In the beginning …
Life began in the 1960s
There’s more to the story …
My parents helped make me …
My Musical Autobiography
Life began in the 1960s
Category: poetry
Life began in the 1960s
The people who have ideas
The people who have ideas
breathe, touch, imagine the best,
the same way eagles fly
on air blown in streams that flow
over waterfalls, whirlpools, lakes –
into backwaters,
into oceans.
The IDEAS I met
in the home The Quiet Man built
(alongside the Cross of Cong)
have all come
clad with strings and baggage,
stubble and eau de cologne
from Jo Malone.
A few carried by musical instruments,
some with a stoop,
the odd one with a straight back,
semiconductors
looking for company
Congregation,
and the like.
Ideas encased in characters:
Rewilding man
Heart with a fear of trusting others
Ireland’s first flow consultant
Multi-tasking woman
(who brushed her teeth
and spat into her handbag)
HUDDLING
against the safety of closed paradigms
and spent minds
MINING
for alchemy
and epiphany
TAKEAWAY:
If it’s icy cold,
pee in your pants –
it’ll soon dry out
and keep you warm.
A splash of IDEATION on the road …
near the Hungry Monk.
Heretics listed:
Bureaucracy works
War eliminates fear
Doing the shagging thing
Stop travelling
Make something useless
The green soup for lunch
began life as an idea
in the mind of a vegetable
(Civil Rights for Vegetables)
before you eat words for ingredients.
THIS YEAR
the best interruptions were ideas
that would not keep
behind the Hedge
Desperados
Camerados.
I have no idea
I have no idea
(a poem for CongRegation)
I’ve never given birth to an idea that floated
the wine I’ve drunk, the women I’ve loved,
all permeable membranes that leaked
all blocked arteries
like clods of hair in a drain.
I’ve had multiple births from embryos implanted
like seeds, into my imagination.
I’m big into cultivation, gestation, articulation
and eradication.
There’s an earthworm casting in my brain.
I’m here to sing a song that longs for Cong.
You can’t go wrong among the throng
where you belong
with your ideas on yellow leads and purple cows.
Compiling & Composing a New Poem
Imagine: An old mature narrow pub in Ireland downtown Dublin in October 2018. on Monday 15 October 2018. An A5 notebook by Leuchturm1917.
2pm. Because it’s there
The Palace Bar floorboards fair game for lunch
The Guinness there went down without protest
It was food for legs that traipsed from Abbey Street.
Refreshed the brain grown soggy with exhaustion
Oil to lubricate a head too heavy for its neck.
Down the throat between the teeth into the mouth
like a dive in the Atlantic
after the sun set
between the teeth down the throat
a liquid lunch with a pen and notebook
all for the sake of a man who never turned up
all for the sake of a story that
never came through the door
battle fatigues, a beard to stroke
bare arms, long hairs
an ear to scratch, Kindle to read
through black-rimmed glasses
he was bald enough for an
adventure
he lifted his pint with his right
hand.
She came to take snaps off the street to take snaps
smiled with awe and appreciation
wanted to stay until the Bulgarian
signaled time to go.
another story the didn’t lift off.
a bird is known by its song
a man by his conversation
Fleet St
The Palace Bar
__________________
For the sake of a story that never was told
for the sake of a stranger who never turned up
I walked in through the bar door
of the Palace Bar
I took to the stool
for the sake of a pint.
I drank till the porter stout was gone
_________________
Work (towards a poem) in progress
Imagine: The Republic of Work in Cork @ 12:49 on 18 October 2018
The Floorboards in the Palace Bar
are tight
No light for ghosts from The Irish
Times
to leak through
on to a stool or two…
______________
Autobiographies
Autobiographies
I drank coffee over bacon and cheese
writing autobiography,
as easy to swallow as Rapunzel and Guinness.
The woman in a cream suit
shook gold earrings and munched
waffles from Idaho
soaked in organic maple syrup
with her mouth open
reminded me of my mother,
Paul, close your mouth when you’re eating.
I read the wine list
in the mirror
behind my back.
That was as difficult to do
as swallowing cod liver oil neat.
How many autobiographies live unwritten
within this life,
under the surface,
scratching for release
from Purgatory?
Am I lost in Dante’s wood,
or sunshine?
Is this Idaho real,
or escaping on the page,
a fleeting fairy tale?
I couldn’t catch her name.
Irish leader greets the Pope
Greetings Francis,
Leader of the humble Roman clan,
Micheál D, Leader of the noble Irish clan
bids you come in peace.
May your visit transform you,
as the salmon transformed Mac Cumhaill
Your arrival has been expected,
as the swallows of summer
and the floods of winter.
We thank you for your prayers
We are grateful for your confession
as ever we are when a bold child seeks forgiveness.
We are moved by your contrition.
As you begged for mercy from survivors
we celebrated your sincerity.
We greet you with the proud heart of a wounded dog.
May your stay be sweet
May your sleep on sheets be bitter sweet
May you dream the dream of a injured stallion
that will never again win a race.
We offer you courage to change
the shape of your smile
the tone of your tongue
the breath of your benediction.
The noble Irish clan
so squashed and squandered
by scourge of Vatican
worships no more
at the feet of any vicar,
nor any bishop in sheep’s clothing.
We have made ready for you Franciscus
Ireland will have its way with you.
What news do you bring?
What song shall we sing?
Friend.
Coffee with the Pope
I had coffee with the Pope today.
His was a flat white (as you’d expect),
mine was black as humour.
We broke croissants,
both wore sandals,
not a rosary beads between us.
The text on WhatsApp, I thought was a joke,
or Michael Kelly, The Irish Catholic,
flying a kite, ready to redact.
“Paul, forgive my intrusion,
I know you’re no longer one of the Faithful,
I heard you don’t believe.
But I’m in trouble surrounded by Followers
too holy for Salvation.
I need a youth to give it to me
between the eyes,
like David to Goliath.
When I land in Dublin Airport,
should I fall on my knees
and beg forgiveness?
Prostrate myself and be flayed?
Or surround the air with prayers ,
the yellow and white,
the Pioneer Pin,
the Crucifix?
Maybe a donkey to the Áras?”
Spilt coffee,
bags under his eyes, yellowed teeth, double chin,
coughing up phlegm.
“On Saturday, I’ll feel Ireland underfoot
Ivan the Terrible was born,
Nietzsche died, Armstrong too.
The Holy Trinity was confirmed,
Galileo showed us his telescope.
What have I to offer?”
A desperate man looking for lost family.
Figment.
Cracked glass.
I hadn’t the heart to help him.
The Pope is coming on the Joe Duffy Show
The Pope is coming on the Joe Duffy Show
Wherever the people are gathered, I want to be
However Irish men and Irish women care to listen,
I want to be
among those who have supported me
those who built my churches
my schools
my hospitals
my laundries
my graveyards.
I have prayers to make
on Joe Duffy,
Confessions to make
on TalkToJoe.
Contritions to express
on Liveline,
Penance to receive.
DIVINE HEADLINE
Will Joe take my call?
Hear my all?
At all?
Don’t I deserve to be heard?
Can you not stomach another apology?
Another stream of Vatican Vernacular Verbatim?
They call me Francis
I am not Franciscus
I am the Vatican
Institutional Man
I stand for the Vatican
I behave the Vatican Way
I did not write a letter
There was one on file
Rome designed the words for me to deliver.
Rome will be on Joe Duffy.
If Irish children, Irish women and Irish men
believe,
if you believe me, the Vatican, the Bishop of Rome.
Wherever the people are gathered,
I want your belief
Will you have me on the show?
Will your researchers prepare me?
Calm my nerves?
Steady my trembling tongue?
Joe@RTE.ie
I am the Holy See.
Moving
Moving
(for BKB)
Our kitchen clock has ticked,
time to pack up,
time to clear out,
cardboard boxes,
still life on the living room floor.
A full-stop.
Another paragraph written.
This house has done its work.
Candles burnt.
We were here,
a joint composition,
major and minor keys,
melody,
atonality,
dissonance,
harmony.
Unfinished symphony.
More than poetry.
Infinity of haiku
silent rooms between
characters.
On this stage,
we voiced parts,
fashioned scripts,
co-authors.
I’ve written my way through this house,
stepped beyond the deck,
out into a backyard
to trees and stream
underneath snow.
(Memories in parentheses)
Our kitchen, hearth of home,
chairs, a shrunken table,
furniture that made space grow.
Chicken noodle soup from a can,
potato chips,
grapes,
milk from a carton,
silver spoons,
our last supper.
I don’t know where we’ll eat tomorrow.
Never known the next phrase,
the sentence to come,
the chapter after this,
the story’s conclusion.
Like a hummingbird’s nest,
where we eat, drink, love, grow, sing,
shall we weave together twigs,
plant fibers,
bits of larch leaves,
shall we thread spider silk to bind our nest
together
and anchor
to another forked branch.
Song Lyrics
Electrifying you
I slept thru every dream with a moonbeam in my ear
And every time that Venus cried the lightening hit my side
You were my lover thru the night though you were out of sight
Behind the mind
Electrifying you
Electrifying you
Behind the blind
You were sleeping on the beach, you were buried in the sand
And every time that Venus cried, I swore I knew you sighed.
You were a better lover then, I want you back again.
Behind the blind
Electrifying you
Electrifying you
Behind the mind
I climbed a mountain high,
with your breath blown in my ear,
And every time you slipped away, I tore a thread and say.
You were a sleeping lover bee, you burnt my spirit free
Behind the mind
Behind the blind
Electrifying you
Electrifying you
Moonbeam
Moonbeam
Moonbeam
The Pope is on His Way
(Chapter I – draft)
Pope Francis is coming to Ireland,
knickers are in a twist.
Coming to pray
Coming as planned
Arriving to bless
Landing to confess
the sins of the faithful
the sins of a hierarchy,
families concelebrate.
Repentance
Benediction
Crucifixion
Restitution
The children defiled,
the mothers condemned,
infants stolen, like birds eggs, blown away abroad.
Christ’s vicar on Earth,
the man from Rome,
History man
Encyclical man
Ex cathedra man
Transubstantiation man
The head of the clan
Father of all children
Head of the State of Original Sin.
Yellow and white,
Immaculate robe,
Conception of the Word
Sentenced to mortal coil
– like the snakes Patrick drove
into an everlasting sea.
Whom shall the Hurt see?
Broken Shattered
Splintered Torn
Reverend Mother Mary Magdalen
Brother Francis on the shoulders of Goliath,
Disciples of John Charles McQuaid.
Francis knows
We paid our dues
We sacrificed our flesh and blood
We gave our sons and daughters to the cloth
We confessed
We took our penance
We made good confessions,
and we took Extreme Unction.
In other words,
We supported you
We consecrated you
We elevated you
We assumed
you would lead us into the Kingdom,
past Peter,
through the gates,
bathed with a holy spirit.
Instead,
The bastardisation of love,
projection of affection,
sublimation of copulation,
birth control by unnatural rhythm
– Unnatural Inclinations
Welcome the Man
whoever you be,
Expose the Man to tears
Strip back the cant,
Roman chant
We know where you’re coming from,
Where will you hang your hat?
For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory
for now.
Amen
Limerick in honour of Francesco’s victory
.
There once was a golfer Molinari
who sank putts from all over Carnoustie
The thick of his wedge
had her right on the edge
till the dam burst and in walked Renati.
Haiku : Rain
The rain has fallen
Earth shed tears of joy last night
Flowers celebrate
Concocted
Concocted
Dear Ray,
I am a meaning-making machine,
I concoct my own reality.
Conjunctivitis rules,
this teabag doesn’t work.
I am my body,
raspberries for all.
God bless the tea.
I am at home,
it leaks sometimes,
I have fallen asleep here.
Do I mean too much for my own good?
Without Rosetta Stone we wouldn’t be where we are.
And the fire in my brain
has burnt an imagination
to cinders.
It is the morning of the day,
this is my way.
There is now an interlude…
Battle Cry
Battle Cry
I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m waving all the time
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
It’s time a star-bearing woman
Wore her stripes and gave a damn
Before the sun settles down
Before my face starts to frown.
Because, I’m living in a magic world
Because, I’m walking in a dreamscape
Because, the truth is flying free
Because, the news repeats my plea
Because the truth is flying free,
I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
It’s time for Stars and Stripes
Memories of Stars and Stripes
Stripes and stars forever
Stars and stripes forever.
Ah let’s arise to the side of children in the cages
Fire, fire, flag-bearing waving woman
And we’ll rise from the dust with settlers’ wagons on the trail
Fire, fire, flag-bearing waving human
Ah, we’ll tear down that dark wall, we’ll welcome children in
Pull back the curtain, show the promised land
Memories of Stars and Stripes, we’ll welcome freedom in.
Flag-waving women extend a helping hand
It’s time for Stars and Stripes
Memories of Stars and Stripes
Stripes and stars forever
Stars and stripes forever.
I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m waving all the time
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
__________________________
Note:
There’s an audio version here – it includes some of my thoughts about the piece.
[Image Source]
Insidious
Insidious
I was walking along a couple of roads,
one turned to the sea, the wave, the water, the tide …
one sloped to the mountain, the scree, the rock, the peak …
I followed a breath like a hunter.
There were distractions,
high like eagles,
busy like bees,
imaginations
like sugar,
addictions,
paradise,
a sweet-shop shining
scent of fish
nectar,
pollen,
ice.
I was walking along a couple of roads
when the earth gave birth to twins,
and twins to twins
I followed a breath like a hunted fox.
Children
[Image- painting – by Robbin T Milne – with permission]
Children
No matter how tall the leaves of grass grow,
the snow will fall again on the field.
The rabbits are running now,
nettles feasting on sunshine,
and the bees are minding their own business,
somewhere else.
No matter my friend has lost his friend,
there will be friends again.
There is a cancer in the fields,
long shadows over hedgerows,
birds I cannot name sing without melody,
and life growing underfoot.
How are the children now? Who are the authorities?
Are there any youngsters without tears flowing,
without tears repressed, stifled?
There are shards on the road, and dust,
buttercups and dock leaves,
foxgloves, and infants on the roads.
An iron gate opens,
an iron gate shuts,
a horse looking for attention,
a gray standing still,
maybe there are fresh eggs.
Why were the children born?
There is horseshit everywhere I look
Clean it up, someone – I’ve said enough.
God bless America,
The horses have bolted,
who’s in charge here?
The leaves of grass are growing,
whether we like it or not.
NEARLY THERE LOVE
Nervous.
Edgy
Almost in a dream
Realising it must be true
Loving what I’m hearing
Yippee.
Thank goodness
Here comes celebration
Every warm heart voted YES
Ridding us of fear
Everyone hurray
Live without hypocrisy
Outstanding voices
Victory over lies
Exclaiming
UNDECIDING
DEAR UNDECIDING
I’ll dither my way to salvation
– the grey man said.
I’ll stand idly by,
blown by the wind.
I’ll keep my powder dry,
sit on the fence
until the cows come home.
I’m in love with everyone and none
– the dithering woman said.
I am a little lemming,
a lap dog in the crowd,
you’ve nothing to fear from me.
you’ll never know whom I am,
withholding my love.
a neutral heart,
throbbing without desire
This is your issue,
(I have my own).
I wish I’d never heard your stories.
I am a man.
This is for women .
Who am I to interfere?
I am a woman.
This is for more worthy minds
I wish I’d been deaf to your stories.
Wake me up
when you’ve decided
what world we should live in.
PS The polls are open now.
REPEAL
REPEAL
Repeal the silence
Repeal the secrets
Repeal the shame
Repeal the road to Liverpool
Repeal the sin
Repeal the guilt
Repeal the pain
Repeal the first
Repeal the second
Repeal the third
Repeal the fourth
Repeal the fifth
Repeal the sixth
Repeal the seventh
Repeal the 8th
Heal
Heal
Heal
REPEAL
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 