Category: poetry

 

Tiger was in his Hell,

he crawled into his Purgatory,

cried in silence,

like a bleeding lion

speared by an unrelenting hunter,

couldn’t walk to his Calvary

unassisted.

Tiger fell from his Garden of Eden

into Job’s pestilence,

out of the Mouth of the Whale,

and the tomb stone,

Tiger put on the mantle of Lazarus.

He faced his Peter at the Gates of Augusta

with firm forehead, trusty swing, and magic

conjured from the old days before his Flood.

Was it a plenary indulgence

lifted Tiger into his Heaven

in four days?

The black man from the innards of a dark wood

strode out on the Last Day of the Masters,

Resurrected.

 

Up and down, in and out,

even clockwise and anticlockwise,

thesis & antithesis,

contrary & collaboratively

When does a conversation begin?

In wombs,

by streams,

in lightening,

in the playground,

over coffee & tea leaves.

How does conversation move?

Like lichen in a hurry,

like racing jaguars

desperately striving to escape lava,

in fits & starts,

like a revolving Black Hole.

Who’s welcome in a conversation?

Gods,

angels,

devils,

shamen,

magicians,

jugglers,

clowns

queens,

princes and umpires.

You

foreigners,

Me

Roger.

Here’s an example of a conversation…

called “Business Jazz Podcast”.

When I lived in a black hole, no light escaped.
Light-bearing tones
were sucked in by the gravity
of waning density.

My black hole never filled,
there was always room
for matters to collapse inward,
growing melancholy.

As pain sank in,
like nails driven into the palms of Christ,
you saw my face
lighten for a camera.

Scientists used to have a theory of general misery.
They said my black hole would collapse
and, just as Dante emerged from his dark wood,
I would regain my fire,

and become a star reborn.

Which is more unpleasant

an Americano without body

a meal without taste

an apple rotten to the core

a woman who’s never cried

a man afraid to try

a child you can’t distract

a secret smashed to smithereens

a dream turned sour

a faith unfounded

howls of slaughtered daisies

weeping willows in drought

the last gasp of an olive tree

a whale beached on barnacles

the last dodo dying in chains

an island of plastic reproducing

a dog that will not walk

a cat that cannot purr

an elephant on crutches

fifteen years of carbuncles

sixteen decades in a black hole

seventeen centuries without a change in the weather.

What is it like to be a man?
the painter asked.

Is it the stubble that grows on your face?
Is it the underpants and trousers you wear to work,
the brogues you pull over your socks,
the wombless life you live.

What is it like to resemble a man?
the painter asked.

To talk like a man,
to eat like one of the lads,
to have male blood in your veins,
and the wombless way you walk.

What is it like to feel a man?
the painter asked.

To feel grown up,
to shut your mouth when entranced,
to be silent when dismayed,
to keep secrets from your best friend,
and mature in an eggless, wombless existence,

the painter asked.

 

 

If all our mothers disappeared from Earth

If our young women never again gave birth

There’d be no more elephants born

No afterbirth to consume

No eggs to hatch

No more pups, kittens, cubs, kids, calves, colts, fillies, foals, porcupettes, lambs, duckling, keets, cygnets, poults, pufflings, goslings, eaglets, efts, tadpoles, codling, smolts, spats, spiderlings, wrigglers, chicks, hatchlings, joeys, toadlets, snakelets, antlings, leverets, kits, eyases,  shoats, farrow, ephyrae, squeakers, pinkies, nymphs, elvers, squabs, hoglets, wormlets, fawns, fingerlings,

Bacteria

 

The rain was downpouring on Monday evening.

Cork city centre was dark at 7pm because black clouds hung low. No one was outside on Oliver Plunkett Street.

I certainly wasn’t. I was warm and snug in the Hi-B, halfway into a pint of Guinness. Myself in the corner next to a couple who were leaning into each other.

I can’t resist eavesdropping. A habit from childhood.

Why have I never told you you have wonderful teeth?”

Thinking about it “could anyone resist listening in to that?

She said nothing at first, as if she’d misheard.

Your teeth are precious.

I saw him cross his ankles & tuck his legs under the seat. He pulled back from her eyes smiling.

How do you mean … precious?

They sparkle, so white. I’ve never seen teeth like them.

In all my fifty plus years paying wrapt attention to the intimacy & frivolity of others, I’d never seen anyone woo anyone by complementing their teeth.

It reminded me of the teeth poems I’d written when I was working for the National Trust.

The cleaner who changes her toothbrush 47 times a year…

The father who manages on two brushes a year…

Sounds like you fancy my teeth?

That’s not all he fancies, I said to myself.

Life is electric,

it sparks

it flows

it explodes

like lightening

in sheets

and forks.

Fuelled by water

fossils

and atoms.

There is more to electric light

than meets the eye.

Electricity lives in particles

wherever imagination reigns.

You wake up on the golf links, as you do every day.

You tee off as soon as your feet touch the ground.

You have no idea where your ball is going to land – you pray for a decent lie.

You may find yourself buried in a bunker, up against the face, without a stance.

There’s also a good chance you may have rolled into the middle of a fairway – you may be sitting pretty.

Otherwise, there’s always out of bounds, a water hazard, ground under repair, even a hole in one …

You’re not in charge of the wind.

You don’t control the slope.

You can’t command the bounce.

You may even lose your ball.

Wherever you are, you are not lost, you have your clubs, and another ball.

No matter where you lie, you have your swing – you always have your swing.

No matter how desperate your position, you will have another shot.

There will be another ball to strike, another hole, another round to play.

You just have to keep on swinging your clubs, and playing the ball in front of you.

You will finish the course.

You don’t have to keep the score.

Marshlanders of the World,
Asylum seekers from the Wars,
Boatpeople with seawater and the nation’s welcome port;
Sturdy, hardy, chattering
City of the Big Stories:

They tell me you are desperate, and I believe them, for I see your bloodshot eyes plead for sleep and peace from death.
And they tell me you are starving, and I believe them, for I hear your children howl for a bowl of rice, a tablespoon of porridge, even a saucer of tripe and drisheen.
And they tell me you are dying from thirst for friendship, for an arm outstretched ready to pull you ashore and wrap you in swaddling clothes.
And having scraped together, I stand against the crowd that scoffs at this my city, as if they offer a better bed to beggars:
show me the city of your dreams with choirs singing Hallaluia at the docks proud to hug strangers with fire in their eyes,
flinching from complaints, yet carrying on the twisty fight against the lethargy of liars, the hard-of-hearing heads that resist irresistible grace;
cute as a hoor those occupiers of property that lockout migrants from hell, stitched together with courage fit for humanity
cool-headed
open-handed
considerate
giving
planning, restructuring, re-building
Under the fog, tears dribbling on cheeks, smiling with dimples,
Proud to be making history smile to children of the street,
Smiling loud through blackthorn and brambles, out into lanes and alleyways
Laughing with the laugh of the Lough and the Island and the Well where sparrows nest
Raucous
Clasping travellers, boldly, loud in honour of half-dead strangers found abroad,
Proud Marshlanders, a safe harbour for ships, a market safe for the whole world, heart-makers, soul-shifters.
A City of Sanctuary.

____________________________

Cork City Council support 

City of Sanctuary Movement

Places of Sanctuary Ireland

Invitation to launch of Cork City of Sanctuary Strategic Action Plan on March 29th 2019

 

If only Picasso had podcast

from a smartphone,

on his palette,

Guernica might have had more impact.

Women and children might have brought Franco down.

Picasso might have screamed

“The Luftwaffe made paint cling like barnacles to this bloody canvas”.

Le noir, blanc et gris

Das schwarz, weiss und grau

The black, white and grey

The bull and the horse

Coffins

These may be episodes from Season One,

recorded in a Paris studio.

As it was, Pablo did the best he could,

to spread his message

like a virus pulling subscribers,

reproducing itself,

seeping into the ears of a few strangers who watched him work.

If only Picasso had podcast,

and shared his sweat on Twitter,

his voice would have gone viral,

Guernica would be alive

wherever massacres matter.

Do not go loudly out of the room,

slip ever so gently away.

If they know you are gone,

they won’t leave you alone.

Move swiftly away from the light.

Do not stand up when others are down,

let no one see you shine out.

If they spy you on high,

they’ll slice you apart.

Move swiftly away from the light.

Do not die out before you are born,

nor choke your voice from song.

If you spend your talents

buying time and deceit,

there’ll be nothing of you to remember

when we shovel wet soil on your grave.

 

A handyman indeed was Larry,

we agreed he was contrary.

He walked out on us all,

never warned us a-tall,

He slunk off to be tested for Artistry.

If Rilke didn’t abandon his wife & child – and go to live in poverty in Paris – would you have heard of him?

Would his poetry be in print today?

If Rilke hadn’t taken Rodin’s advice so thoroughly, would you be (even a little) curious about what made Rilke great?

Did Rodin mislead Rilke?

Deliberately?

Did Rodin defraud Rilke out of a joyful life – by telling Rilke to do what Rodin couldn’t do?

How much gratitude is owed to Rodin for his dishonesty?

Today is the most important day of my life.

I went to Phelan’s pharmacy for drugs.

I bought cat food from Glanmire Pet Shop, Royal Canin “regular fit feline health nutrition.”

The next thing I’m going to do is pick up my laptop. It’s been serviced.

After that, there are two rugby matches to watch.

The dinner will be a surprise.

Is it any wonder this is the most important day of my life?