By birth,
by blood,
by bleeding,
a Muslim
a human
being.
Massacred
mercilessly,
as if excreted
onto his chopping board
and swept into a rubbish bin.
My crime was to pray
to the wrong god
on Friday morning.
He was the judge,
the jury,
licenced to kill.
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?
Don’t make your poems rhyme,
unless you’re a genius with syllables.
Don’t stuff yourself into a wedding dress,
nor imitate Cinderella’s sisters.
Half-rhymes are a different matter,
provided you miss the end of the line.
Ignore my view if you’re happy
to write mediocre cant,
bland, sentimental, niceties
your friends will lap up
and forget.
Crimes against umbrellas,
fine, generous and irritating
stress on the wrong core
of earth where you scatter salt
pepper, cardamom and treacle.
Stop fretting over dictionaries
in search of le bon mot.
You’re better to scatter and slant perspiration
before you blame your education.
My name is Donald Trump,
I’m the leader of the band.
I piss, I fart, I shit – I jump.
Sure I know we are all grand.
I’m a man who thrives on basics.
All my hair carefully made.
See these hands forever laid.
Believe me hugher than a Phoenix.
I’m greater than they say,
You want to know my way?
Ever one to steal a deal,
you want to eat my meal?
Build em high, build em strong,
Motherfuckers, bastards, wrong.
Let us send them all back home,
Let us lock them in a SuperDome.
I know you’ll hear my strong decrees.
Let’s see, what only we can see.
Let’s call them out, those Holy Joes,
those PC pussies, I suppose.
We are the Warriors, the Warriors,
no worriers, no foreigners
No losers here.
Lend me your ear
We shall build the tallest tower.
Let’s be rid of all things sour.
Motherfuckers.
Let the judges fear our wrath.
What a shower of lazy suckers.
We will turn their children back.
I am the Lord of Every Deal.
This one deserves a damn good feel.
With me you win, never grow thin.
We’re so righteous, we’ll never sin.
I will make America great
I will make the whole world wait.
We shall be forever tall
when we build that fucking wall.
My name is Donald Trump,
I’m the leader of your band…
I’ll put Nutella aside for a year,
Nutella for lunch, and syrup for tea,
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
(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.
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.
(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!”[
(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
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
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.
Today, in my kitchen, at 10:30am, I’m reading “Letters to a Poet” by Rilke – into my Voice Record Pro App.
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.
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.
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.
____________________________________________________
https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.jsWhat an excellent way to capture an unfolding day. Your mention of a day in D Minor especially caught my attention. There are so many beautiful music compositions in D Minor you could maybe play to alleviate the day’s discordance.
— Tara Breslin (@stationarygypsy) February 16, 2019
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
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.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 