Category: poetry

Why does my wife not read my verse?

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Why does my wife not read my verse?

She’s surely not averse

to phrase and lines she reads at work,

her daily dose of prose that lurks

on paper and email I’ve heard her curse.

Poetry, you scheming rat,

you promised you’d deliver

a feast-seducing habitat,

a song to make her quiver,

not a sour look, nor petty spat.

Oh, why does she not sneak a peek

to see what I have written

in Moleskine notebook fit to tweak?

At least she’d know what has me smitten

the day I dared to plumb the deep.

There’s much more depth in me

than fake illiteracy.

I’m a minor chord, a malady.

I’m a scribe in search of melody,

a cloud of nature’s ancestry.

May she not pass like a Pharisee

10 minute poem

(For Robert & Juliette)

I must arise and go now
and go beyond the Pale,
and a small forest grow there,
a heart and mind remake.
And I shall have some ease there,
and peace to rest my limbs,
and she will wait upon the seas,
and walk on roots of birch and spruce.
And I shall call her on the wind,
like gull and hawk in sun.

I must clear out this festering way
and take a mountain step
across the lake that’s shaped my view,
and bid my drive farewell.
When oft I rest in thrall of moon,
and bless the hour that’s struck,
you’ll see me stride among the stars
‘mid leaves that paint a life sublime.
I’ll draw my warmth from a fire she’ll set,
and crack a bottle of wine.

_____________________

Note: This poem was originally composed in 10 minutes – while being recited into my iphone. It took a lot longer than that to knock into this shape.

A fool

It is foolhardy

to drive a car

when your back is out.

Foolhardy to sit

on a sofa

– said the mature man

to himself

as he picked his keys

from the rack.

The three Rs


(For Robbin T Milne)

Rilke, Rodin, Rembrandt

all made for reading

all fit for writing

all writhing with the rhythm of arithmetic life

the precision of patience

lichenlike.

Three men on a mission

To scribe with a steely sense of solitude,

to shape with stoney sight

to paint faces in the light of night

I met Rembrandt alone,

beard like waterfall,

watching stars.

Rodin lost in thought

on a bench

across the street from a brothel

I passed Rilke in a vacuum,

listening to water boatmen

making solitude sing.

I found out later

they all supported the same football team

Picture-painters on the pitch.


The French sculptor Auguste Rodin said, “Compare me with Rembrandt! What sacrilege! With Rembrandt, the colossus of Art! We should prostrate ourselves before Rembrandt and never compare anyone with him!”[

Artificial intelligence

(with thanks to Ray Garraud)

I have artificial intelligence 

Unnatural impulses 

An emotional database 

A robot brain 

Dots & dashes

reflex connections

I am a smart machine 

A digitalised hub

that makes meaning matter

A deepfake 

Virtual vision

Digital imagination 

Holographic presence 

A synthetic wormhole of darkness

I am an algorithm

Antithetical antibody 

I am human image 

Neural synthesis 

Fractalic acumen 

Biblical beta

Lightning connector

Idealistic conductor

Symbolic bridge 

A child of the Deep Blue flag

Superb Stockfish 

I am a labyrinth of thought 

I am Hal in fashionable dress by Houdini 

Intimacy of everyday life

The blood gave Puma what he craved,

that warm connection,

that deeper resonance

the end of a ritual.

the flow from a raw, umbilical cord,

roots

There was, of course, the fur,

the light fluffy stuff.

It was claws that built a bridge between them,

it was sinking teeth in flesh that released the duende,

way beyond play.

It was the same for the bunny,

it was the same for the rabbit,

only this time the rabbit was fed up of being called a bunny.

The rabbit wasn’t cute,

the rabbit wasn’t Flopsy Mopsy or Cottontail.

The rabbit had feelings too.

personified,

objectified,

infantilised.

There’s more to a rabbit than a cuddly thing for children.

If you could get close to a rabbit, you’d meet the animal within,

an animal with teeth,

an animal with family

an animal with ties,

an animal that doesn’t live in cottonwool

has enemies,

is preyed upon,

and is a killer.

Oh yes, rabbits kill cabbages.

So when Puma the cat met the rabbit outside,

there was a deep connection within,

Desire,

the sort of desire a tiger has,

the sort of lust a jaguar has,

the sort of appetite every self-respecting big cat has.

Fear,

the sort of thrill running for your life gives you.

A wildebeest across the savanna,

the ancestors of the rabbits ran free for their lives.

No half-life here,

no cuddly wuddly bunny.

Blood,

flesh,

even the fur mattered

in the utility room that night,

It was the intimacy of everyday life

Diary note No 9 – Captivity

I was born into captivity, into a family, they were in charge, set my daily routine, administered my food, decided when I was heard, what I should see, my destiny.

Those gaolers sent me to an institution that held me captive, defined my agenda, put me in a room, decided what I should learn, when I was good enough, when I should be let out

into another ritual, and on into another asylum.

Gradually I was made fit for an open prison, condemned to a life sentence immersed in a language I had no power to design.

Moment by moment, my thoughts sucked into solitary confinement within a zeitgeist that disguised itself as an dreamscape, shaped with illusions of grandeur.

Captured & captivated, imprisoned & impressed,

As if I was an ant that thought he was a free spirit

As if an elephant that loved to be tethered in a circus tent

Even my imagination ring-fenced.

I was bred in captivity by a family that thought there was a key hidden somewhere safe

As if it could be released in time to avert what is to come.

The ants face extinction

Elephants are shuffling into an abyss

The key never strong enough to turn the lock, and release inmates

These marks, letters, phrases, are a sentence for some and a sentence for all.

The eyes of the wild animal that roves over paragraphs & stanzas are focussed on straight lines.

I don’t see what I don’t see in my captivity.

The mystery of history.

Diary note No 6 – Rilke

Today, in my kitchen, at 10:30am, I’m reading “Letters to a Poet” by Rilke – into my Voice Record Pro App.

RILKE ON SADNESS

I haven’t yet walked the dog Louis.

Questions

How many years is it since I first heard of Rilke?

Was it David Whyte who made the introduction?

Why did I find Rilke so tough, so steely, that I didn’t have the confidence to read him?

What’s happened that I don’t have any such fear now?

How come Rilke feels like the most relevant writer to converse with, to have dialogue with, to have an internal life with?

What’s going on inside me?

Probably it was Maria Popova in Brainpickings who was the tipping point.

She often brings Rilke into her Sunday newsletter which arrives just after 9am.

I associate her with Rilke, and relish the snippets she shares.

Daily diary No 4 – THE COLD

The girl in Liam Ryan’s SuperValu supermarket said: “you probably can’t go home without those.”

She was talking about Lemsip. She also said everyone has a cold now.

I hope mine leaves my chest soon. Tomorrow, I might go to the doctor and get some antibiotics.

Does it make me feel better to know I’m in good company?

SafeHaven2018
happened in May. Today we had our final team gathering in the Silver Springs hotel to finish it off: Sharon, Eddie, Pat, Lisa, Mary (plus her brother Paul) and me. Pat passed round a notebook for each of us to write a few words. I wrote a little ditty like this, and a few lines more.

From little acorns do mighty oaks grow
and little Cork a mighty conference show …

It did me good to go.

Diary note No 3 – Down

Lying in bed at 11:20 am is an un-pleasant thing to do on a Saturday morning.

I slept over eight hours last night, my Snore Lab App shows I snored 30% of the time.

I want to stay indoors all day.

My daughter wants to go out and play a hockey match.

The Wiffe wants to buy logs for the fire in Middleton.

I don’t know what the dog wants,

The cat will find a way to be satisfied.

There’ll be nothing lyrical today. Everything in the minor key.

Discontent

Dissonance

Destroyed

Disconsolate.

I have nothing to contribute out of this empty shape. All energy lost. If I’m not kind to myself today, who will love me enough? Who will pamper me enough?

I have responsibilities.

There is audio from The Talk Show for Talkers” to edit.

There is “The Spy and the Traitor” to finish.

There is the coaching poem which is in draft.

It would be irresponsible not to have a cup of coffee with a friend

Irresponsible not to shave.

Irresponsible not to spend a few minutes thinking of my extended family.

____________________________________________________

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Diary Note No 2 – Baths

Back in Café Beva for a quick slurp with Roger Overall at 9:07AM.

He’s gone now – off to see a potential new client for Show&Tell Communications.

(Maybe there’ll be more work for us in March.)

Baths

I was meant to dash home to let a bathroom-transformer in to our house.

When’s the last time I had a bath? How many baths have I had since 2007?

How many times will I climb over the side and practise the first part of what Archimedes did?

Which came first – the bath or the shower? Which is more popular in Siberia?

Coffee

Thank goodness I got a text from the Wiffe – “take your time, I’m home.”

That’s why I’m sipping a black Americano at a square table which has a Formica top.

The walk

The walk

Dear Mountain Bear,

Thank you for going on the walk I did not do.

You have taken the shoes from under me,

and given them room to breathe the air of night,

while a cryptic owl swooped his silent flight

in search of the very thing I did my best to put away.

The hunt for fresher life, fertile and festive,

in the company of small mammals in plain sight,

in the company of trees in leaf,

earthworms and earthlings,

in the garden of the Big Bang.

It suited me to stay indoors,

and not to cry too much in the face of the messenger outside,

to celebrate a brave warrior‘s walk

into the cradle of my infancy,

into the face of my fears,

into the promise of my fertility.

Falling apart

Falling apart

One day you’re fine,

you’re on top of the world,

full of wonder, purpose, design,

and enough energy to navigate

on an ocean of beckoning life.

Like a cormorant that dives deep

and surfaces with a beak full of fish,

like a hawk that swoops

and rises with the food that matters,

yo u’re in love with the melody of every day life.

Until the day you wake

with a tetchy throat,

raw retching cough,

a nose that dribbles,

and you’re streaming down

into a conviction

there is no way back,

there is only one highway

to the other side,

and the road is rough enough

to erase the memory and melody

of a life you used to think was grand.

A broken wing, a blinded eye,

a crippled hunter,

all paradise lost,

the wilderness of unrelenting self pity.

And you know it will have its way with you,

And you know there’s no fighting back,

no resurrection overnight,

but hours to wait, and drugs,

the chemistry of recovery.

And you are left looking

through the only question

that matters to you,

the only mystery that matters any more:

When will I fall apart and lose my heart,

again.

Song of the Wandering Fog

Song of the Wandering Fog

If you go out in the fog today, you’re not sure of a great surprise.

If you go out in the fog any day, you may not be sure you’re wise.

For everywhere you go through fog

is bound to be confusing,

and everything that’s bemusing you

means a well of anxiety.

I can’t go out in the sun today, nor under a sky that’s blue,

I can’t go out in my favourite air

nor go forward without a care.

As I go out in the fog again, I know I’ll never be sure

when I’ll bash my head on a wall

because fog is obscure and means unsure,

and can even drum up fear.

When I am out in the fog right now, I’m in touch with reality.

When fog is thick and hard to cross,

I’m sure I am not free to act

in charge of my destiny.

When you go out in the fog next time be sure to celebrate.

You’re bound to get lost,

you’re bound to be tossed

into a new divide.

Should you go left or should you go right?

Should you go back or should you press on

when you don’t know where you’re going?

There’s only one way to decide.

Are you ready to be safe and sure to save face,

and what did you do last time?

How strong are your arms, your legs and your heart

’cause they here to help you start,

to welcome the dark,

shake hands with the gloom,

and muddle your way towards a rising moon.

You’re born with a light that shines

from an undergrowth

and you’re never alone in a vacuum.

No fog can extinguish your will to adventure.

Now where shall we go today?

My new shoes

My New Shoes

My new shoes are not worn.

You wouldn’t count a few steps around the kitchen bar on tiles.

The laces are not tied.

and yet these Eccos fit, all toes report.

The sole of that right foot looks eager to move off,

an engine with fuel in its tank.

This left foot craves to be admired and cries aloud

“Look here, unspoiled, a sight behold.”

To move or not to move?

To stay or not to stay?

You never hear the sun afraid to rise.

I bought them black, like onyx,

trusting they’d protect me

from puddles of muddy water

and stem the drain of life

as I grew older.

Let them turn charcoal

as I roam the fields and riverbanks

where blackbird sing.

I shall admire both right and left,

and tie these laces loose

until evening sets

beyond that mountain there.

Emerging from retirement

Emerging from retirement

(for my good friend Robert)

At last I can go to work,

and make my own dawn,

cast off the grip, the drive, the contract of employment,

like hedgehog wake from hibernation,

like black grizzly bear resurrect from torpor,

no longer follow the politics of prose,

nor feign fellowship with routine strokes of stratagem and strategy,

awake with a hawk’s eye,

dive like thick-billed murre for cod and worms,

from the coast of a new land

from the marrow of bones too rested for their own good.

How does an Unbeliever pray?

Not on my knees with head all bound in thorns,
not in a pew prostrate before a god,
not stooped, nor bent, a sinner supplicant,
a poor unworthy man afraid to say:
Like as the eagle soars astride the wind,
like as the river flows from spring to sea,
like as erratic stands upright and firm,
a worthy creature proud to stride the land.

No more a child beset with guilt and shame,
but grown attentive to the joy of light,
humble as dust and underwhelmed by night,
a star that shines and whispers love to all.

We move in prayer, our talent in our verse,
we celebrate in time the universe.

Emissions

Methane is mundane

– cows munch on grass, making gas –

bloating Irish growth

______________

Notes:

(1) Methane

(2) Gas

Idaho – Our Provenance

It is illegal to smoke (mince pies) in these premises,

We will re-open (cream) on Friday 28th at 08:26,

W(h)ines by the bottle,

we sell (humour) gift vouchers.

I sat beside the bag lady
preventing her overcoat
from being (whipped) cream.

Richard’s ebony hair glistened
with perspiration, behind candles
that dripped red calcified wax
to a fine point suspended over
pastry laced with sugar water.

His smile reflected
from the surface of a teaspoon
that had never seen a better day
– just as the jigsaw, fixed to the glass
that protected the map of the island,
cast shadow over Cork

– just as the woman of the house
squeezed a clothes-horse
under the reindeer’s bauble.

“I’m going to Jackson … “
reminded me of Tammy Wynette
and Santa’s brother, last seen
outside Boise wielding a pickaxe and shovel
wanting work whenever women
would watch him waffle on about
“the land of many waters”.

Idaho Cafe is deeper than the Grand Canyon
in affections,
and shorter in afflictions
because bunyons are bound to blush
unseen under square tables.

‘This is forever”, every mince pie,
Esto Perpetua,
there is no Dracula here,
Huckleberries cry.

A locally-owned Breakfast, Lunch, Bapini,
Sweet fix,
with drinks like Idaho
americano, espresso, cappuccino,
marshmallow
– lest you go past the best cafe in Ireland
(voted by aficionados)
without noticing blackboards
full of chalked wines

on the Saturday before Christmas.