Daniel Mulhall
@danmulhall.bsky.social
Retired Irish Ambassador, author, consultant, media commentator, Director, #Carlichauns.
Happy #Thanksgiving to all who celebrate this great American holiday. I always enjoyed this time of year during my 6 years in the USA.
November 27, 2025 at 7:05 AM
Happy #Thanksgiving to all who celebrate this great American holiday. I always enjoyed this time of year during my 6 years in the USA.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
November 27, 2025 at 7:03 AM
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
Big Read’ in FT: ‘Ireland: the weak link in EU defence’. Some key points: 3/4 of undersea cables in N. Hemisphere pass through our waters; we do not have intelligence systems to receive classified information; no radar, no sonar; & lack of a dedicated intelligence agency - that ought to be rectified
November 25, 2025 at 7:02 PM
Big Read’ in FT: ‘Ireland: the weak link in EU defence’. Some key points: 3/4 of undersea cables in N. Hemisphere pass through our waters; we do not have intelligence systems to receive classified information; no radar, no sonar; & lack of a dedicated intelligence agency - that ought to be rectified
Where did all the time go?
From the rainy seasons
out the country to the high
summers of wraparound light
as far as the swirling mackerel skies,
& the heavy cattle flummoxed
by the wrong unmoving gate -
we saw it all from under the stars;
now I only know what isn’t there.
Gerald Dawe #IrishPoetry
From the rainy seasons
out the country to the high
summers of wraparound light
as far as the swirling mackerel skies,
& the heavy cattle flummoxed
by the wrong unmoving gate -
we saw it all from under the stars;
now I only know what isn’t there.
Gerald Dawe #IrishPoetry
November 25, 2025 at 10:29 AM
Where did all the time go?
From the rainy seasons
out the country to the high
summers of wraparound light
as far as the swirling mackerel skies,
& the heavy cattle flummoxed
by the wrong unmoving gate -
we saw it all from under the stars;
now I only know what isn’t there.
Gerald Dawe #IrishPoetry
From the rainy seasons
out the country to the high
summers of wraparound light
as far as the swirling mackerel skies,
& the heavy cattle flummoxed
by the wrong unmoving gate -
we saw it all from under the stars;
now I only know what isn’t there.
Gerald Dawe #IrishPoetry
‘Lie down
in the word-hoard, burrow
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.
Compose in darkness.
Expect aurora borealis
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.
Keep your eye clear
as the bleb of an icicle,
trust the feel of what nubbed treasure
your hands have known.’
Seamus Heaney ‘North’
in the word-hoard, burrow
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.
Compose in darkness.
Expect aurora borealis
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.
Keep your eye clear
as the bleb of an icicle,
trust the feel of what nubbed treasure
your hands have known.’
Seamus Heaney ‘North’
November 24, 2025 at 6:20 PM
‘Lie down
in the word-hoard, burrow
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.
Compose in darkness.
Expect aurora borealis
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.
Keep your eye clear
as the bleb of an icicle,
trust the feel of what nubbed treasure
your hands have known.’
Seamus Heaney ‘North’
in the word-hoard, burrow
the coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.
Compose in darkness.
Expect aurora borealis
in the long foray
but no cascade of light.
Keep your eye clear
as the bleb of an icicle,
trust the feel of what nubbed treasure
your hands have known.’
Seamus Heaney ‘North’
Should I join them
The old fellas
Above Troy’s gate
Demobbed by age
Their fighting days
Long behind them
Good talkers still
Conversation
Like tree-crickets
Or grasshoppers
Settled on branches
Deep in a wood
Voices gently
Lilting lily-like?
Michael Longley ‘Grasshoppers’ #Irish #Poetry
The old fellas
Above Troy’s gate
Demobbed by age
Their fighting days
Long behind them
Good talkers still
Conversation
Like tree-crickets
Or grasshoppers
Settled on branches
Deep in a wood
Voices gently
Lilting lily-like?
Michael Longley ‘Grasshoppers’ #Irish #Poetry
November 22, 2025 at 4:32 PM
Just received my copy of the latest edition of @historyireland.bsky.social which has an essay of mine about E.L. Godkin, ‘An Irish Mugwump in Gilded Age America’, and many other fascinating essays. History Ireland is always a great read.
November 22, 2025 at 12:41 PM
Just received my copy of the latest edition of @historyireland.bsky.social which has an essay of mine about E.L. Godkin, ‘An Irish Mugwump in Gilded Age America’, and many other fascinating essays. History Ireland is always a great read.
Down stucco sidestreets,
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides & rosaries
A funeral passes.
…
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty or Katy,
As if the name meant once
All love, all beauty.
Philip Larkin, ‘Dublinesque’
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides & rosaries
A funeral passes.
…
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty or Katy,
As if the name meant once
All love, all beauty.
Philip Larkin, ‘Dublinesque’
November 21, 2025 at 12:22 PM
Down stucco sidestreets,
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides & rosaries
A funeral passes.
…
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty or Katy,
As if the name meant once
All love, all beauty.
Philip Larkin, ‘Dublinesque’
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides & rosaries
A funeral passes.
…
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty or Katy,
As if the name meant once
All love, all beauty.
Philip Larkin, ‘Dublinesque’
A feel of warmth in this place,
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
Naturally, we fall from grace.
Mere humans, we forget what light
Led us, lonely, to this place.
John Montague ‘Blessing’
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
Naturally, we fall from grace.
Mere humans, we forget what light
Led us, lonely, to this place.
John Montague ‘Blessing’
November 15, 2025 at 11:33 AM
A feel of warmth in this place,
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
Naturally, we fall from grace.
Mere humans, we forget what light
Led us, lonely, to this place.
John Montague ‘Blessing’
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
Naturally, we fall from grace.
Mere humans, we forget what light
Led us, lonely, to this place.
John Montague ‘Blessing’
On the water the accumulation of spume,
The hiss and purl of spiralling waves, the skid
And visible snarl of wind, horizon’s disintegration,
The glower & sharp glint of a tired sky.
…
Now for the decisions of night, the heart’s undoing:
The time where reason & emotions meet.
Valentin Iremonger
The hiss and purl of spiralling waves, the skid
And visible snarl of wind, horizon’s disintegration,
The glower & sharp glint of a tired sky.
…
Now for the decisions of night, the heart’s undoing:
The time where reason & emotions meet.
Valentin Iremonger
November 13, 2025 at 8:33 AM
On the water the accumulation of spume,
The hiss and purl of spiralling waves, the skid
And visible snarl of wind, horizon’s disintegration,
The glower & sharp glint of a tired sky.
…
Now for the decisions of night, the heart’s undoing:
The time where reason & emotions meet.
Valentin Iremonger
The hiss and purl of spiralling waves, the skid
And visible snarl of wind, horizon’s disintegration,
The glower & sharp glint of a tired sky.
…
Now for the decisions of night, the heart’s undoing:
The time where reason & emotions meet.
Valentin Iremonger
I pray for this unknown young man who has known
The lightening’s strict hour,the time of anger
…
May he survive unscathed the Dunkirk of middle-age
& cardiac decay,the Crete of married life,
The Peloponnese-like archipelago of children,to fish lazily
In the reaches of a quiet old age.
V. Iremonger
The lightening’s strict hour,the time of anger
…
May he survive unscathed the Dunkirk of middle-age
& cardiac decay,the Crete of married life,
The Peloponnese-like archipelago of children,to fish lazily
In the reaches of a quiet old age.
V. Iremonger
November 12, 2025 at 2:53 PM
I pray for this unknown young man who has known
The lightening’s strict hour,the time of anger
…
May he survive unscathed the Dunkirk of middle-age
& cardiac decay,the Crete of married life,
The Peloponnese-like archipelago of children,to fish lazily
In the reaches of a quiet old age.
V. Iremonger
The lightening’s strict hour,the time of anger
…
May he survive unscathed the Dunkirk of middle-age
& cardiac decay,the Crete of married life,
The Peloponnese-like archipelago of children,to fish lazily
In the reaches of a quiet old age.
V. Iremonger
Call the earth female, as of old.
She needs to be placed pronto
in the recovery position, gently hold
her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow,
hand above the head, palm facing down
— waving goodbye or hello?
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
She needs to be placed pronto
in the recovery position, gently hold
her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow,
hand above the head, palm facing down
— waving goodbye or hello?
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
November 10, 2025 at 11:26 AM
Call the earth female, as of old.
She needs to be placed pronto
in the recovery position, gently hold
her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow,
hand above the head, palm facing down
— waving goodbye or hello?
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
She needs to be placed pronto
in the recovery position, gently hold
her chin up, bend the left arm at the elbow,
hand above the head, palm facing down
— waving goodbye or hello?
Greg Delanty #IrishPoetry
… let us also be healed
wounds closed,senses cleansed
as over our bowed heads
the mad larks multiply
needles stabbing the sky
in an ecstasy of stitching fury
against the blue void
while from clump & tuft
cranny & cleft, soft footed
curious, the animals gather around.
John Montague
wounds closed,senses cleansed
as over our bowed heads
the mad larks multiply
needles stabbing the sky
in an ecstasy of stitching fury
against the blue void
while from clump & tuft
cranny & cleft, soft footed
curious, the animals gather around.
John Montague
November 9, 2025 at 8:46 PM
… let us also be healed
wounds closed,senses cleansed
as over our bowed heads
the mad larks multiply
needles stabbing the sky
in an ecstasy of stitching fury
against the blue void
while from clump & tuft
cranny & cleft, soft footed
curious, the animals gather around.
John Montague
wounds closed,senses cleansed
as over our bowed heads
the mad larks multiply
needles stabbing the sky
in an ecstasy of stitching fury
against the blue void
while from clump & tuft
cranny & cleft, soft footed
curious, the animals gather around.
John Montague
To fly into risk,
attempt the dream,
cast off, as we have done,
requires true luck
who know ourselves
blessed to have found
between this harbour’s arms
a sheltering home
where the vast
tides of the Atlantic
lift to caress
rose coloured rocks.
John Montague ‘Edge’
attempt the dream,
cast off, as we have done,
requires true luck
who know ourselves
blessed to have found
between this harbour’s arms
a sheltering home
where the vast
tides of the Atlantic
lift to caress
rose coloured rocks.
John Montague ‘Edge’
November 8, 2025 at 11:36 AM
To fly into risk,
attempt the dream,
cast off, as we have done,
requires true luck
who know ourselves
blessed to have found
between this harbour’s arms
a sheltering home
where the vast
tides of the Atlantic
lift to caress
rose coloured rocks.
John Montague ‘Edge’
attempt the dream,
cast off, as we have done,
requires true luck
who know ourselves
blessed to have found
between this harbour’s arms
a sheltering home
where the vast
tides of the Atlantic
lift to caress
rose coloured rocks.
John Montague ‘Edge’
His grace is no longer called for
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Dennis O’Driscoll ‘Missing God’
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Dennis O’Driscoll ‘Missing God’
November 7, 2025 at 8:00 AM
His grace is no longer called for
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Dennis O’Driscoll ‘Missing God’
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Dennis O’Driscoll ‘Missing God’
… you told me how
I saw them in the morning going to school,
Tattering down the sallow sky of winter.
Now I know them well: I see them every mile
By flocks & companies in roadside fields
As I drive onwards through these snowcast days
To sit at your bed evoking them for you.
Bernard O’Donoghue
I saw them in the morning going to school,
Tattering down the sallow sky of winter.
Now I know them well: I see them every mile
By flocks & companies in roadside fields
As I drive onwards through these snowcast days
To sit at your bed evoking them for you.
Bernard O’Donoghue
November 6, 2025 at 2:18 PM
… you told me how
I saw them in the morning going to school,
Tattering down the sallow sky of winter.
Now I know them well: I see them every mile
By flocks & companies in roadside fields
As I drive onwards through these snowcast days
To sit at your bed evoking them for you.
Bernard O’Donoghue
I saw them in the morning going to school,
Tattering down the sallow sky of winter.
Now I know them well: I see them every mile
By flocks & companies in roadside fields
As I drive onwards through these snowcast days
To sit at your bed evoking them for you.
Bernard O’Donoghue
My review of ‘The Poems of Seamus Heaney’ @ The Irish Post: ‘Heaney was affected by the dramatic events taking place around him which he viewed from a northern nationalist perspective,rooted in his upbringing in rural County Derry. This book is ‘a fitting testament to his life’s work.’
November 6, 2025 at 8:53 AM
My review of ‘The Poems of Seamus Heaney’ @ The Irish Post: ‘Heaney was affected by the dramatic events taking place around him which he viewed from a northern nationalist perspective,rooted in his upbringing in rural County Derry. This book is ‘a fitting testament to his life’s work.’
You are like
that crazy old clock
in Winthrop Street
whose hands wind
ever backwards.
If Death took you now,
he would find
a six-year-old boy
in his arms.
Gerry Murphy ‘The Clock’
that crazy old clock
in Winthrop Street
whose hands wind
ever backwards.
If Death took you now,
he would find
a six-year-old boy
in his arms.
Gerry Murphy ‘The Clock’
November 3, 2025 at 9:51 AM
You are like
that crazy old clock
in Winthrop Street
whose hands wind
ever backwards.
If Death took you now,
he would find
a six-year-old boy
in his arms.
Gerry Murphy ‘The Clock’
that crazy old clock
in Winthrop Street
whose hands wind
ever backwards.
If Death took you now,
he would find
a six-year-old boy
in his arms.
Gerry Murphy ‘The Clock’
The knifing wind shivers, but no tree rustles
No sedge whispers; only the numb rocks,
...
Around the shore, the breakers constantly rush
With snow-smash explosion & overhead
A slush of grey cloud is forever melting
And running to the edge of the sky.
Seamus Heaney ‘Aran’
No sedge whispers; only the numb rocks,
...
Around the shore, the breakers constantly rush
With snow-smash explosion & overhead
A slush of grey cloud is forever melting
And running to the edge of the sky.
Seamus Heaney ‘Aran’
October 27, 2025 at 11:27 AM
The knifing wind shivers, but no tree rustles
No sedge whispers; only the numb rocks,
...
Around the shore, the breakers constantly rush
With snow-smash explosion & overhead
A slush of grey cloud is forever melting
And running to the edge of the sky.
Seamus Heaney ‘Aran’
No sedge whispers; only the numb rocks,
...
Around the shore, the breakers constantly rush
With snow-smash explosion & overhead
A slush of grey cloud is forever melting
And running to the edge of the sky.
Seamus Heaney ‘Aran’
Under a gay flotilla of gulls
…
Brown bread and tea in bright canfuls
Are served for lunch. Dead-beat, they flop
Down in the ditch & take their fill,
Thankfully breaking timeless fasts;
Then, stretched on the faithless ground, spill
Libations of cold tea, scatter crusts.
Seamus Heaney #IrishPoetry
…
Brown bread and tea in bright canfuls
Are served for lunch. Dead-beat, they flop
Down in the ditch & take their fill,
Thankfully breaking timeless fasts;
Then, stretched on the faithless ground, spill
Libations of cold tea, scatter crusts.
Seamus Heaney #IrishPoetry
October 25, 2025 at 10:03 AM
Under a gay flotilla of gulls
…
Brown bread and tea in bright canfuls
Are served for lunch. Dead-beat, they flop
Down in the ditch & take their fill,
Thankfully breaking timeless fasts;
Then, stretched on the faithless ground, spill
Libations of cold tea, scatter crusts.
Seamus Heaney #IrishPoetry
…
Brown bread and tea in bright canfuls
Are served for lunch. Dead-beat, they flop
Down in the ditch & take their fill,
Thankfully breaking timeless fasts;
Then, stretched on the faithless ground, spill
Libations of cold tea, scatter crusts.
Seamus Heaney #IrishPoetry
Passion or conquest,wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W.B. #Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W.B. #Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
October 23, 2025 at 5:35 PM
Passion or conquest,wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W.B. #Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
W.B. #Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
A poetic thought for this day. The ‘honey-bees’ in this case are Middle East negotiators. Wish them well
“We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare”
W.B. #Yeats
“We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare”
W.B. #Yeats
October 13, 2025 at 11:35 AM
A poetic thought for this day. The ‘honey-bees’ in this case are Middle East negotiators. Wish them well
“We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare”
W.B. #Yeats
“We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare”
W.B. #Yeats