THE POEMS OF HAMISH SHEANEY - REMASTERED & EXPANDED
In 2012, I published a book called Hamish Sheaney: The Nearly-Man of Irish Literature. The book began with this disclaimer: Hamish Sheaney may not exist, so it might have been necessary to invent him. Hamish Sheaney might be Joe Cushnan or Joe Cushnan might be Hamish Sheaney. They are never seen in the same room together, but more often than not they are in the same room. Shirt collar, shoe size, dental records and preference for Mini-Cheddars are purely coincidental.
The book is still available from https://www.feedaread.com/books/The-Poems-Of-Hamish-Sheaney-Remastered-Expanded-9781785100727.aspx
This updated book is a remastered (regurgitated?) and expanded version that concentrates on the nearly-man’s specific biographical and observational poetry, and it leaves out the “and other funny stuff”. So as not to short-change anyone too much, other poems and witty gems have been discovered in a holdall in Hamish’s shed. They are printed here for the first time.
ISBN: 9781785100727
Total Pages: 99
Published: 17 September 2014
Buy paperback here:
https://www.feedaread.com/books/The-Poems-Of-Hamish-Sheaney-Remastered-Expanded-9781785100727.aspx
CONTENTS
Introduction….9
Death Of A Naturist….13
Tithe Barn….15
The Painted Ceiling….17
Saint Caedmon….19
The Sighting….21
Slobber….23
It’s All Greek To Me….25
Winter….27
Watching My Onomatopoeias….29
Morning Haze….31
Baking Cakes….33
Appreciating Turquoise….35
Door Into The Dusk….37
Possessions….39
Spade….41
Mud….43
Dung….45
Revolution….47
Be A Wolf….49
Misery Match….51
Staying Out Of The Deep End….53
Silent Footstep….55
No Ordinary Poem….57
Breath Of A Naturalist….59
Meg Marigolds….61
The Hee-Haw Lantern….63
Winging It….65
The Tall Auld Man….67
Just The Job….69
Daff(t)odils….71
Not (Words)worth It….71
Caw….73
Spirit Level….75
Stinky Stallion….77
Banssssshhhhhee….79
Birds In Trees….81
Screwball….83
Rur-ale….85
Ten Fat Rats….87
Noticed Things….91
Sheaneywocky….95
The Prattle Bag….97
And Finally….99
SAMPLE:
DEATH OF A NATURIST
All year the butt-naked brokeback farmer
toiled at one with Mother Earth
using bare hands, tools and tractor in the rank fields
in full view of his burly neighbour.
They exchanged erotic grunts across the air,
thick with the manure-whiff scent of work
,
recalling the Bisto-kid giddiness of youth
and igniting agri-passion in their glistening haunches.
They imagined the slop-slap of the love-act
but resisted a daylight rendezvous behind the stacks,
contented to tease the senses with farm-play
until darkness gave them cover for their tryst.
Fate’s hairy hand awaited careless moments,
clandestine in the hay-heap, an impending farce
as one fell back intense in expectation.
a fatal pitch-fork stabbed him up the arse.
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