Official Website of Irish Poet


Paddy Walsh is an Irish Poet, growing up in a working class family in Duncormick, Co. Wexford. His poetry is themed on, life events, family relationships and 90’s & 00’s societal change in Ireland

His writing style is simple & direct with a view to sharing contrasts in Irish day to day life. This poetry is for everyone from all backgrounds as it explores the socio-economic divide and its cause and effect on rural and urban communities.


Cathedral in the fields Collection

Beyond the Humpback Collection

An Drochshaol Collection

Latest PoeMS


Every week I attend a job without knowing,

anticipatory smells develop prior to leaving home,

trundling down the tree lined lane,

it's an old farm place, tidy and practical on the outside,

we count cattle and its usually sunny there for some reason.

In through the timber door I'm led,

to a dank back kitchen,

the smell accosts my nose,

mildew, wet Jack Russell and old spinster are the mixture of smells,

topped off  with a pinch of old bachelor,

they have demeanors battered by miserableness,

and their clothes are stiff with dirt.

Charm and niceties are laid on thick,

like butter on the stale scones about the table,

playing your part is important,

but making eye contact isn't,

as it leads to a tin coming down from beyond the  tea stained Stanley,

a tin full of sweets from one of Jesus's birthdays,

fudges, toffees, and the unloved coffees.

I am forced to accept one,

as a trust exercise, as in,

he's that dedicated to this place, he'll eat anything.

Women usually live longer than men,

but not in the case of the Merriman's,

or so the neighboring doctor says,

all that time eating mouldy sweets,

a childhood's work with no pay off.


Friday evening pickup for no reason,

clamber away to fill in a weekend,

first stop, the thatched place,

so he can get the taste again,

the old latch is still unworkable,

I duck down out of repetition, not need,

It’ll be years before the thatch touches my crann,

before I fill this frame,

the din exists permanently inside,

equal in both summer and winter,

the fire licks the glass of countless picture frames,

interesting and as constant, as where the people sit,

the ritual begins at the bar corner,

wide shoulders poured into a tweed jacket,

white wiry hair, just enough escaping the flat cap,

he turns and gives me a familiar glance,

as two thirds of this evening quota is supped down,

I’m moved on to the T.V room,

so as to avoid hearing gossip too big for small ears,

Friday men are in,

one with an eye that droops past his cheekbone,

one with a whoop louder than a possessed cuckoo,

inhaling red king, cheese onion, hitting the tongue like a bomb,

starch washed away by pints of orange,

lips cooled by half melted ice cubes,

watching  the same film that started at 9,

occasionally the hatch is slide back,

only my name and a barwoman’s hands poke through,

more king and orange for the boy,

I get glimpses of the bar corner,

and try to lip read and interpret movements,

the hatch closes quickly and cuts me off again,

not a bad Friday night when your 12.

Rockpool Alley

A lot of time was spent there,

parking between the shell house and handball alley,

shoehorned into the sodden crumbling cliffs,

it was the safest place to be,

wedged between the horizon and the alley.

Giant cracked concrete steps,

led down to the sharp craggy foot of shale,

which divided the bay in two,

it propped itself against the waves,

as a heal against a revolving door,

in its worn away crevices, lay windows,

to encyclopedias and nature books,

that sat open on my bedroom floor,

frail stringy green seaweed shadowed its edges,

offering shelter to anemone's and rock crabs,

from small toes and snatchy grasps,

finding little was the usual,

but the distraction of any possibility was constant,

as we clambered each cut to the next tepid pot,

the sun's reflection would escape beyond the headland,

and the pools would coalesce,

leaving foot washing as the task,

standing in the final evening wave,

fluid sand dragged from the boundary of each foot,

affirming the wonderment of rockpool alley.

The old schoolhouse

One stripe of platinum runs across his flecked head,

just above the handkerchief tan line,

it shimmers in unison with the tie clip,

and gives contrast to his eyes,

his suit hides,

and hangs neatly on his slender frame,

dressed as a gentleman most weekdays,

hands opposite to his clean white cuffs,

marked and worn from chisels and plains,

addicted to chance with pockets stained by small pens,

built, but could have owned the world,

but trading twenty p's on the eighties kaleidoscope carpet,

seemed a much more honourable duty for now.

As the footage of Viking flagship beams out from the old tele,

leaking that charming gassy smell,

single cheese sandwiches arrive punctually,

bushy hair, a woolly jumper with bobbles,

and a pleated black skirt,

soften and disguise the sternness,

quiet and unassuming, with the exception of the occasionally produced evil eye,

protruding from between slightly rosacea cheeks,

she watches this classroom with familiarity,

where today's syllabus consists of calculating,

the odds of a future lunchtime sandwich ever having more than just one filling.


You can see paddy completing a reading of, The Old Schoolhouse, During an event hosted by Spiel Vancouver 
It's great to be published with an progressive poetry Forum in Canada

Have a look at Spiel Vancouver
View the Reading Event Here