The Triogue

The Yarra is my new Triogue,
Neither pheasant nor snipe might nest its banks,
No rushes but for those who flit
In ranks, up Flinders, down Queen,
Or up Swanston, past poor Bourke,
Who’s got no new paths to beat
Through this cacophonous cirque of buskers,
Trams, zealots so loud, and I thought
I knew the meaning of Proud
(a birdie on the 12th, at the old Par 3
off the Abbeyleix Road – friends ragin’ with me!)

And not too far, that stream still wound
Its onward carving through ancient
Ground of sod and sedge and glacial sands,
Not quite so these sun-drenched lands
Into which I’ve flung my lot, along
With maddened others dancing to the same
Old song and reckoned, by natives
Who will guess wildly at my “brogue”
But never know where it sprang from,
By the old Triogue.

29 year-old Robert O’ Reilly lives in Fitzroy, Victoria having moved to Australia in 2012. Robert’s work requires him to write on a wide variety of different subjects, but this is the first poem he has ever penned. His interests include history and politics and the inspiration for this piece came from a river situated close to where he grew up in Portlaoise, Co Laois.

Two poems by Ted Reilly




It’s warm, at least for midwinter,
Enough to sit outside for lunch
And talk about some of the differences
Between the distant past & now.
By distant, say twenty years ago,
When the tyrants’ last breaths
Grumbled like fading thunder.
A cool wind cuts across the day,
The children hide inside the house
In a silly game of hidden joy,
And laugh at our adult fears.
Almost sunset, and it’s still bright,
And we pretend that in ten years
We would be sitting outside for lunch
Talking about the minute differences
Between the distant past & now.


St Anthony

First Communion

Worth little more than a shilling coin
That keeps burning a hole in my pocket,
Or the fleeting smile of the girl
Who’s kneeling with her parents
But keeps looking up at St Anthony,
My half-promise is soon put aside.
Yes, I will be good, but on my terms,
Though the priest keeps on and on
About the burning flames that await.
For my mother? Surely not!
Nor for dad, his sisters and all about.
The angels will swoop down
To protect all from the darkness.
I light a candle in front of the Virgin.
O, why are you weeping still?
Tears will spoil your silken dress.

Ted Reilly

Edward Reilly has published poetry & criticism in journals such as James Joyce QuarterlyPoetry Ireland ReviewPoetry Salzburg ReviewTinteán et al. He is the founding editor of Azuria, a small literary journal published by Geelong Writers.