Author: Paul O'Mahony

I'm Paul O'Mahony - living in Cork - Father - Poet - member of Toastmasters International - Business storytelling consultant - Podcaster - Blogger - Foodie - Loves to connect with people. . linkedin.com/in/paulhomahony

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.

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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.

The Pope is coming on the Joe Duffy Show

The Pope is coming on the Joe Duffy Show

Wherever the people are gathered, I want to be

However Irish men and Irish women care to listen,

I want to be

among those who have supported me

those who built my churches

my schools

my hospitals

my laundries

my graveyards.

I have prayers to make

on Joe Duffy,

Confessions to make

on TalkToJoe.

Contritions to express

on Liveline,

Penance to receive.

DIVINE HEADLINE

Will Joe take my call?

Hear my all?

At all?

Don’t I deserve to be heard?

Can you not stomach another apology?

Another stream of Vatican Vernacular Verbatim?

They call me Francis

I am not Franciscus

I am the Vatican

Institutional Man

I stand for the Vatican

I behave the Vatican Way

I did not write a letter

There was one on file

Rome designed the words for me to deliver.

Rome will be on Joe Duffy.

If Irish children, Irish women and Irish men

believe,

if you believe me, the Vatican, the Bishop of Rome.

Wherever the people are gathered,

I want your belief

Will you have me on the show?

Will your researchers prepare me?

Calm my nerves?

Steady my trembling tongue?

Joe@RTE.ie

I am the Holy See.

Condescending You, Condescending Me

I was on my way from life to death,

Crossing over from poverty,

Searching for what’s right for me.

It’s a mountain hard enough to climb,

A mountain hard enough to climb.

Condescending me,

Looking down on me,

From way up high on your pedestal.

You whispered to me ever so free,

You spoke to me ever so free,

with a smirk in your eyes

“You are a woman,

I see you can sing,

and you really can dance,

you even understand,

and you’ll improve

and you’ll grow up

and realise why I’m so wise.”

– With a smirk on your face

You put me in my place..

Condescending you,

condescending me.

I met you in the bar that night,

and in the club where we danced all right.

My hopes arose, I was aroused

by the look in your eyes

by the cut of your gib.

By your sighs,

you seemed ever so wise.

It was a shock, it was a rock,

It was demise,

I could see in your eyes.

“That’s good for a woman,

that’s good for a woman,

That’s ever so human.

I’m very impressed,

You’re not even stressed.”

Your tone was a knife,

it cut me apart

Your look was a spear

flung deep in my heart.

You woke me that night

Condescending me

Condescending you

From your mountain top,

to a weed below,

Condescending me

Condescending you.

I was on my way, from life to death,

crossing over from poverty,

searching for what’s right for me.

And it sure ain’t you,

And it sure ain’t you

Condescending you.

You can fuck yourself

You can fuck yourself

I’m looking after me

I’m looking after me.

I’m looking after me.

The Pope is almost here

These are fragments I’ve scribbled down while listening to the Irish national news today.

They came quickly from a fund of anger that festers within my body.

I’m sharing these phrases here in case I don’t sculpt them into verse soon. These are the exact words, warts and all.

The Pope is coming here

Defender of the Faith
God’s Vicar on Earth
Protector of priests
Conspiracy
Defender of pedophiles
rapists
Jesus Christ must be tossing in his grave
Confessor
Propagator of Untruths
Poser for the Poor
Prayers
Celebrator
Defender of Eucharist.

A chalice of putrid blood
the blood of people
abused
destroyed lives.
Destroyer of children
Leader of liars
Bishop of Rome
the central committee for the propagation of vice
7 deadly Sins
Mortal sins.

Salvation from prosecution

Infallible corruptor

The institution of Pope is here already in every parish + diocese

The silence of brother
the silence of priests, nuns
housekeepers
confession.

How shall the faithful welcome him?

longing, flags, reverence, prayers,
adoration

 

Moving

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Moving

(for BKB)

Our kitchen clock has ticked,
time to pack up,
time to clear out,
cardboard boxes,
still life on the living room floor.
A full-stop.
Another paragraph written.

This house has done its work.
Candles burnt.
We were here,
a joint composition,
major and minor keys,
melody,
atonality,
dissonance,
harmony.
Unfinished symphony.

More than poetry.
Infinity of haiku
silent rooms between
characters.
On this stage,
we voiced parts,
fashioned scripts,
co-authors.

I’ve written my way through this house,
stepped beyond the deck,
out into a backyard
to trees and stream
underneath snow.
(Memories in parentheses)
Our kitchen, hearth of home,
chairs, a shrunken table,
furniture that made space grow.

Chicken noodle soup from a can,
potato chips,
grapes,
milk from a carton,
silver spoons,
our last supper.
I don’t know where we’ll eat tomorrow.

Never known the next phrase,
the sentence to come,
the chapter after this,
the story’s conclusion.

Like a hummingbird’s nest,
where we eat, drink, love, grow, sing,
shall we weave together twigs,
plant fibers,
bits of larch leaves,
shall we thread spider silk to bind our nest
together
and anchor
to another forked branch.

Martin Miller on ice

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‘Illogical Juniper

Irrepressible blend’

Icelander

Raspberry squashed with basil

Ice from Glanmire

Song Lyrics

Electrifying you

I slept thru every dream with a moonbeam in my ear

And every time that Venus cried the lightening hit my side

You were my lover thru the night though you were out of sight

Behind the mind

Electrifying you

Electrifying you

Behind the blind

You were sleeping on the beach, you were buried in the sand

And every time that Venus cried, I swore I knew you sighed.

You were a better lover then, I want you back again.

Behind the blind

Electrifying you

Electrifying you

Behind the mind

I climbed a mountain high,

with your breath blown in my ear,

And every time you slipped away, I tore a thread and say.

You were a sleeping lover bee, you burnt my spirit free

Behind the mind

Behind the blind

Electrifying you

Electrifying you

Moonbeam

Moonbeam

Moonbeam

The Pope is on His Way

(Chapter I – draft)

Pope Francis is coming to Ireland,
knickers are in a twist.

Coming to pray
Coming as planned
Arriving to bless
Landing to confess
the sins of the faithful
the sins of a hierarchy,
families concelebrate.

Repentance
Benediction
Crucifixion
Restitution
The children defiled,
the mothers condemned,
infants stolen, like birds eggs, blown away abroad.

Christ’s vicar on Earth,
the man from Rome,
History man
Encyclical man
Ex cathedra man
Transubstantiation man
The head of the clan
Father of all children
Head of the State of Original Sin.

Yellow and white,
Immaculate robe,
Conception of the Word
Sentenced to mortal coil
– like the snakes Patrick drove
into an everlasting sea.

Whom shall the Hurt see?
Broken Shattered
Splintered Torn
Reverend Mother Mary Magdalen
Brother Francis on the shoulders of Goliath,
Disciples of John Charles McQuaid.

Francis knows
We paid our dues
We sacrificed our flesh and blood
We gave our sons and daughters to the cloth
We confessed
We took our penance
We made good confessions,
and we took Extreme Unction.

In other words,
We supported you
We consecrated you
We elevated you
We assumed
you would lead us into the Kingdom,
past Peter,
through the gates,
bathed with a holy spirit.

Instead,
The bastardisation of love,
projection of affection,
sublimation of copulation,
birth control by unnatural rhythm
– Unnatural Inclinations

Welcome the Man
whoever you be,
Expose the Man to tears
Strip back the cant,
Roman chant
We know where you’re coming from,
Where will you hang your hat?

For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory
for now.
Amen

Limerick in honour of Francesco’s victory

.

There once was a golfer Molinari

who sank putts from all over Carnoustie

The thick of his wedge

had her right on the edge

till the dam burst and in walked Renati.

Concocted

Concocted
Dear Ray,

I am a meaning-making machine,
I concoct my own reality.
Conjunctivitis rules,
this teabag doesn’t work.
I am my body,
raspberries for all.
God bless the tea.
I am at home,
it leaks sometimes,
I have fallen asleep here.
Do I mean too much for my own good?
Without Rosetta Stone we wouldn’t be where we are.
And the fire in my brain
has burnt an imagination
to cinders.
It is the morning of the day,
this is my way.

There is now an interlude…

Battle Cry

liberty-leading-the-people-by-eugene-delacroix

Battle Cry

I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m waving all the time
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
It’s time a star-bearing woman
Wore her stripes and gave a damn
Before the sun settles down
Before my face starts to frown.
Because, I’m living in a magic world
Because, I’m walking in a dreamscape
Because, the truth is flying free
Because, the news repeats my plea
Because the truth is flying free,
I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
It’s time for Stars and Stripes
Memories of Stars and Stripes
Stripes and stars forever
Stars and stripes forever.
Ah let’s arise to the side of children in the cages
Fire, fire, flag-bearing waving woman
And we’ll rise from the dust with settlers’ wagons on the trail
Fire, fire, flag-bearing waving human
Ah, we’ll tear down that dark wall, we’ll welcome children in
Pull back the curtain, show the promised land
Memories of Stars and Stripes, we’ll welcome freedom in.
Flag-waving women extend a helping hand
It’s time for Stars and Stripes
Memories of Stars and Stripes
Stripes and stars forever
Stars and stripes forever.
I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m waving all the time
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
__________________________
Note:
There’s an audio version here – it includes some of my thoughts about the piece.
[Image Source]

Insidious

img_96822

Insidious

I was walking along a couple of roads,
one turned to the sea, the wave, the water, the tide …
one sloped to the mountain, the scree, the rock, the peak …
I followed a breath like a hunter.

There were distractions,
high like eagles,
busy like bees,
imaginations
like sugar,
addictions,
paradise,
a sweet-shop shining
scent of fish
nectar,
pollen,
ice.

I was walking along a couple of roads
when the earth gave birth to twins,
and twins to twins
I followed a breath like a hunted fox.

Who first ate an egg?

Her name isn’t known.

Wild jungle fowl were domesticated as early as 3200 BC. [East Indian history]

Fowl were eaten more often than eggs.
Eggs were saved to hatch to supply fowl.

Fowl were laying eggs for man in 1400 BC. [Egyptian & Chinese records]

(All this information was found on the internet.)

 

This is not a poem

It’s a heatwave. What was it like to get drenched, to be showered on, to come home damp & dank?

The longest day is past.  Gone for a year. It was a tipping-point, nevertheless snow is unimaginable.

Lazing round listening to languid language – utterances from friends, acquaintances, companions, strangers: research time.

There is a time for everything.  Now is the hour for breathing through your nose.

Who knows what’s coming?

Music maybe.

 

Children

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[Image- painting – by Robbin T Milne – with permission]

Children

No matter how tall the leaves of grass grow,
the snow will fall again on the field.
The rabbits are running now,
nettles feasting on sunshine,
and the bees are minding their own business,
somewhere else.

No matter my friend has lost his friend,
there will be friends again.
There is a cancer in the fields,
long shadows over hedgerows,
birds I cannot name sing without melody,
and life growing underfoot.

How are the children now? Who are the authorities?
Are there any youngsters without tears flowing,
without tears repressed, stifled?
There are shards on the road, and dust,
buttercups and dock leaves,
foxgloves, and infants on the roads.

An iron gate opens,
an iron gate shuts,
a horse looking for attention,
a gray standing still,
maybe there are fresh eggs.
Why were the children born?

There is horseshit everywhere I look
Clean it up, someone – I’ve said enough.
God bless America,
The horses have bolted,
who’s in charge here?
The leaves of grass are growing,

whether we like it or not.