The Islander

Chapter One

He could have been on Sherkin, Inishbofin, Skelligs or even Rathlin…

He was an outlaw, cast away from the land,

away from his people.

His face didn’t fit,

his family were not from the right side of town.

There was no time for him, he could rot there.

Eventually his spirit would break,

he would comply, he would conform,

he would be broken

It would teach them,

show them not to meddle with our family,

not to get above themselves.

Yea, twenty-seven winters on Sherkin,

twenty-seven springs on the Skelligs

twenty-seven summers on Rathlin

twenty-seven years of nightmares

on any island you fancy.

It was good to keep him there, disappeared.

Our family had need of safety,

his family were dangerous,

thugs, revolutionaries, communists, rapists.

oh yea, uncouth, uncivilised, Untermenschen.

 

Chapter Two

Our family is special,

we have survived our own wars.

We’re used to feeling superior

Our family before all families

our tribe before all tribes

Our village the white man’s burden

Everyman is an island

We have not balked at blood sacrifice

We have buried our enemies in unmarked graves

– even displayed corpses to teach families how to behave themselves

We survived war against an Empire of superior force – that gave us backbone.

That gave us good enough reason to turn the tables on families of inferior beings.

Oh yes, our family is special – forever.

 

Chapter Three

You will not leave that island

You will languish in your dreams

You will scratch your balls

You will scrape the fleas in your hair

You will freeze your bollocks off.

We will control you.

When we let you out – it will be to die.

Our family is ordained to carry the burden of ruling this land.

Yes, your family is bigger than our family

Your family’s so big it’s disgusting.

Your people are everywhere

but your people are worthless

we’ve made sure of that.

________________
The sea the sea the sea

the waves the wind, the ocean, the cold

the fish the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean

the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean the seaweed
____________________

Eat your heart out Islandman – we have you.

Oh yes, we’ve had you now for 27 years.

How did you pull through?

 

Chapter 4

Are you coming off that island?

Are you coming to take our land?

to obliterate us?

to wipe us out?

coming to leave a bloodbath?

Are you going to leave the island

like an avenging angel

– the Assyrian descending on the fold?

Going to be the Inquisition?

Going to be ethnically cleansing us?

Are you going to force our children to leave?

split up all that we’ve created among so many

and leave everybody with hardly anything?

Who are you?

who are you after?

who are you after festering anger resentment?

You must be a walking bomb

walking terrorist

you must be a killer of all of our dreams.

I see you now,

we see you now,

step ashore

 

Chapter 5

I must say you look rather good after twenty-seven years.

If I’d been there for twenty-seven years

I probably wouldn’t have stood up as well as you look

maybe your family has some kind of metal in your DNA?

maybe you’re just bloody tough?

Who are you Islander?

Who are you warrior?

What’s in your mind?

What’s in that heart?

Why should we trust you?

–  the only thing we can trust is our own fear.

Yes, we’re outnumbered

Yes, your family is bitter.

What are those words forming in your mouth?

What’s that look in your eye?

What’s that breath from your nostril?

You’re walking towards us,

Are you coming to wipe us out?

Now that your time has come

Now that every other bastard has abandoned our family

and left us alone

left us isolated

left us rejected

Yea, we were at the forefront of fighting for what we believed in,

for what we thought others believed in.

Yes we were the top dogs once,

Now,

we’re lepers

spat on

rejected

no one from my family can get married into any other family.

And you will inherit the earth.

I expect you’ll get revenge now

You’re coming

You’re coming across

You’re coming ashore

You’re coming inland.

What’s that you hold in your hand?

What are you doing with your hands?

Towards whom are you

outstretching?

You don’t mean to offer me a hand

You cannot mean to stretch out a hand.

It’s a trick.

You want to persuade me you are a friend

come from twenty-seven years

on that,

on Sherkin, on Boffin, on Skelligs

You want me to believe that’s is a genuine hand?

As soon as you grip my hand

you’ll pull me under

you’ll squash me to death.

I know,

that’s what I’d do

if I was in your position.

You want my hand.

your hand is warm

your eye is warm

you are forming words

you are looking over my shoulder

beyond where i stand

you are looking beyond my family.

You have brought a flag with you

a towel,

a canopy

a rug

something that will go over everybody.

You expect me to join you

You expect me to work with you

You expect me not to run and hide

You expect me to accept you

You expect me to be your partner

And you will not take everything from me?

You will leave me with my money intact?

You will leave me with my capital acquired?

You will leave me with some shred of self-respect?

God

it feels like you’re offering me a route to Salvation

Where the hell have you come from?

Where the hell did you become like this?

You stretch out a hand of friendship

a hand of warmth,

a hand of the future

You restrain your family from eating me alive

You prefer us to be together than have us all go down.

You are serious?

Islandman,

What kind of a resurrection is this?

What stones have you rolled back?

What cave have you come from?

What sort of Heaven on earth are you trying to create?

When you were on that island,

and I was on the mainland,

you were a small guy.

You were locked up in a place

where i didn’t have to see your eyes

where I didn’t have to feel your hand.

But now I cannot avoid you

I cannot ignore you

I cannot step away from you.

That island:

Sherkin, Inishbofin, Skelligs, Aran,  Saltees, Lambay, Rathlin…

– they’re all our islands.

We’ve always used islands to lock inferior beings away out of sight.

Now those islands have turned everything inside out,

turned everything on its head.

I don’t know what to say

I don’t know where to look

I’ve embarrassed by your strength,

by your courage

by your power.

And you know what the worst thing is?

You’re so bloody humble

You are so bloody humble

You offer warmth, friendship

You offer togetherness

You offer hope

You offer a future,

My children – they don’t have to die

My children – they don’t have to run

Our children can play together.

Where have you come from?

What happened to you

on that island?

Is there any chance I can do twenty-seven years on that same island?

 

Chapter 6

The Unknown Unknown…

We are all the creators

all families creators

all individuals creators

Any chance we can all do twenty-seven years on the island?

The end of the beginning.

Lost on Bastille Day


https://audioboom.com/boos/4835479-lost-on-bastille-day-new-poem-by-paul-o-mahony

Lost on Bastille Day

‘Let them eat heads
and suck sockets dry

before they answer “Why”‘.

 

I’ve lost my count of children

– the adults never counted –

lost to the flags of war.

 

It’s said that ten valuable ones

were crushed on Thursday night

promenading where the English played.

 

Others say Fallujah girls and boys

were incinerated over falafels

and their fathers cried for ever.

 

If there are any grandchildren awaiting birth

they’ll be primed like birds of prey

to strike without warning.

 

Will you count the loss for us?

Portrait of a noble winesmith 

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Portrait

The wine he poured from an old glass

the grape distilled at least twice

the place inherited easily

from bishops, politicians and King.

The first growth he loved

Monsieur Christian –

guardian of the blue pool

alongside mosquitos

pink roses and a caramel tree

fortified juice a white touch –

paid taxes to the elected government

sold bottles for a living

walked in shade

as water flowed up from mountains.

Proprietor with title and vocation,

a travelled homme

le rouge et le blanc.

——

Note:

Written 3 August 2012 after a visit to Chateau de Beaulon

 

Dreams

Dreams

Moses never led his people to the promised land

Magellan never sailed his ships home

Puccini never finished his journey to Turandot

I’ve never reached my daydreams.

I led up to them,

talking and walking

barefoot on  moss,

across streams

to the other side.

I reached for them on tippy-toes

never let go.

That’s my trouble

I’m no Michelangelo

and so I watch those daydreams

grow and grow

into memories

–  elephants in  my room –

wondering  what Moses felt

as he watched the people

leave the desert

their daydreams shining.

Maybe it’s a feast to simply daydream

and trek on

until I lose the breath for daydreams

and ‘in that sleep of death

dream on.

 

Testament 

Testament

The bible is my survival

when they come

calling for my salvation

And it isn’t Matthew Mark Luke and John

that bail me out…

Who composed this poem?

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The moment I see

a thousand snowdrops blooming

under snowflake sky

I know my soulhome is here again

————–

Note:

I don’t know who wrote this. I don’t remember writing it. It’s in my iPhone notes without any information. 

So it won’t make it into my next poetry book or collected works. 

No matter – I like it – it means something to me.

If you wrote it – please claim it. 

Warmed

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Warmed

I am a wood frog in a previous life.

You would probably think I was dead

if you saw where I was inside logs and burrows

 

heart stopped

ice crystals in my blood.

I defrost in the warmth of Spring.

 

Before that, I am a deer mouse

huddled together snuggling with the others

I don’t live for long.

 

In my time, I am a white-tailed prairie dog, a bat, hedgehog.

I am even a skunk

suspecting that’s where I began.

 

Last December

I all came together in this chilled life –

until my sun got warm again.

Pulse

My child went to dance his night away.

And mine went for the love of her life.

My children had names.

My parents came out looking for  everlasting love.

My family were herded together like cattle

and passed into the cold beyond

kissed by the fire of bullets

from a manufacturing plant

owned by anonymous shareholders.

These are not my words

I have no words fit for a future

that blows like a gorgon’s breath

spawned by Hell’s army.

Bless me Father for I have sinned

I have lost my pulse

and wished the thieves the same.

My child, my child …

Hell

 

image

Hell

From the depths of Hell in summertime

Dante heard his name called

wished he’d misheard.

However,

he always knew it wasn’t enough

to write a description of Hell

to ward off the experience of hell on earth.

I am Dante

I’ve tried to write my way

out of misery

– wished many times

I could have woken up dead –

longer than that Italian moaned his lost love.

—-—————

Notes:

(1) This poem was written during a livestream Periscope on 8 June 2016 – in 10 minutes.

(2) The first line was suggested by @shaggydog69 “From the depths of Hell” & @brendyrussell11 “in summertime”.

(3) The scope was both nerve-wracking & fun.

Bluebells – new poem by Paul O’Mahony 

Poem

draft:
 
 

Bluebells

When you go out to the bluebell wood

to paint the white bells blue

holding hands with your granddaughter

I advise you go by night

with light of the moon

– so you don’t paint the wrong bells

so neighbours don’t catch you mad

so you show her how to make magic

how to restore order in the universe.

Don’t squash the bluebells.

____________

With thanks to William FitzGerald  the storyteller

Walt Whitman’s birthday – new poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Lines composed on the birthday of Walt Whitman (1819-2016)

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean” (Walt Whitman)

There’s a lot to be said for waking before dawn
in a strange bed
with friends next door
– especially if you stretch to a bookcase
crammed with unfamiliar words
fingering spines,
loafing at your ease.

Better still, when the bard of democracy calls:
Pick me, pick me, take me to your heart,
I’ll grow your spirit.
– his beard promising you adventure.
– a smattering of rain strumming on mullioned glass.
And you reply “Hey, why should my finger linger?
Why draw you to my side?”

The first light swells,
‘the wilderness of unopened life’ grips you,
and sings of ‘passion, pulse and power’
– as a barnacle to a rock.

“Prayer” – new poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Prayer

I

They said they’d pray for me,
warmed and discomforted me.

Pray for us sinners” echoed
Get down on your knees and pray
in pyjamas by the bedside,
after I leant on the drawing room sofa
reciting five decades of the rosary
every evening
looking towards the fireplace, coal box, chess books and bibles.

Now mother’s accepted she’s the one who’ll do the praying.
No more pushing, she’s done her best.

II

To pray
is human.

My friend with cancer wrote
“I’ve prayed for my health and yours,
five times a day,

everyday.
A hummingbird whispered
Surely you can say ‘I pray for you’
Shame on you.”

Like a guilty child I stumbled
May your heart be warmed by the love you give to others.
(I wish I’d added “… and yourself.“)

III

By the river that washed the soles of Bernadette
I rebelled:

Every step of my way’s a prayer
offered in hope,
in thanks,
contrition,
desperation,
love,
in celebration of tickling mysteries.”

Now I stand in prayer, warm and discomforted,
my way, this day.

 

“Lost Love” – poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Lost Love

I’ve lost my love for you,

forgotten your name

among so many others.

 

Are you worth remembering?

Do you matter at all

any more?

 

Will you ever return,

re-emerge like hibernator?

Are you buried forever underground?

 

Could it be your disappearance

isn’t even noticed

and no tears shed for you?

 

The good of you fallen,

sieved like flour and icing sugar,

leaving only useless lumps?

 

Your name a melted hailstone,

gone from sight,

faded.

 

Pray surface in your own time,

lost love loved again

even if you’ve forgotten my old name.

I wish

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I wish

I wish for Plenty:
manna, songs, dancing, smiles
gin, tonic, lime – even porter and champagne

especially the hugs of others
warm hearths for my belly
I wish for nothing less than a place at the next resurrection.

(I found no seat at the last supper.)

What I’m greedy for now lies beyond
nights of sleep, hummingbirds, smoked salmon, diamonds.
Tis daylight peace without end.

(It is a blessing to want.)

My longing rose from the dead on Monday evening
not long after a shrink  spilled her seed on fertile ground
and stones moved in concert.

I wish I knew the secret of how to sow miracles
the way a spirit splits and multiplies
the rising of the sun.

(At least I remember her name.)

There’s nothing like a breath drawn up an elephant’s trunk
nothing like the atmosphere of air
Lazarus found out  – and so did I.

Maybe I’ll remember how to wish next time round the mulberry
– trees breathe, leaves bud again.
There’s plenty to be found.

I wish

nb_pinacoteca_dore_divine_comedy_inferno_01a_dante_astray_in_the_dark_wood

I wish 

I wish for nothing in particular

nor gold, nor silver

nor the slightest material star

 

Not even the love of another being

nor warmth from the sun.

I  wish for nothing beautiful.

 

What I crave lies beyond words

beyond prayers, beyond faith

beyond me: it is dead.

 

It died on a Thursday afternoon

not long before the assent

to the peak of Christmas dawned.

 

I wish for the return of the property

stolen from air I use to breathe

– I have a nickname for it.

 

But the memory is punctured

the proper name dribbled away

beyond reach, beyond breath.

 

It refuses to respond to my cries

lets the echo fester and reek of cracked eggs

in case I forget it wasn’t always so.

 

I wish it was like Lazarus

reincarnated human.

Maybe I’ll go on wishing and breathing too…

____________________________

Note:

Composed just before xmas 2015. With special thanks to Lars.

ThoughtForToday – 21 December 

  

Respect yourself

Be warm

friendly

kind

generous

loving

to yourself.

Practise on yourself

– day in day out 

ThoughtForToday – 16 December 

  

You are well

No matter how you feel, 

no matter how much misery 

has visited you, 

no matter what others say, 

no matter how hard you find it.

Because 

deep down 

you are a wonderful person. 

Hang on to that

mad

crazy

proposterous 

life-saving

thought

Rain and Wind 

  

When I was a child 

I loved 

the sound of rain & wind 

on glass 

as I curled up warm 

under bedclothes. 

In front of this fire, 

I haven’t grown up