Category: poetry

You don’t have to be loved

You don’t have to be loved.

You don’t have to be noticed.
You don’t have to have blood seeping from your heart,
arteries opened and veins cut.
You do not have to have a scowl on your face
for people to pay attention.
You don’t have to be dying
(or wanting to die)
for others to see.
You do not have to feel thorns
pressing into your head
for your lover to be uncomfortable enough
to stop and say to themselves

“Are you OK?
What’s up?
You don’t look good to me.
Is anything the matter?
I wish you’d speak.
I am bothered,
it matters to me.”

You do not have to be silent
for your friend to say to you

“What’s the matter?
You look rough.
You seem out of sorts?
You look awful.
What’s up?

You do not have to be loved.
You don’t have to run away.
You only have to let your body breathe.

__________________

Note:
Written after loving “Wild Geese“
by my favourite living poet
Mary Oliver.

Birthday Card

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Birthday Card

I have not known

your other birthdays.

For me

this has been the year

of your birth,

growth and flowering.

I love you for it.

_________________

Photo by Forsaken Fotos 

In Myrtleville one Sunday morning 

 



In Myrtleville one Sunday morning

Two men in green galoshes plodded thru blinding mud and glistening puddles as friesians foraged for food in a field by the sea.

Electrical wire carried current to discourage the herd from wandering.

The men got there and one changed the boundaries so the cows could eat tufts of grass.

Who doesn’t trundle through dung & slurry on a track to better pasture ?

Who doesn’t push towards others who scrabble for scarce supplies to keep them going until the weather turns and growth resumes.?

Who doesn’t hope for someone to move goalposts and let you stock up for the next bit of the journey from birth to dust?

It’s worth watching mud, cattle and men in sunlight – anytime.

Work – lines written in Spring 1997 



Work

Today,

I did two things at work,

that’s all.

And were those things any good?

They gave me company.

Not being anything…

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Not being anything,

nor holding water,

cleaned out of grit,

a lonely man fears he has nothing

and never really had

anything to show for himself.

Light


Black shoulders, white earphones,
she sits on a wooden stool
in the ‘Internet Centre of Excellence’
on Winthrop Street.

Blends into a smartphone,
consuming power,
hooked,
like my dad consumed TV,
sat by his books
in Fort Mary.

Her fingers fit for a keyboard,
carrying a library
in the pocket
of bleached blue jeans,
sipping water
from a SuperValu plastic bottle.

Frank O’Mahony smoked a pipe
in a drawing room,
sat in an armchair covered in faded flowers,
never blotting a book, straining a spine,
creasing a corner, ripping a leaf.
Father sold books.

Eyes glued to screens,
consuming stories,
liquid crystal married to tubular light,
pathways to wider worlds.

They both wore brown shoes.

There are stones



There are stones
in a rushwork basket
by the fireplace
in my living-room
on Whitehill.
Stones
gathered
from the side
of a sea
where
they were subject
to tides.
Now
they lie
dried
together
on top
of each other,
crushing

There are times

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There are times

There are times the rain
is so heavy, and the cloud so
thick I can hardly see.

There are times the dark
is so choking I can hardly
breathe.

There are times the words
are strangled in my throat.

There are times the pain
grips throughout, and I
am completely at its mercy.

And there are times when it’s
much worse than that…

Putting the bastard 2016 to bed

Every year’s a bastard, and every breath drawn in celebration serves but to fool players into premature revelry.  Some kin to light, some kin to dusk. ‘Tis only in dreams afterwards that I swallow the fuss and regurgitate, thrush-like, through humid hair and a throat rasped with stuttering conviction. Throw up those names. Release each from hope. Let their legacy abide.

From January to May, brutality made hay. Released from Ministry, I flourished under the weight of Melissa’s warm voice, hour by hour, and stayed solid long enough for tablets to prove their fragile relevance. No longer dying to wake up dead. No longer dying to wake up dead, I saved Periscopes, wrote down the food Depression served. Exercise is the curse of the despairing classes.

Enough of this shyte – before I know it, I’ll be composing narrative thrash. In the beginning was the sentence – the phrase of life. What doth it profit a Paul if he gain the whole world and lose his pencil.

Reborn among cherries in Michigan, festivities in Logan Square, and a river cruise through the City of the Big Shoulders.

Bastard verse: Lost Love, Prayer, Dear Reader, Lines Written on the Birthday of Walt Whitman, I am a Wood Frog, From the depths of Hell in Summertime.

Wild Geese redeemed the lot. Where would I have been without Mary Oliver, or  Mary Oliver, or Mary Oliver. Whitman may have been ballast – but Mary was my sail. Dreams, Holes in my Heart, Lost.

At last Il Paretaio – Tuscany – horses – the World Champion Ice Cream (champagne & grapefruit) – Sienna rather than Piza.  And then there was Charlie the pony – or was it Ashley the Princess?

It was a year of schools.  From Eglantine to Scoil na nÓg – from Hitchmough’s to Hyde’s – from one teacher to another. Bastard learning. Gin & Tonic. Taking the Mick.

And all the time we were basking in that Summer of Content , a Buffoon gave birth to bile, Brexit came to life – 20 years a dripping . Drip, Drip, Drip – the light went out on Little England  and Little England coughed its way, multiplying cells, an Empire on its last legs. “Leave, Us Alone” – “Give us back our toys“.  You can all rendezvous up your je ne sais quoi. Gute Nacht you coal & steel mongers. Our David, Your Brussels. Fuck Goliath. We have no need for manners – now that we have a Wall for President.

Oh yes, it was exciting to return from the Dead to abandon Dante in the cesspool of Buffoon Trump Tower, feet on putrid ground.

Let’s ignore Aleppo and tweet the Chinese out of existence.  Let’s sit in Blackrock Castle Observatory Café promising to meet again for Xmas lunch.  After my dearest wish has spawned an Age of Extraneous Inebriation, after Leonard Cohen has sung “Resurrection” to the tune of “Retribution“, cleansing the pallet so it’s ready to Stop All The Clocks and arrest Midnight before it strikes the gong for the Ascension into the Great Heavenly American Beast the Cute Hewers love to imitate.

In case you think Nebraska Alaska Montana Louisiana and Lisdoonvarna rule the Universe, I predict there will be Breath in 2017, there will always be an Aleppo – even if there will also be a Coalition with an Enda intent on hugging a Pope.

A bastard mongrel beauty – a #goodcountry waiting to be found.

Born in Aleppo



Born in Aleppo 

I come from a small place in between Paris, Nice, and the Hinterland.

I was born in Aleppo. 

I had friends there. 

Some had shoes, 

others rice. 

I don’t know what most survived on.

I was talking to Charlie Hebdo.

He said  ‘you’ll have to laugh your way through all the hail,

you’ll die many times before Aleppo.’

I believed that line. 

There was always a cat,

somewhere,

ready to pounce  

with a hungry mouth.

Cats are drones. 

One of the girls lost her mother to a cat. 

We were all born in Aleppo. 

It’s as if we came from Africa 

drawn to die 

on the bank of the River of Martyrs

before the smiles reached us. 

#greatestpoemseverwritten No 18

Stop all the clocks …   by WH Auden

 

https://bumpers.fm/e/b1c6htesesgg02ubc08g

Avoid conversations

Conversations are dangerous:more people have been injured during conversations than in all human wars.Conversations kill: more relationships are put to death during conversations than during all the songs ever sung by all the women. Avoid conversations like the plague: too many conversations hurt like earthquakes hurt. If you find a conversation friendly, remember pearls and oysters.


Avoid Conversations

Conversations are dangerous:

more people have been injured during conversations

than in all human wars.

Conversations kill:

more relationships are put to death during conversations

than during all the songs ever sung

by all the women.

Avoid conversations like the plague:

too many conversations hurt

like earthquakes hurt.

If you find a conversation friendly,

remember pearls

and

oysters

I have to write something

That woman.

That pesky woman is my muse.

Until that man – that foolish clownish jester has collapsed on his own self-esteem…

Until everyone who eats with him is repulsed by his belching & farting…

Until all his children & wives & employees are sick of him…

Until there is a global alliance of USA Asia Australia Antartica Cork Canada Greenland Russia China Galway North Pole South & Middle America Mars Moon Cobblers Hairdressers Uncle Tom Cobley Walt Whitman Jesus Confucius Judas Mary Joseph Europe Kerry Cannes Curry Fish&Chips Pope Francis Rice Doonbeg and the Oscars …

Until he’s wet himself so many times White House cleaners go on strike for danger money…

Until the Fraud exposes himself as having had a transplant auto-generating intelligence…

Until that day and beyond – let us all follow him – and harass him into the sewer where he grew up and where he deserves a place in the Buffoons’ Hall of Fame.

Meanwhile – let’s all raise our glasses to that magnificent woman and her flying Twitter Machine.

Road-opening

Road-opening

The Council shut the road outside Crawford Woods

on Thursday

without warning

blocked the way down Church Hill

forced us all to detour

crawlingly

day after day until sundown on Saturday.

They even parked a road-repairing, four-wheeled, monstrosity

–  a rhinoceros of a stone-chip spreader –

outside the house of Adrian and Eimear

so obtrusively

we couldn’t avoid talking to each other

for the first time since Halloween.

‘Twas sticking plaster on potholes

for the sake of bumps in the night

tyres in the daylight.

 

II

On the third, day the cock crowed

before the sun returned,

we could turn left again

to embrace our over-hanging trees

and shadow side.

Shards covered over

at least temporarily,

boulders removed

so earthworms can move forward now

beyond the known universe.

Road-opening without ceremony

an invitation to return to fruitful ways

–  the journey of a lifetime.

Answers

 

Answers

“Why was I born?”

called the Jackdaw to the Raven.

“What’s the purpose of my life?”

whispered Piglet to Ratty.

“What does it mean?”

hissed Michelangelo to Raphael

with sour on his face.

“Where am I going?”

shouted a Dublin woman from the Northside

to Molly Malone.

“When will my answer be enough?”

I said to myself.

Reality

https://anchor.fm/embed/a4ec21

https://anchor.fm/embed/a4ec21

Reality

You stab me with your eyes

You strip my face away

You cut my mind asunder

and I am bleeding

all over the pillowcase

all down your rosy cheeks.

You’ve had your way with me

and next I’ll lose the ties

that bound us from the start

that calmed my fragile heart

that taught me we were one

so none could come between us

And I am waking

It is the dawning

on

– the age of reality

After the concession

After the concession

A black bird sits on a telephone line,

suspended between wooden poles

aged by water.

This is no day for tears,

no moment for regrets,

no time for tearing-out hair.

There are other black birds

and a seagull catching light

over the Northside.

There is a hill to descend

a twisting road

past cars

and fading disintegrating leaves.

There’s even sun in my eyes.

It’s easier to say nothing,

to notice the knot,

to register the wish

to lock the toilet door

and simply sit.

Oh yes, there’s reason to be thoughtful,

there’s always reason to reflect,

looking at clouds heavy with mist.

There’s always a will to inaction,

a will to ossify.

Black bird statues

behind a crooked spire,

the one with the lightening rod on top.

The off-licence shut,

the graffiti craves attention,

I see Aer Lingus was looking for my vote

‘smart makes the right choice

for Stateside flights this winter’.

The wounded leopard must go back for more food,

the thirsting camel must trek on,

the beehive must protect and cherish

and guard their queen,

even when forced to swarm.

This is no day for tears,

it’s a day my mother did her best to prepare me for,

and my father knew would come.

Remember Job is more than one man,

and black birds are ever present

whenever there’s a breath to be drawn.

___________________

 

Eulogy for our mum

Our mother doesn’t believe in death
Our grandma doesn’t believe in death
Our great grandmother doesn’t believe in death.
Even after everyone knows she’s passed away
she doesn’t believe in death.

She believes in sign-posts
and the sort of markers that say
you’ve entered a new townland.

Our mum believes in evolution and re-cycling
and believes she’s back with the love of her life
the man she married for thirty years
her husband forever.

Our mum believes in the journey
The journey with people, the journey for people,
the good life.

Our mum is …
Our mum was ready.
Oh, she told her family a long time ago
that she was ready.

She lived her day-to-day with love
as generously as any creature.
She reached out to the widest family of humanity
and she believes that’s the only way to live up,
to live the good life.

Our mum doesn’t believe in death
she believes in Resurrection,
forgiving.

She believes she’s moved on
her work on Earth is done
her work among us is the best she could do.

Our mum believes she’s no saint
she has sinned
she’s made her peace
she is forgiven.

Our mum is in love
a love deeper that the lover who feels
they’ve found the one they were meant to find.

Our mum doesn’t only believe in God
our mum knows her God is love
and love endures for ever.

In the air  there is a sound 

In the air there’s a sound

reviving and bound

for the inner ear,

a note sketched out

below a rug floating

there about three ages

removed from the pages

strewn with grooves

barely crowned.

Words are majesty

regal tenants of the well

resounding 

Utterances as dances

vowing to work

miracles

Places for space and space for places

names that an age back

meant more than nostalgy

Inventions from an page

of cloud cover

blanket-wrap,  infant howls

The wage earned in deep preparation

for entry

along the narrow passage you never remember

except in dreams. 

I write

I write

without pen, keyboard or fingers

I am not inspired

and I don’t carry a muse in my trousers pocket

or in curly hair going thin on top.

I am not more creative

than any of the entire population of China

or the wrinkled man that ate two pork sausages,

runny scrambled eggs,

white buttered jamless toast,

that swilled milky bog-standard tea

in Cafe Beva this morning

before it started to spit a shower

on mourners paying their respects

outside the undertakers next door.

I write in toilets,

while driving a car,

while pretending to hear voices,

and speak in tongues.

I wrote this verse while stuck

in the Jack Lynch Tunnel,

and finished it during a phonecall

in which my therapist said she couldn’t see me before Tuesday.

I never run out of paper

even while I watched Queen of Katwe

in Mahon Point Omniplex last night.

I carry the surface on which I compose

in a compartment some call mind.

I marry my mind with the flow

of unexpressed experience

with dreams that tarry like hovering dragonflies in shade

before emerging to linger

above rushing riverwater.

I write

mindfully.