Category: poetry

I travelled to Africa today

Ghana and Mali.

When I was a child in Limerick my imagination didn’t stretch to Africa.

It never crossed my mind that I would go to Accra in Ghana or Bamako in Mali.

But I knew the name Timbuktu, the city that’s Tombouctou in French.

It never crossed my mind that Timbuktu in Mali might be twinned with Hay-on-Wye in the Black Mountains. That’s Wales.

My father collected National Geographic Magazines. I got the impression there were photographs of African people, animals, rivers, mountains, trees, and skies in every issue. The pull-out maps were big.

I had coffee in West Africa yesterday. I brought with me the best wishes of the people of Glanmire.

Two countries “bridging the gap” they said. You could see it happening in front you as you were drawn into the conversations.

Space travel on Earth.

(written on Saturday)

613,200 is my special number

613,200 or thereabouts. As a Greek tongue uttered,

“Being exact is superficial – and misses the point.”

For example, there is always something singular about a droplet of acid – especially when it’s deoxyribonucleic.

And when I said there were 31 days in my ‘birthday’ this year, I trusted you wouldn’t take the news literally.

As suspected, I’m a bit of a codjer – a seanamadán.

“To play with words is to tickle your imagination” – as Socrates’s mother said, the day he made the Brazilian team.

The poetry of numbers is infinite and tangential to the main stream. That’s why particles of verse – those that pass the litmus test – prove to be a promising investment during pandemonia.

What a demon of a number that has been – at times.

It’s the conundrum that’s a treat to understand, I imagine.

Losing confidence, credibility & competence

Alliteration isn’t always appropriate.

Whatever was worrying your world will wither when whoever you wished would stop wallowing wittingly would withhold their words wistfully.

On the seventh day

On the seventh day of his birthday, Paul kept going in a direction he couldn’t fathom.

The virus followed him, keen to sneak through his protective efforts.

He couldn’t shake her off his trail.

Even while he was eating meringue, vanilla ice cream, and black berry compote, on Princes Street, outside Nash 19, she was still pursuing his cells.

Paul wore a black mask. He was beginning to find some masked women attractive – as if his imagination had life left in it.

The elastic was stretched. The Americano so slow to appear he decided to leave without it. He went to buy an AeroPress.

Meanwhile, a pleasant man was replacing the screen on Paul’s iPhone 7.

‘How do I know the virus isn’t in my cell phone?’

Paul was used to talking to himself.

These days

These days people have cars, televisions, Sky, mortgages, pets, smartphones, broadband, jewellery, credit cards, education, holidays, bills, debt.

More to lose

than ever.

Attachments.

There’s always been affection

Always attraction

Always people to love.

Music cures

Poetry is music to me.

Meaning that every poem is a melody. It has its major chords, and minor key.

Tonality

Syncopation

Rhythm

When I approach a poem, I get ready to read it aloud. If there are people nearby, I move away.

I want to taste the words, phrases, and punctuation as they’re uttered I want to feel the flow.

The syllables are like notes from a piano. Words are chords. Lines like bars.

Adagio,

Andante

Apassionato

The great poems have many movements.

They cure me of bad habits.

On the third day

There was still something to admire

Leaves yellowing

Moistened grass

An apple

holding fast to a Worcester tree.

The cat sleeping

Footballers from Mayfield

Hockey players in Garryduff

Jack Russells yapping on a sideline.

Red wine running out

Cabbage in curry

A sliver of Cheddar

Coconut milk from a tin.

Rice

Reheated & plonked on a plate.

On the third day,

There was morning and evening.

I don’t like myself this morning

I will own-up here. Give you the full facts (assuming there is such a thing as as fact).

After looking at WhatsApp, reading one message, and sending an audio reply …

After looking at emails that came in overnight, deleting all but one, and replying ‘ok’ …

I read the headline. The first paragraph. The headline, the news.

It sank in quickly.

I don’t admire the person I met in the kitchen this morning. I’m not proud of myself, my feelings, nor my thoughts.

I confess I had an evil mind. May my mother (RIP) forgive me. I must take responsibility for the flood of emotions I welcomed.

There was nothing noble about my hopes. Nothing honourable about my wishes. Nothing generous for breakfast.

Once upon a time, I wished my mother would break a leg, and be confined to bed for six weeks. I wished her no pain. All I wanted was for her to be incapacitated – so I and my friends could be free to enjoy ourselves without her rules hanging over us.

I may not like the person I am today, but it’s the second day of my birthday month.

A day to celebrate.

The 31 day birthday

He was overdue. A home birth. A first-born. His poor mother, she never complained nor forgot.

The centre of their universe, it took him months to realise there was more than one universe, because, in common with all infants, he began life on the outside feeling nothing but his instinctive desires. It never crossed his mind that there was an other.

He was only wanting.

From North Circular Road in Limerick to 13 Waterloo Road in Dublin to 54 FitzJohn’s Avenue & 10 Gayhurst Road in London to Bradford-upon-Avon in Wiltshire to Bath – and today in Cork.

“You haven’t changed much” resonated – as he contemplated in the kitchen he shared with dog, cat, wife & daughter.

“You’ve saught attention all your life. You’ll go to your grave (or cremation) still seeking even more attention.”

He swallowed tea from a mug decorated with a rooster. It was tepid by now.

The blueberries on top of his moist muesli – fat, firm and fruity.

It was 1st of October 2020, a day to celebrate his ongoing maturity. “Others haven’t survived. Thank goodness some of us have.”

Already he’d treated himself to a slow getting-out-of-bed. A bit of Twitter, Facebook, WhatsApp, RTE News, BBC News, and Social Audio.

A shower, shave, and fresh underpants – it was a day for distinctive action. He had a personality worth appreciating, and ruminating on.

However, he was shocked when he entered the kitchen. So wrapped up in himself that it never crossed his mind that anyone would take him seriously.

“I was half-joking when I said this October was my birthday month.”

The person who’d sent the tall plant – that sat on the cream tiles – had blown him away, lifted him up, and left him blinking.

“Is it plastic or growing? For me or my wife?” – as he fingered the giant variegated leaves, and stalks.

He ripped open the blue envelop.

“Happy Birthday You Silver Fox” the card announced. ‘

There’s nothing to say

An empty mind, an empty space, nothing pushing to hatch. This is when I should write. One letter after the other, as if each was one step after the last one. It only takes one letter to keep going.

Thinking there’s nothing to say is a good way of stopping myself saying anything. Writing is the problem – words flow easily enough from my mouth.

Maybe I should speak into this laptop?

Maybe I should go get a notebook – a Moleskine. For years notebooks have been my companions. Often I’ve felt half dressed without one.

Which is worse? A notebook without a pen – or a pen without a notebook, napkin, back of an envelop, fag packet, a tablecloth. (I remember proposing marriage in a restaurant where I wrote the verse on a paper place mat.)

When will the apple fall from the tree?

When’s the time to put the green parasol away in the green shed?

Where have the small birds gone?

There are always questions, when there is nothing to say.

Connections fail

Most connections fail. The contact ends. Broken intentions, disconnections abound.

“She put the phone down on me.”

“He didn’t reply to my letter.”

“My smoke signal went unanswered.”

“I lost your number.”

“I got lost.”

“The carrier pigeon met a hawk.”

“There was an hurricane, an earthquake, a volcano – and I forgot.”

“The tsunami sundered our prospects.”

Today I became unconnected. I lost it. One moment I was in full flight, rapport growing by the nano-second, smiles igniting all round the room.

And then she dropped me. Cut me dead. Zoomed off with her friends. Not so much as a funeral.

I tried to get back in touch with her. But nothing worked.

I thought we had a good thing going.

That’ll teach me to take her for granted.

When I reflect on my life

which is a dangerous occupation, I notice too much. Especially too much time lost. For example, this morning Roger Overall and I were scheduled to record the Business Jazz podcast from 09:30. As usual, every Friday morning, I was running a few minutes late.

Intent on catching up, making up for lost time, I hurried onto Zoom. Laptop booting up while I joined the meeting via iphone7. A man with two joining devices.

A man with no sound. The smart phone was quick, as usual. The MacBookPro slow, as usual.

Here’s how the time of my life, both of our lives, was squandered.

Silence. I couldn’t hear Roger. He couldn’t hear me. We were reduced to text messages. You can’t record a podcast via text. (Poor effort at humour)

Eventually, we recorded the podcast via Skype.

How much time was stolen from us by that unwelcome gift of silence? (Perhaps I am a better person for the unpleasant experience?). But it was a horrid time – so horrid I dare not remember, or calculate, how much of my life was squandered.

This is a theme of my return to blogging: remembrance of lost time. A la recherche du temps perdu – remembering Proust – and the time I was able to speak French well enough to converse (never well enough to be subtle with it).

The time I pause here – the time in between sentences, phrases, and even words – is purposeful. Gathering energy, clarity, and alacrity – that’s time well invested.

The time of my life.

The Cupidity of Reason

I never thought it would come to this,

it doesn’t seem fair.

I do not think I will wear a mask,

no matter who cares.

I will never think to conform nor confide

Private Citizen me.

The stupidity of Reason.

Writing from impulse

Teeth are complex growths.
There are a lot of things that can go wrong with your teeth. You know that from experience, and when I woke up this morning I was aching. Top right, about half way along the row.

It was five o’clock, and dark. It’s a good long time since I woke that early and struggled unsuccessfully to go back to sleep. Imagine the rest…

Chances are you’ve been there. The human condition…

It’s the same with dogs,
Louis’s vet told me on Tuesday. “I wish every dog-owner would brush their dog’s teeth” were her words. I bought a toothbush and asked for instruction. The advice came free. Louis may have a troublesome back tooth.

Teeth are complex,
and mine have been fill with all sorts of things ever since my first dentist insisted every crevice should be drilled.

I’m impelled to touch on my teeth because the impulse to write on this topic came while I was saying to myself “I must embed this new habit. If I write here every day. for 1,000 days, I’ll do for the rest of my life. Probably.”

Start with what you know.
Was it Hemingway or Aristotle who first said that? I know what it’s been like to experience the pain fading away. It’s midday, it’s gone.

Should I rush to the dentist? Take my time? Place it in the box marked “Bad Dream”?

Your Field Of Dreams


I slipped onto the stage that Wednesday night,
our audience in rapturous applause.

I bawled my way into their hearts.
The Path I’d come was a long, nourished, winding road.

The midwife grinned, concluded her Service,
and tucked away her fears.

I was born to cry,
it was not time to speak.

If you’d known me then,
you’d have judged me unique.

II.
My father, the bookseller, could not bear the pain
of reading my mother’s face
as she bore the body language and every laboured move.

My father slurped his pints, with friends,
in Murphy’s bar on Catherine Street
until he was turfed out
to meet me on another stage,
with Respect 
– before the cock crowed.

If you knew me then,
you’d have counted me (Eh) a child with Potential.

III.
After that start, and before I came to greet you
I joined the club. Together we chartered “Excellence Born From Fun”.

You, my friends, you know
the way you came into the world of faltering phrases.

You know
the years at school were not enough to wipe the jitters from your heart.

You know
what it’s like to be married to Trepidation, to be caged like a tiger separated from her Confidence.

You’ve lived on stages and danced with clogs
on floorboards creaking for flight.

Today, of all days,  let us join together and thank the gods.
This online day you come divorced, divorced from the Demon Doubt
that on your stage once reigned.

Come here, dear friend, from every field of Earth.
Let us separate together
from a spouse that vowed the worst on you, that vowed you’d fail

and celebrate.

Un-vow that contract with Trepidation
It was made under duress
Annul the marriage of unlike minds
Cast off the shackles that hold your larynx tight.

Arise angelic audience
Arise and sing together the lyrics Smedley sang
Your “Song of Champions”,
Champions of the World.

You know what it’s like to be a flower born to bloom on stage.
Rise up
and Promise
Promise you’ll trust that sweet melody of Integrity 
that’s growing in your field of dreams.

The Cauldron

Let’s not go back through the whole story
– who was right and who was wrong
– who was trite and who was strong.
Let’s not chew the cud nor blaspheme
into the eyes of the other side.

All us elephants belong together,
no matter the weather,
even if we carry opposing memories
in trunks weighed down
with the affluence of a river stream,
weighed down under the influence
of our tribe of scribes.

Don’t you remember … ?
Haven’t you forgotten … ?
Surely it was a dream
conjured up in daylight
suffered by night
under O’Ryan’s belt
or Murphy’s plough
– the one she gave away
to her infant star?

Let’s not dwell
on the hell
of the big bang
our sides faced
in silence,
the vacuum of peace
and war of the worlds
we each imagine
the other inhabits.

We elephantine serpentines,
we cling to the underside
of the all-knowing
Red Admiral.
We think we know better than to rage
against the fading meteorite.

In the puddle of blood we dribbled
from wounds our flashpoint celebrated
there isn’t an ounce of virtue
outstanding.
There is time in space
extending
all about a place
as warm as a teddybear’s tummy,
as soft as powder down
on a heron’s breast.

We are witness.

Let’s move on to the pale moon light,
and wake the characters within
a freshly scrubbed cauldron.

#2019

2019

IMG_8932

1.

The year I changed

my mind, priorities, concerns –

2019 was the year

I woke up to the end of the world

as we know it.

The future of human civilisation,

the future of animal life,

the future of vegetables.

All’s lost,

all’s on its way out.

Earth smiles knowingly:

“off you go, you upstarts,

I’m tired of your foibles,

I recall the good old days,

when you lived on plains,

in villages,

hand to mouth.

Even your first fire was fuel.

Goodbye to ugly habits.

I love being Earth,

the future is bright

half the time,

The stars will illuminate

the way to dusty death.

2.

The year I turned a corner

and bumped into my shadow

going the other way,

contradicting

the art of resurrecting.

Maturing.

This has been the year I matured

into the light of a river flowing

with the voice of bones

creaking and cracking,

consternating.

There was gin in the bottle

crying out for a taste,

neat,

at room temperature,

as the ice melted,

as Greenland peeled back her corset,

and the emperor penguins cried their way

towards their end.

3.

The year I stood up straight

in storms, hurricanes, typhoons, tornadoes, famines, earthquakes, floods, lightning, thunder, droughts, volcanoes, collisions, crashes, massacres.

I’m living among refugees –

the people of Monasterevin, Carrickmacross, Oughterard, Moville, Rooskey, Ballinamore, Borrisokane …

The Nivea Way


It’s a long way to blemish-free day,
it’s a long way to go.
It’s the wrong way to cover wrinkles
with the strongest cream, you know.

Goodbye painting daily
Farewell first-world mask
It’s a long long way to Wrinkleful Day
But our hearts lie there.

The Laboratory Way

Copernicus was struck by sun


Galileo toiled on speed


Newton was premature


Darwin sailed to sea


All knew apoplexy 


Hawking a singularity 


Turing cryptography


Einstein messed with relativity


Aristotle lost his bottle


Let’s go to the Laboratory


Mix the chemistry


Let in the sun


Our failures breed us fun.