Poetry: For Those Left Behind by Seán Maguire




Poetry Collection: For Those Left Behind by Seán Maguire, available at Amazon US and Amazon UK
Seán's biography:
Seán Maguire was born and raised in the north of Ireland. Seán lived through over thirty years of political conflict, euphemistically referred to as, ‘The Troubles’. During three decades of horrendous violence over 3,600 people were killed and over 50,000 were injured. It was a terrible time to be a child or a teenager, playing sports and street games often just yards from gun battles and riots. Seán had a brother murdered during the conflict along with several school friends and various acquaintances. The poems in this collection hold up a mirror to the human suffering experienced by everyone in the North of Ireland. Despite the bombings and shootings people went about normal everyday life. This violent landscape provides the backdrop to the melancholy, and expressive imagery evident in Seán’s poems.
Seán has been writing poetry, song lyrics, short stories and non-fiction for over thirty years and has had a considerable amount of his work published in magazines, newspapers, anthologies and online blogs. Seán has studied at undergraduate and postgraduate levels at Queen’s University Belfast and the University of Ulster and his qualifications include a BA (Hons) in Humanities, with English Literature.
Seán has a range of poetic influences including Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas, Wilfred Owen, Pádraic Fiacc, Seamus Heaney, W.B. Yeats, Roger McGough, John Cooper Clarke, Leonard Cohen and many more. Seán is also inspired by music, particularly, punk, indie, reggae, blues and heavy rock.

Links to the book:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B073V8WDVC for Kindle version
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/0993592384 for Print

The title poem and two others below:
For Those Left Behind
(First published the Cringeblog.com August 2016)

Behind our eyes, beneath our faces,
beyond skin colour, creeds and races,
our worlds crossed the same path on
dead man’s lane,
the killers’ wrath was all the same.

An empty chair, an old hat with locks
of hair.
A favourite skirt, muddy boots, still
caked with dirt.
We can never replace those,
who did not plan to leave so soon.

All that remains, are the ghosts of
those we grieve,
silently, without reprieve.

Treacherous Times
(In memory of my brother Thomas)

On the seventh day, of the third
month
a shade before the coming of spring,
your voice ceased to laugh and
sing.

A grim wind rapped the door,
you closed just a few hours
before.

Grief-stricken,
we knew you would not return
anymore.


Leaving

Finally, the eyelids grow heavy,
the fear overcome by exhaustion
as we journey into darkness forever,
to await who knows what in
frustration.
To dream would be ever so pleasing,
of summer youth and love,
and lie and gaze at the sky above.
To recall some moments of laughter,
to smile at our feelings of fear.
Wondering about justice,
whilst shedding one more tear.

Tumbling, falling, headlong, the earth
is yearning,
although, upright we sit, clammy,
pale.
Fervently screaming and bleeding
inside,
in search of the truth, to no avail.

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