In the beginning …
Life began in the 1960s
There’s more to the story …
My parents helped make me …
My Musical Autobiography
Life began in the 1960s
Life began in the 1960s
The people who have ideas
The people who have ideas
breathe, touch, imagine the best,
the same way eagles fly
on air blown in streams that flow
over waterfalls, whirlpools, lakes –
into backwaters,
into oceans.
The IDEAS I met
in the home The Quiet Man built
(alongside the Cross of Cong)
have all come
clad with strings and baggage,
stubble and eau de cologne
from Jo Malone.
A few carried by musical instruments,
some with a stoop,
the odd one with a straight back,
semiconductors
looking for company
Congregation,
and the like.
Ideas encased in characters:
Rewilding man
Heart with a fear of trusting others
Ireland’s first flow consultant
Multi-tasking woman
(who brushed her teeth
and spat into her handbag)
HUDDLING
against the safety of closed paradigms
and spent minds
MINING
for alchemy
and epiphany
TAKEAWAY:
If it’s icy cold,
pee in your pants –
it’ll soon dry out
and keep you warm.
A splash of IDEATION on the road …
near the Hungry Monk.
Heretics listed:
Bureaucracy works
War eliminates fear
Doing the shagging thing
Stop travelling
Make something useless
The green soup for lunch
began life as an idea
in the mind of a vegetable
(Civil Rights for Vegetables)
before you eat words for ingredients.
THIS YEAR
the best interruptions were ideas
that would not keep
behind the Hedge
Desperados
Camerados.
I have no idea
I have no idea
(a poem for CongRegation)
I’ve never given birth to an idea that floated
the wine I’ve drunk, the women I’ve loved,
all permeable membranes that leaked
all blocked arteries
like clods of hair in a drain.
I’ve had multiple births from embryos implanted
like seeds, into my imagination.
I’m big into cultivation, gestation, articulation
and eradication.
There’s an earthworm casting in my brain.
I’m here to sing a song that longs for Cong.
You can’t go wrong among the throng
where you belong
with your ideas on yellow leads and purple cows.
Compiling & Composing a New Poem
Imagine: An old mature narrow pub in Ireland downtown Dublin in October 2018. on Monday 15 October 2018. An A5 notebook by Leuchturm1917.
2pm. Because it’s there
The Palace Bar floorboards fair game for lunch
The Guinness there went down without protest
It was food for legs that traipsed from Abbey Street.
Refreshed the brain grown soggy with exhaustion
Oil to lubricate a head too heavy for its neck.
Down the throat between the teeth into the mouth
like a dive in the Atlantic
after the sun set
between the teeth down the throat
a liquid lunch with a pen and notebook
all for the sake of a man who never turned up
all for the sake of a story that
never came through the door
battle fatigues, a beard to stroke
bare arms, long hairs
an ear to scratch, Kindle to read
through black-rimmed glasses
he was bald enough for an
adventure
he lifted his pint with his right
hand.
She came to take snaps off the street to take snaps
smiled with awe and appreciation
wanted to stay until the Bulgarian
signaled time to go.
another story the didn’t lift off.
a bird is known by its song
a man by his conversation
Fleet St
The Palace Bar
__________________
For the sake of a story that never was told
for the sake of a stranger who never turned up
I walked in through the bar door
of the Palace Bar
I took to the stool
for the sake of a pint.
I drank till the porter stout was gone
_________________
Work (towards a poem) in progress
Imagine: The Republic of Work in Cork @ 12:49 on 18 October 2018
The Floorboards in the Palace Bar
are tight
No light for ghosts from The Irish
Times
to leak through
on to a stool or two…
______________
Autobiographies
Autobiographies
I drank coffee over bacon and cheese
writing autobiography,
as easy to swallow as Rapunzel and Guinness.
The woman in a cream suit
shook gold earrings and munched
waffles from Idaho
soaked in organic maple syrup
with her mouth open
reminded me of my mother,
Paul, close your mouth when you’re eating.
I read the wine list
in the mirror
behind my back.
That was as difficult to do
as swallowing cod liver oil neat.
How many autobiographies live unwritten
within this life,
under the surface,
scratching for release
from Purgatory?
Am I lost in Dante’s wood,
or sunshine?
Is this Idaho real,
or escaping on the page,
a fleeting fairy tale?
I couldn’t catch her name.
Irish leader greets the Pope
Greetings Francis,
Leader of the humble Roman clan,
Micheál D, Leader of the noble Irish clan
bids you come in peace.
May your visit transform you,
as the salmon transformed Mac Cumhaill
Your arrival has been expected,
as the swallows of summer
and the floods of winter.
We thank you for your prayers
We are grateful for your confession
as ever we are when a bold child seeks forgiveness.
We are moved by your contrition.
As you begged for mercy from survivors
we celebrated your sincerity.
We greet you with the proud heart of a wounded dog.
May your stay be sweet
May your sleep on sheets be bitter sweet
May you dream the dream of a injured stallion
that will never again win a race.
We offer you courage to change
the shape of your smile
the tone of your tongue
the breath of your benediction.
The noble Irish clan
so squashed and squandered
by scourge of Vatican
worships no more
at the feet of any vicar,
nor any bishop in sheep’s clothing.
We have made ready for you Franciscus
Ireland will have its way with you.
What news do you bring?
What song shall we sing?
Friend.
Coffee with the Pope
I had coffee with the Pope today.
His was a flat white (as you’d expect),
mine was black as humour.
We broke croissants,
both wore sandals,
not a rosary beads between us.
The text on WhatsApp, I thought was a joke,
or Michael Kelly, The Irish Catholic,
flying a kite, ready to redact.
“Paul, forgive my intrusion,
I know you’re no longer one of the Faithful,
I heard you don’t believe.
But I’m in trouble surrounded by Followers
too holy for Salvation.
I need a youth to give it to me
between the eyes,
like David to Goliath.
When I land in Dublin Airport,
should I fall on my knees
and beg forgiveness?
Prostrate myself and be flayed?
Or surround the air with prayers ,
the yellow and white,
the Pioneer Pin,
the Crucifix?
Maybe a donkey to the Áras?”
Spilt coffee,
bags under his eyes, yellowed teeth, double chin,
coughing up phlegm.
“On Saturday, I’ll feel Ireland underfoot
Ivan the Terrible was born,
Nietzsche died, Armstrong too.
The Holy Trinity was confirmed,
Galileo showed us his telescope.
What have I to offer?”
A desperate man looking for lost family.
Figment.
Cracked glass.
I hadn’t the heart to help him.
