Author Archives: Crazy Irishman

About Crazy Irishman

Touted as a working man's poet, Martin Durkin has been writing professionally for the last 12 years. He has appeared in over twenty anthologies across North America, including, "And left a place to stand on", a collection of poems and essays about the late great Al Purdy. Durkin has also published two collections of poetry, "Hypnotic Childhood", and "The Sound of Quish". Over the past 4 years, Durkin has been on hiatus for the most part but has recently come back to the poetry scene creating a poetry site called, where in the past year he has written over 100 poems and created a cross over page on where he gives a story behind each of the pieces written.

when the Temp reaches 36 degrees

she’s going to fight it – the entire way
empty dryer spinning
washer machine with open lid.

she’s on her side
and her eyes are opening.
she has slept night long
and the meadow background shines.

but here tucked under fern
drumming your missing rib
she smirks and quotes Dylan
says ‘read me some Thomas’

tell me about his version of Adam
and his version of Eve.

tells you whether inside the gated community
or on the outskirts
her day won’t begin until someone apologizes
to her…..

God is Ready to Present His Findings

eve looks over her shoulder
Spain – rooftop – the public shower
above the treeline.

her skin
is now a full day sun
a toaster
an oven door cooling in the kitchen
dishes ready to be
washed in the sink.

no one is there when she looks over her shoulder

the ocean is not heard in the background
trees stand still as her only audience.

on the street
passing the same building
Adam searches the tourists

passing the open door
he hears the shower
and realizing the ocean no longer moves
he pauses
and realizes the trees no longer sway

he has found her

and God
is now certain

they belong together…..

The Woodpile

i’m chopping wood
and in the middle of the chore
i’m thinking about you.
mind it travels during the menial tasks
and solves math problems
sentences that won’t work in a story.
there is no half ass reversal of the sexes
the swing of the axe – is the swing of the axe.
but the thought of sex
comes to mind
the idea of love vs. hard work
and I suppose
hard work vs. good effort.
are worth the effort
and that’s a separate matter from hard

the woodpile is finished now
i sling the shirt over my bare shoulder
know that supper is bubbling on the stove
and that you will need a few cords to keep the
keep the fireplace going

but not the home fires.

and the summer cabin smells good
it smells simple
and of pine and some left over cedar
sparking safely behind iron doors.
smile as i enter the cabin shadow
back lit by a 5pm sun bouncing off the lake.

which one of us has the shirt off?
which one has been cooking supper?

it doesn’t matter.

we are one….
and that takes only effort
a desire
to be more than we are
beyond the everything
which we began
on our own….


sleep down in the deep sheets
you have pulled on my ribs all night
morn is here – sun through the blinds
a piece of myself is missing as i leave the bed


you will travel once more without me

Eden is a mindset
as we lay there in the impressions of the quilt
when i stand and look over – you turn and press your hand


still closed still knowing the trip that must take place

yet in three months time
i will join you – and my rib will be put back
you won’t search the left side in your sleep
and God won’t see either of us as lonely

Eden is where you and I sleep.

Sunshine Morning

She sits by the flowers
woman, of the fence line window
.view thru the vase,
line button _ belly flush to the sink
.petal Trimmings, bottom of steel
paint peeling from the old lane lumber.

bicycle leans on the post
sock feet _ wreath anklet
crown at the deadline
get on your bike and leave
hips that push the thoughts
of watching from behind.

-gravel runway, shoulder length grain
or hay…

it doesn’t matter-

hands resting around steel top ledge,
body _ still, still at the sink and dreaming
.does heaven exist after
Anklet crown on pedal –
daydream existence _ reality
bare bicycle, cycling
golden grain away.

Epic Life

i was a virgin before i met you
.not sex – i mean,
hardly knew who Al Pacino was.
Odalisque with gold beads running down
-Cleopatra her backside taunting Marcus Antonius.

i needed to catch up on life
witness Niagara Falls 3 times in 1 year
a 20 year absence,
(and I was only 21 at the time.)


Now babe

you turn me on
.as tho our life were a B movie epic-
King Kong greatness,
Indiana Jones and the Arc,
pulp magazine, before Lawrence knew how to Block
or Stark finally admitted, he was Westlake.

my ukulele has a plastic shark.
i’m not afraid of the Hawaiian ocean
Goodfellas – has some meaning
Pacino isn’t a roaring lunatic.

you’re the adventure i’ve always been in search of-
fuck money – we’ve never had it – don’t know
that we ever will. we don’t need to be the Jones’s with 1.5
and a car,
i’m Macgyver with a jeep,
and you make me find ways
,be a better man.

i’m striving – help your dreams
become a reality
,same way you’ve made me a man
,understanding what he’s
looking at – what he needs.

i was a virgin before i met you.
a poet who didn’t know how to do much more
,crap out words and think they were greatness-
hunter in the woods, tracking down snow white,
(still listening to today’s best country.)



keep pushing me….
,secret pen names,
red velvet curtain parting, before the
countdown, the reel ticking-
the fedora hitting the coat rack

rain jacket tossed, hurriedly
,back couch.

Inside My Mind

there is always art. in the search of it.
the interested party rather than the interesting – one.
beyond the landmasses  connected by a bridge
-Schiele before the war – Colville witnessed afterwards.

there is the refrigerator. the bedroom
womanhood for a day celebrated
‘but the boys are coming home and you need a rest Rosie’.
-sing for us on stage. don’t move – this is England.

there is always art. and i search for you.
the woman whose mind is more interesting
and our conversations can go all night.
-if i only i could paint – but drawing letters exposes you….

do not move from the sunlit window’ – (my own quote)

there is always art. in the search of it.
student before the student
master of the generations studying one another
homage to the teacher.

lettered pictures……..not on the wall
but in my hand….

* Schiele before the war – Colville witnessed afterwards:

Egon Schiele; 12 June 1890 – 31 October 1918 was an Austrian painter who created THE BRIDGE an oil painting in 1913

Alex Colville: 24 August 1920 – 16 July 2013 was a Canadian painter who created THE NIJMEGEN BRIDGE while on tour as war artist with the Canadian Military during WW2 in Holland

*there is the refrigerator. the bedroom

Alex Colville painting entitled REFRIGERATOR 1977

Egon Schiele painting entitled BEDROOM – which is very similar to the Vincent Van Gogh painting of the same title

* ‘But the boys are coming home and you need rest Rosie:

Rosie the Riveter is a cultural icon of the United States, representing the American women who worked in factories and shipyards during World War II until the end when they were laid off to allow the men to go back to work

*sing for us on stage. don’t move – this is England:

The Windmill Theatre in London was  a variety and revue theatre. The Windmill remains best known for its nude tableaux vivants, which began in 1932 and lasted until its reversion to a cinema in 1964.