Denis Ahern's Poem Page (April)
	Denis Ahern has been associated with the Sail Loft since its first year. Live renditions of his poems are a well received feature of Sail Loft evenings. Usually the subjects covered are bawdy and raucous in nature. This website feature provides a platform for some of his more sensitive works – Stop laughing, you at the back! For this second edition he offers, once again, two very contrasting pieces. The first, The Blind Accordian Player, is a humerous look at the world of the accordian player, while the second, Ring Pull, is a thought provocking aside that touches on the wasteful excess of human-kind, showing that there is a thoughtful, deep, side to this funny man. We hope you enjoy them. Click here to go back
The Blind Accordion Player No two human pastimes could ever safer be Than playing the chromatic accordion and drinking sweetened tea; Or so you’d think. But listen and pay heed while I tell Of the blind accordion player and the misfortune that befell That unlucky lad one evening while playing at a dance. His two good eyes were lost that night by cruel fortunes chance. The ‘Siege of Ennin’ was about to start. The dancers lined the floor. The fiddler and the accordionist, as many a time before Stood ready to strike the opening notes and start the dancers’ flight When a piercing scream of agony resounded through the night. ‘Twas the voice of the accordionist, pitiful to behold As he cursed and damned his brand new boots – platform heeled and soled. Had he not worn those platform soles, had he not stood so tall Then the fiddler’s bow as he drew it back wouldn’t have pierced his eye at all. But poked the air above his head as on many a night before When their lilting airs filled the hall and the dancers filled the floor. The fiddler stood bereft with grief. The dancers stood aghast. “Call the doctor,” someone said. “And call him awful fast!” The stricken accordion player held his aching head. He moaned in pain. His one good eye tears of anguish shed. While waiting for the doctor a cup of tea was made With an extra spoon of sugar. ‘Twill calm him someone said. With grateful hands he grasped the cup. He pressed it to his mouth. For the second time that fateful night his cry of pain rang out. His last good eye was blinded too! Horror filled the room. He hadn’t known as he gulped his tea that the cup still held a spoon. That blind accordion player stands today, proof of the perils there be In playing the chromatic accordion and drinking sweetened tea.	Ring-pull No Daffodils by Windermere When October mists come down, No breeze bestirs leaves fallen there Of autumnal red and brown. As ponderously with measured pace The eroding lakeside shore I trace. Then before my eyes on a muddy bank Some small and round thing’s glinting, Bright on the moss so dark and dank, ‘Tis a white and shiny tin thing. Cast in alloy, cast off by man, A ring-pull from a Heineken can. Non-biodegradable, defiler Of sun, frost snow and storm, Nothing less than furnace fire Can decompose this form, Discarded but more permanent Than a comet in the firmament. As much a part of man’s domain, May I say without apology As any Wordsworthian quatrain In a poetry anthology. No daffodils by Windermere Just a ring-pull from a can of beer.

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