gerard Hanberry

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SOMETHING LIKE LOVERS

Last night’s love talk counts for nothing,
fondling each others scars in the dark,

the steaming hurts,
the bindweed cures
or half-cures,

nothing ever made easy,
tempest or doldrums,

examining the entrails
of every word or deed,
anything, anything at all
except indifference,

trees for their crucifixion
coming along nicely.

© Gerard Hanberry

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GERARD'S FIVE FAVOURITE THINGS:

Playing my old Takamine guitar at my ‘Classic Acoustic’ gigs.

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Listening to Tom Waits.

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Reading Ken Bruen, especially his Jack Taylor series – a private detective blundering his hazy way through life and set in my home town of Galway, believe it or not (Check out Ken Bruen’s website – he’s huge now in the US but we still have pints together in Galway)

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Sitting in the coffee shop on the Promenade, Salthill (West of Ireland seaside resort just west of Galway) reading Weekend Review or just looking at the bay.

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The lock-in and the lie-in.

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Book-vouchers – none of my family ever have to agonise over what to get me for Christmas or birthdays etc.

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