Underthinking as a way of life
I feel
therefore
I am
Category: poetry
People who have no imagination
People who have no imagination
‘Twas wet outside the RDS in Ballsbridge,
under the bus shelter there was light against dark outside.
It wasn’t that I had no raincoat
(I’d saved money on showers)
nor the 2,016 strides to the Summit pub
– it was strangers-in-want that held my attention,
the black and the white
Mozambique and Mill Street,
Marrabenta and Riverdance.
They were talking in pauses
and the back of her hand brushed his sleeve.
I bet neither of them remembers
the advertising placed by Adshel.
I was the only eavesdropper
with tickling drops of Irish moisture
massaging my humour.
You might well say there are “people who have no imagination”
but certainly they weren’t waiting for a lift.
As soon as we wake
https://audioboom.com/boos/5039858-new-poem-as-soon-as-we-wake
As soon as we wake
As soon as you wake up,
you’re seduced by the sun
that comes over your horizon
and shines light throughout your land,
sky and heart scape.
As soon as I open my eyes,
I’m seduced by BBC News,
emails, notifications, Twitter, Facebook,
Instagram, Anchor, WordPress, Audioboo
and
“From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace“.
10 years ago …
[I don’t want to give you the impression I’m depressed now – so I better let you know I wrote this 10 years ago.]
https://audioboom.com/boos/5030988-a-poem-from-10-years-ago-ink-by-paul-o-mahony
Ink
There is a black blob of ink on my paper
and no amount of dipping the pen
will tidy the stain.
There was an inkwell sunk into my desk
and I used to gather a load of liquid
to decorate the page.
As the tool for writing became a fountain
and I learned to collect my ammunition
leaks came and pus dribbled.
This pool is drawning me down into its depth
and I’m too heavy to float in filth.
I need a good clean.
A note to my mother – August 2006
https://audioboom.com/boos/5021773-a-note-to-my-mother-2006
Dear Mum
If I simply say ‘you’re the best mum I’ve ever had‘,
you’ll know I’m in touch with previous lives.
But you’ll deserve it – because you brought us up
to think and duel with words, and look beyond
to the next time when I shouldn’t be late, or break
House Rules, lest you and I would give and take
for hours and hours – so I would learn and yearn
to be my own person – as is your way.
A man I looked at twice
https://audioboom.com/boos/4999032-a-poem-a-man-i-looked-at-twice-by-paul-o-mahony
A man I looked at twice
I saw a man that reminded me of another,
grey bristles conjured up a face
I’d forgotten.
The forgotten put me in mind of the father
I’d lost, and that deathbed
brought back to life
the mother of my best friend
as she lay wasting
and the nurse checked the cathedra
made in a country where I’d visited
the Pied Piper’s adopted home
and fell asleep
in a single bed over which a portrait
of Saint Aloysius hung, next to the holy water font
replenished by an unknown agency.
___________________
Note:
I self-published the first version of this poem on my blog in January 2006
I used to be nice
I used to be nice
Years ago
I composed this wish
Never noticed the clichés
I meant no vice:
may you go from strength to strength
may you soar over every sapping strain
may you float on the cushion of your dreams
until your sun sleeps and acorns reach maturity.
_________________
Note:
On 24th December 2005 – I self-published that bold stanza on my blog. Spot the phrase that doesn’t feel like a cliché to you …
To write a poem now
To write a poem now
To write a poem now
forgotten how,
fingers all too stale,
grown pale.
Unused soul went to sleep,
troubled deep.
Christ rose from the dead,
threw off sheets drenched in blood,
woke up, pushed the stone back
so light and birdsong dawned,
his dream made flesh,
again.
Fear revisited,
traces linger instead,
as if painted over.
Whitewashed over…
Jesus wrote his poem
on the road to Emmaus,
recovered from Gethsemane.
The words even ascended into Heaven
and were repeated.
To write a poem now…
the least I could do.
__________________________
Note:
I wrote this in 2011 – shortly after I recovered from a long bout of depression. I began it in Ely near Cambridge UK, & finished the first draft in my local much-loved haunt Cafe Beva, Glanmire, Co Cork.
At the same time
A woman leans
elbows on a counter,
bends her right wrist
reveals painted fingernails
ring on middle finger.
She leaves a teaspoon in an empty coffee cup.
———
At the same time,
a barista rinses stained cups in a sink,
heats a filter drip
lets water flush down a drain,
replaces a glass jar of Columbian
Tasting notes say
“stone fruits, milk chocolate, nutty”.
His hairy calves naked,
elbows sharp.
———
At the same time,
at a wooden bar,
two men play
‘Dungeons and Dragons”,
a fat crusty roll
washed down by tap water.
A woman in a floral dress
leans over, close,
demonstrates the best way
to lipstick both lips.
The men don’t ask to borrow her make-up.
——-
Bars explode and peter out…
Who is she?
She’s a modern woman
I’ve never heard her speak.
Now I’m in love with her voice
angelic, soft, soothing
(not weak).
You probably imagine her saccharin,
all sweetness and light
– so far.
(I bet you can feel the ‘but’ coming)
She utters a bitter sound of the night
across a breakfast table
turning in a bed
walking a street
brushing her teeth
even sitting to do her business.
Her voice creeps behind the words
subverts the common meaning of social intercourse.
Her stories are not my stories
If you stumbled across her vignettes
you might also mutter ‘they’re gold dust,
they conceive, germinate, grow stronger
in the soil of daily life’.
And they bear seed
– whenever I get close enough.
Bookshops donate blood
I was born with a bookshop in my mouth
I’m not sure when I swallowed it.
Dell classics, ‘Sixty-four pagers’ and comics
softened me up,
like butter and caster sugar
in a mixing bowl.
I’m not sure how books imprinted on my double helix
and passed from puberty
to pulsating subjects of desire,
while I combed curly hair
with Brylcream
like my father
– like my book-selling father.
He’d grown up above the shop
owned shelves,
dusters
and cash-registers.
“So long as you don’t bend back spines,
leave fingerprints,
crease leaves,
so we can sell each book as new,
I bid you read all you fancy.”
A feast fit for a glutton
– I’m sure I read a book.
I certainly climbed trees,
collected swords,
cut and sharpened spears,
bent and strung bows
fixed berberis thorns
fired arrows
hurled clumps of earth,
released poison mushrooms,
and built a war-room
hidden in the bushes.
– I’m sure I read a book.
I listened to ball-by-ball cricket,
the Clitheroe Kid,
the Top Twenty
caddied for Dad,
cut grass for pocket money.
collected “Forty-Fives”
– I’m sure I read a book.
Drewled over particular photographs in National Geographics,
undistracted by text
vexed by interruptions.
– I hardly read a book until I left home.
Walking down Dublin’s Dawson Street,
crossing Charing Cross Road,
hurrying through Hay-on-Wye
or window-shopping streets
of any self-respecting Quarter
is a pain
is a pest
is a penence.
Bookshops slow me down,
make me late
empty my pockets.
Bookshops kidnap me
compel me to suffer
the cries of authors, editors, printers, publishers – even marketeers.
“Take me,
just read my blurb,
fondle me,
smell me,
feel me between your fingers.
Let’s go somewhere quiet and consummate.
You may suck my blood.”
The Islander
Chapter One
He could have been on Sherkin, Inishbofin, Skelligs or even Rathlin…
He was an outlaw, cast away from the land,
away from his people.
His face didn’t fit,
his family were not from the right side of town.
There was no time for him, he could rot there.
Eventually his spirit would break,
he would comply, he would conform,
he would be broken
It would teach them,
show them not to meddle with our family,
not to get above themselves.
Yea, twenty-seven winters on Sherkin,
twenty-seven springs on the Skelligs
twenty-seven summers on Rathlin
twenty-seven years of nightmares
on any island you fancy.
It was good to keep him there, disappeared.
Our family had need of safety,
his family were dangerous,
thugs, revolutionaries, communists, rapists.
oh yea, uncouth, uncivilised, Untermenschen.
Chapter Two
Our family is special,
we have survived our own wars.
We’re used to feeling superior
Our family before all families
our tribe before all tribes
Our village the white man’s burden
Everyman is an island
We have not balked at blood sacrifice
We have buried our enemies in unmarked graves
– even displayed corpses to teach families how to behave themselves
We survived war against an Empire of superior force – that gave us backbone.
That gave us good enough reason to turn the tables on families of inferior beings.
Oh yes, our family is special – forever.
Chapter Three
You will not leave that island
You will languish in your dreams
You will scratch your balls
You will scrape the fleas in your hair
You will freeze your bollocks off.
We will control you.
When we let you out – it will be to die.
Our family is ordained to carry the burden of ruling this land.
Yes, your family is bigger than our family
Your family’s so big it’s disgusting.
Your people are everywhere
but your people are worthless
we’ve made sure of that.
________________
The sea the sea the sea
the waves the wind, the ocean, the cold
the fish the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean
the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean the seaweed
____________________
Eat your heart out Islandman – we have you.
Oh yes, we’ve had you now for 27 years.
How did you pull through?
Chapter 4
Are you coming off that island?
Are you coming to take our land?
to obliterate us?
to wipe us out?
coming to leave a bloodbath?
Are you going to leave the island
like an avenging angel
– the Assyrian descending on the fold?
Going to be the Inquisition?
Going to be ethnically cleansing us?
Are you going to force our children to leave?
split up all that we’ve created among so many
and leave everybody with hardly anything?
Who are you?
who are you after?
who are you after festering anger resentment?
You must be a walking bomb
walking terrorist
you must be a killer of all of our dreams.
I see you now,
we see you now,
step ashore
Chapter 5
I must say you look rather good after twenty-seven years.
If I’d been there for twenty-seven years
I probably wouldn’t have stood up as well as you look
maybe your family has some kind of metal in your DNA?
maybe you’re just bloody tough?
Who are you Islander?
Who are you warrior?
What’s in your mind?
What’s in that heart?
Why should we trust you?
– the only thing we can trust is our own fear.
Yes, we’re outnumbered
Yes, your family is bitter.
What are those words forming in your mouth?
What’s that look in your eye?
What’s that breath from your nostril?
You’re walking towards us,
Are you coming to wipe us out?
Now that your time has come
Now that every other bastard has abandoned our family
and left us alone
left us isolated
left us rejected
Yea, we were at the forefront of fighting for what we believed in,
for what we thought others believed in.
Yes we were the top dogs once,
Now,
we’re lepers
spat on
rejected
no one from my family can get married into any other family.
And you will inherit the earth.
I expect you’ll get revenge now
You’re coming
You’re coming across
You’re coming ashore
You’re coming inland.
What’s that you hold in your hand?
What are you doing with your hands?
Towards whom are you
outstretching?
You don’t mean to offer me a hand
You cannot mean to stretch out a hand.
It’s a trick.
You want to persuade me you are a friend
come from twenty-seven years
on that,
on Sherkin, on Boffin, on Skelligs
You want me to believe that’s is a genuine hand?
As soon as you grip my hand
you’ll pull me under
you’ll squash me to death.
I know,
that’s what I’d do
if I was in your position.
You want my hand.
your hand is warm
your eye is warm
you are forming words
you are looking over my shoulder
beyond where i stand
you are looking beyond my family.
You have brought a flag with you
a towel,
a canopy
a rug
something that will go over everybody.
You expect me to join you
You expect me to work with you
You expect me not to run and hide
You expect me to accept you
You expect me to be your partner
And you will not take everything from me?
You will leave me with my money intact?
You will leave me with my capital acquired?
You will leave me with some shred of self-respect?
God
it feels like you’re offering me a route to Salvation
Where the hell have you come from?
Where the hell did you become like this?
You stretch out a hand of friendship
a hand of warmth,
a hand of the future
You restrain your family from eating me alive
You prefer us to be together than have us all go down.
You are serious?
Islandman,
What kind of a resurrection is this?
What stones have you rolled back?
What cave have you come from?
What sort of Heaven on earth are you trying to create?
When you were on that island,
and I was on the mainland,
you were a small guy.
You were locked up in a place
where i didn’t have to see your eyes
where I didn’t have to feel your hand.
But now I cannot avoid you
I cannot ignore you
I cannot step away from you.
That island:
Sherkin, Inishbofin, Skelligs, Aran, Saltees, Lambay, Rathlin…
– they’re all our islands.
We’ve always used islands to lock inferior beings away out of sight.
Now those islands have turned everything inside out,
turned everything on its head.
I don’t know what to say
I don’t know where to look
I’ve embarrassed by your strength,
by your courage
by your power.
And you know what the worst thing is?
You’re so bloody humble
You are so bloody humble
You offer warmth, friendship
You offer togetherness
You offer hope
You offer a future,
My children – they don’t have to die
My children – they don’t have to run
Our children can play together.
Where have you come from?
What happened to you
on that island?
Is there any chance I can do twenty-seven years on that same island?
Chapter 6
The Unknown Unknown…
We are all the creators
all families creators
all individuals creators
Any chance we can all do twenty-seven years on the island?
The end of the beginning.
Lost on Bastille Day
https://audioboom.com/boos/4835479-lost-on-bastille-day-new-poem-by-paul-o-mahony
Lost on Bastille Day
‘Let them eat heads
and suck sockets dry
before they answer “Why”‘.
I’ve lost my count of children
– the adults never counted –
lost to the flags of war.
It’s said that ten valuable ones
were crushed on Thursday night
promenading where the English played.
Others say Fallujah girls and boys
were incinerated over falafels
and their fathers cried for ever.
If there are any grandchildren awaiting birth
they’ll be primed like birds of prey
to strike without warning.
Will you count the loss for us?
Portrait of a noble winesmith
Portrait
The wine he poured from an old glass
the grape distilled at least twice
the place inherited easily
from bishops, politicians and King.
The first growth he loved
Monsieur Christian –
guardian of the blue pool
alongside mosquitos
pink roses and a caramel tree
fortified juice a white touch –
paid taxes to the elected government
sold bottles for a living
walked in shade
as water flowed up from mountains.
Proprietor with title and vocation,
a travelled homme
le rouge et le blanc.
——
Note:
Written 3 August 2012 after a visit to Chateau de Beaulon
Dreams
Dreams
Moses never led his people to the promised land
Magellan never sailed his ships home
Puccini never finished his journey to Turandot
I’ve never reached my daydreams.
I led up to them,
talking and walking
barefoot on moss,
across streams
to the other side.
I reached for them on tippy-toes
never let go.
That’s my trouble
I’m no Michelangelo
and so I watch those daydreams
grow and grow
into memories
– elephants in my room –
wondering what Moses felt
as he watched the people
leave the desert
their daydreams shining.
Maybe it’s a feast to simply daydream
and trek on
until I lose the breath for daydreams
and ‘in that sleep of death‘
dream on.
Testament
Testament
The bible is my survival
when they come
calling for my salvation
And it isn’t Matthew Mark Luke and John
that bail me out…
Who composed this poem?
The moment I see
a thousand snowdrops blooming
under snowflake sky
I know my soulhome is here again
————–
Note:
I don’t know who wrote this. I don’t remember writing it. It’s in my iPhone notes without any information.
So it won’t make it into my next poetry book or collected works.
No matter – I like it – it means something to me.
If you wrote it – please claim it.
Warmed
Warmed
I am a wood frog in a previous life.
You would probably think I was dead
if you saw where I was inside logs and burrows
heart stopped
ice crystals in my blood.
I defrost in the warmth of Spring.
Before that, I am a deer mouse
huddled together snuggling with the others
I don’t live for long.
In my time, I am a white-tailed prairie dog, a bat, hedgehog.
I am even a skunk
suspecting that’s where I began.
Last December
I all came together in this chilled life –
until my sun got warm again.
Pulse
My child went to dance his night away.
And mine went for the love of her life.
My children had names.
My parents came out looking for everlasting love.
My family were herded together like cattle
and passed into the cold beyond
kissed by the fire of bullets
from a manufacturing plant
owned by anonymous shareholders.
These are not my words
I have no words fit for a future
that blows like a gorgon’s breath
spawned by Hell’s army.
Bless me Father for I have sinned
I have lost my pulse
and wished the thieves the same.
My child, my child …
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 