Hell

 

image

Hell

From the depths of Hell in summertime

Dante heard his name called

wished he’d misheard.

However,

he always knew it wasn’t enough

to write a description of Hell

to ward off the experience of hell on earth.

I am Dante

I’ve tried to write my way

out of misery

– wished many times

I could have woken up dead –

longer than that Italian moaned his lost love.

—-—————

Notes:

(1) This poem was written during a livestream Periscope on 8 June 2016 – in 10 minutes.

(2) The first line was suggested by @shaggydog69 “From the depths of Hell” & @brendyrussell11 “in summertime”.

(3) The scope was both nerve-wracking & fun.

Potato Poem (PP)

 

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Potato Poem

Dear reader…

You already know Continue reading Potato Poem (PP)

Bluebells – new poem by Paul O’Mahony 

Poem

draft:
 
 

Bluebells

When you go out to the bluebell wood

to paint the white bells blue

holding hands with your granddaughter

I advise you go by night

with light of the moon

– so you don’t paint the wrong bells

so neighbours don’t catch you mad

so you show her how to make magic

how to restore order in the universe.

Don’t squash the bluebells.

____________

With thanks to William FitzGerald  the storyteller

Walt Whitman’s birthday – new poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Lines composed on the birthday of Walt Whitman (1819-2016)

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean” (Walt Whitman)

There’s a lot to be said for waking before dawn
in a strange bed
with friends next door
– especially if you stretch to a bookcase
crammed with unfamiliar words
fingering spines,
loafing at your ease.

Better still, when the bard of democracy calls:
Pick me, pick me, take me to your heart,
I’ll grow your spirit.
– his beard promising you adventure.
– a smattering of rain strumming on mullioned glass.
And you reply “Hey, why should my finger linger?
Why draw you to my side?”

The first light swells,
‘the wilderness of unopened life’ grips you,
and sings of ‘passion, pulse and power’
– as a barnacle to a rock.

“Prayer” – new poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Prayer

I

They said they’d pray for me,
warmed and discomforted me.

Pray for us sinners” echoed
Get down on your knees and pray
in pyjamas by the bedside,
after I leant on the drawing room sofa
reciting five decades of the rosary
every evening
looking towards the fireplace, coal box, chess books and bibles.

Now mother’s accepted she’s the one who’ll do the praying.
No more pushing, she’s done her best.

II

To pray
is human.

My friend with cancer wrote
“I’ve prayed for my health and yours,
five times a day,

everyday.
A hummingbird whispered
Surely you can say ‘I pray for you’
Shame on you.”

Like a guilty child I stumbled
May your heart be warmed by the love you give to others.
(I wish I’d added “… and yourself.“)

III

By the river that washed the soles of Bernadette
I rebelled:

Every step of my way’s a prayer
offered in hope,
in thanks,
contrition,
desperation,
love,
in celebration of tickling mysteries.”

Now I stand in prayer, warm and discomforted,
my way, this day.

 

“Lost Love” – poem by Paul O’Mahony

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Lost Love

I’ve lost my love for you,

forgotten your name

among so many others.

 

Are you worth remembering?

Do you matter at all

any more?

 

Will you ever return,

re-emerge like hibernator?

Are you buried forever underground?

 

Could it be your disappearance

isn’t even noticed

and no tears shed for you?

 

The good of you fallen,

sieved like flour and icing sugar,

leaving only useless lumps?

 

Your name a melted hailstone,

gone from sight,

faded.

 

Pray surface in your own time,

lost love loved again

even if you’ve forgotten my old name.

I wish

559006

I wish

I wish for Plenty:
manna, songs, dancing, smiles
gin, tonic, lime – even porter and champagne

especially the hugs of others
warm hearths for my belly
I wish for nothing less than a place at the next resurrection.

(I found no seat at the last supper.)

What I’m greedy for now lies beyond
nights of sleep, hummingbirds, smoked salmon, diamonds.
Tis daylight peace without end.

(It is a blessing to want.)

My longing rose from the dead on Monday evening
not long after a shrink  spilled her seed on fertile ground
and stones moved in concert.

I wish I knew the secret of how to sow miracles
the way a spirit splits and multiplies
the rising of the sun.

(At least I remember her name.)

There’s nothing like a breath drawn up an elephant’s trunk
nothing like the atmosphere of air
Lazarus found out  – and so did I.

Maybe I’ll remember how to wish next time round the mulberry
– trees breathe, leaves bud again.
There’s plenty to be found.

I wish

nb_pinacoteca_dore_divine_comedy_inferno_01a_dante_astray_in_the_dark_wood

I wish 

I wish for nothing in particular

nor gold, nor silver

nor the slightest material star

 

Not even the love of another being

nor warmth from the sun.

I  wish for nothing beautiful.

 

What I crave lies beyond words

beyond prayers, beyond faith

beyond me: it is dead.

 

It died on a Thursday afternoon

not long before the assent

to the peak of Christmas dawned.

 

I wish for the return of the property

stolen from air I use to breathe

– I have a nickname for it.

 

But the memory is punctured

the proper name dribbled away

beyond reach, beyond breath.

 

It refuses to respond to my cries

lets the echo fester and reek of cracked eggs

in case I forget it wasn’t always so.

 

I wish it was like Lazarus

reincarnated human.

Maybe I’ll go on wishing and breathing too…

____________________________

Note:

Composed just before xmas 2015. With special thanks to Lars.

Rain and Wind 

  

When I was a child 

I loved 

the sound of rain & wind 

on glass 

as I curled up warm 

under bedclothes. 

In front of this fire, 

I haven’t grown up

2 Poems by Charles Bukowski read by Paul O’Mahony

My Father

https://audioboom.com/boos/3945701-my-father-poem-by-charles-bukowski-read-by-paul-o-mahony

My Friend the Parking Lot Attendant

https://audioboom.com/boos/3945723-my-friend-the-parking-lot-attendant-by-charles-bukowski-read-by-paul-o-mahony

 

I stand against the crowd

[You can also hear an audio version of this poem here]

I stand

against the crowd

I stand out from the crowd

I am an individual

odd

different

singular

misfit

awkward in my comfort

edgy in my skin

alive in my own little way

I live my say

I give the best shot I can

every day.

I stand against the crowd

of wasters who fritter

their life away their way.

I waste my life my way

I fritter my days into

the oblivion I fashion

every step I say.

because I am who am

me

condemned to be myself

I stand out from the crowd

comfortable in my discomforting way

that comes from every pore

every sore

every score of my expressions.

It’s my art

the heart of my song

the liver that cleans my spleen

seen in all my glory every time

I stand against the crowd

Each and every difference

friction

grating

unconforming

uncomplying

understandable me.

See that fella

hovering on the edge

the one who isn’t fitting in

the one with the shifty eyes

the glint of his own

You can smell

he’s an outsider

a weirdo

an awkward one

an individual

heart

a body of imagining

power

wealth

stealth

scheming to survive

the crowd

the collective view

the “what we all think”

thinkers.

I stand against the crowd

I stand out from the crowd

away from the crowd

proud of my own way

fiddling the melody

composed of notes

I’ve assembled from the crowd

playing the game I’ve invented

the rules I’ve annunciated

predicated on the shoulders

of giants who have fallen

in battle

against the crowd

castigated on shoulders

of heroes that have died

for the cause of being

themselves.

I reject the way of the crowd

every time my heart pumps

blood from the flat of my soul

to the peak of my imagination.

Consternation

I will cause

conflagration to

instigation of the self

opinionated

author of my fate

creator of my faith

born to be wild

not filed away in a box

I defy

I stand against the crowd

that would

categorise me

classify me

entomb me in place

where they could ignore me

where they could make me safe

from causing a splash

from making a difference

from changing

the course of history

the dreams of others

the Universe.

For such a cause

I stand against the crowd

I stand out from the crowd

to welcome you

fellow traveller

fellow awkward person

follower battler

for your way.

For your way is my way too

your way is yours

my way is mine

our way stands out from the crowd

We stand against the crowd.

We stand up for ourselves

We stand who stand.

Against the crowd

Unto death.
_________________________

Notes:

 

The Rebel Creatives Manifesto
We are #RebelCreatives

#RebelCreatives are those who rises in opposition or resistance against an established force or opinions. People who voice their opinions, want to make a change and promote social good.

Everyone is a creative. You share your creativty everyday through the way you walk, talk, interact, share and care.

 The #RebelCreatives project will officially launch with epic 30 back-to-back broadcasts on Periscope. Each broadcaster will get 15 or 30mins to share their creativity about a certain topic.

The broadcasters will share their passion, knowledge and understanding of a particular issue through your creativity. “

______________

Strangle Bukowski – poem by Paul O’Mahony

Will someone please strangle Bukowski

A disgraceful man

not worthy of the name Charles

He farts his syllables

belches his words

vomits his phrases

– his sentences smell

like festering fish

As for his verse

it’s worse.

When did Mewkowski last rhyme?

When did he not spew  out his truth

as if it was personal?

If caustic Charlie didn’t drink sour milk

sucked from his Mother Nature

the inhuman race

would have no warlike bastards

inciting us all to spill blood

from eructive orifices.

Pastiching

the barely sane Bukowski

keeps my bad breath moving mindfully

in and out

in and out

through gaps between teeth

filled originally by a dumb dentist

married to his drill

addicted to screwing

holes he amalgamed.

Father, father

who will rid me of this

treacherous gurgitator

sent from that inner being

Steve Jobs

tried to connect with

on his ashram

in smelly feet.

See,

pastiche is the sincerest form of flattery

Will someone please strangle Bukowski?

Poetry is good for something?

disclaimer

I’m a poet.

I buy poetry books.
read poems (out loud).
run a daily poetry show
live streamed on Periscope
(The Walt Whitman Show).

And

Does poetry still matter?

(CNN)Quick: Name a famous living poet.

Somebody. Anybody. No, not Maya Angelou. She died last year.

Unless you’re a literary scholar or a subscriber to The New Yorker, it’s not easy. That’s because poetry, once a preeminent form of entertainment, has long since receded to the far, dusty corners of popular culture…

And

In 2003, Newsweek cried

Poetry Is Dead. Does Anybody Really Care?

“… Ultimately, though, there’s no one to blame. Poetry is designed for an era when people valued the written word and had the time and inclination to possess it in its highest form…”

I care

so 

in December 2015, I did ethnomethodological research among an international, cross-cultural, mixed-gender, inter-generational group

Screen Shot 2015-12-06 at 21.25.01

https://katch.me/embed/v/f91e97bd-6af2-3d5d-8138-96fbec40d5cc?sync=1

Voices of the dead

human connection, honesty
I like to write poetry that speaks encouragement over others.
introspection
it’s like sunshine and rain.
for the poet or for the reader?
I like poetry… straightforward easy storytelling
expression of internal world
same effect as music, when it’s done well
I write poetry for my own peace of mind and self expression

reveals human connection

our connections through our secrets, fears

indescribable, sometimes, but you know it’s good…
‘Step of the body toward the sea falls the land to break’
poetry is an acquired taste?
it’s nice when you can relate to it in your own life
connection to another person’s internal world
for me it’s just for enjoyment.
I don’t analyse too much
I just let it happen
and
take what’s there in the moment
‘Poetry distills life like fermentation distills spirits’
‘Poetry wakes things within that are hidden under the surface’
Music and poetry are the same
unless the poem is a song
then it hits me inside
‘Poetry is an excuse to use forgotten words’
like a forever blossoming of the soul
ever opening and revealing
wrapping words around
emotions, perceptions, and the heart song
‘If a picture paints a thousand words, a poem can contain the world.’
transport you to another place
open your mind to new thoughts
sometimes
poetry is my weapon
a way to express feelings
a map for left brain engineering
in the language of logic,
poetry is a super structure
Forgotten words
for the dam
generates the power within
‘If pictures can paint a thousand words,
my poetry attempts are stick men’

 (To be continued

Walt Whitman “Pioneers! O Pioneers!

First, a recording of a fine actor, Will Geer, reading “Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Second, a recording of this poem being live streamed.

 

The Walt Whitman Show on Periscope
(saved via Katch)

https://katch.me/embed/v/d7bce79c-57b7-328d-a2cd-40526034fc9d?sync=1

_____________________

Pioneers! O Pioneers!

COME, my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready;
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes?
Pioneers! O pioneers!

For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you youths, western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship, 10
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the
seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the past we leave behind;
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines
within;
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high
plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood
intervein’d;
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the
Northern,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O resistless, restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult–I am rapt with love for all,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress,
(bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang’d and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon’d
mistress,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

See, my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

On and on, the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly
fill’d,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill’d,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the pulses of the world,
Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat;
Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Life’s involv’d and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions
pressing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Lo! the darting bowling orb!
Lo! the brother orbs around! all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait
behind,
We to-day’s procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

O you daughters of the west!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands! you may sleep–you have done your
work;)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Not for delectations sweet;
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the
studious;
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock’d and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on
our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers!

Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the day-break call–hark! how loud and clear I hear it
wind;
Swift! to the head of the army!–swift! spring to your places, Pioneers! O pioneers.

__________________

Notes:

  1. I found the video on You Tube with the following information attached:
    Uploaded to You Tube on 11 Nov 2009 
    Vocals By Will Geer

“This is the full version of the poem that was used in the Levi “Go Forth” commercial. I added the backing music to spice it up a bit (thanks Garage Band) You can find the vocal portion of this (and other Whitman poems) on iTunes. I do not own the vocals –  however to take it down for copyright violation would be to down a little piece of America… Whitman….America…think about it”

 

2.  The Walt Whitman Show is live streamed on Periscope. I use the January 1892 “Death Bed Edition” of Leaves of Grass.  Walt died on 26 March 1892

“What a writer” – poem by Charles Bukowski

 

what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.

how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.

of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.

but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.

one sun.

one moon.

ThoughtForToday – 1 November 

  
There isn’t enough short- term thinking

 like : 

why should I improve my world – today? 

like: 

how can I make a better world in the next hour? 

like: 

what do I do now to make a difference? 

Think short-term.

“Thanks-Giving Day” – poem by Paul O’Mahony

sometimes our thank you is said so casually
or quickly that it is nearly meaningless.
(Martin Seligman)
______________

I was never thankful
to my father
or my mother

I wasn’t even thankful
to the Universe
for what I had.

the house, clothes, water, food, shoes, shirts, bath,
garden, roses, grass, apples, hens, cabbage, loganberries,
hedgehog, lizard, bushes, even the bees

tortoise, trees, dogs, cats, fire, pocket-money, prayers,
holy water, statues, carpets, paintings, music, jelly, eggcups,
fireplaces,books, radiogram, even the plums

school, transport, brothers, sisters, God, cod-liver oil, mass,
chickens, eggs, lamb, salmon, ox-tongue, bread and butter pudding,
golf clubs, cut glass, even the gooseberries

ice cream, pancakes, rice pudding, red currants, peaches, pears,
record player, transistor radio, Luxembourg, milk, football, rashers,
cards, chess, rugby, even the blackberries

dobbers, conkers, tiddlywinks, compendium of games, holidays,
stories, photographs, confession, friends, short trousers, novenas,
nuns, thermometers, even the wagtails

pillows, pencils, bicycles, blazers, socks, sweets, pepper, porridge,
underpants, sandals, gospels, rules, knives, teaspoons, commandments,
gongs, conversations, birthdays, even the earthworms

If you asked me then whether I was grateful
I’d have said ‘yes’

If you ask me now whether I was thankful
I shall stay silent.

If you’re curious to know whether I am thankful today
I am more full of thanks than ever

– for all that and more.

 

 

The Walt Whitman Show (25 November)

https://katch.me/embed/v/08165654-aa05-36a4-848b-e2b140f947b7?sync=1

“I used to love hating poetry” – poem by Lars Blichfeldt 

I made the poem ‘one day’ after a period of not being able to write anything I thought was good enough.

No matter what, it ended up with me being frustrated or disappointed.

It left me with two choices. 

I could give up trying to write because I wasn’t the new Whitman – just an average guy that actually needed to practice and make mistakes to learn and improve.

To actually believe that two months of writing would place me anywhere near what others have taken years to master is ridiculous…. I know.

Nevertheless, it was exactly what I hoped for. Being good at something without doing any kind of effort to achieve it.

But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what stops us from giving up before we even begin.

My second choice was to face the facts and just carry on practicing. To keep writing no matter how lousy the outcome would be.  

I choose the last.

Now give me 10 years and I will write you a masterpiece. In the meantime, here’s a hell of a try😉

Thank you for taking your time to read this.
_______________

I used to love hating poetry.

Written by those who failed

living the expected life themselves.

Now wrapping-up words

in riddles and fancy glitter.

To attain the unattainable.

Narcissistic socialists

breathing the universe

while reminding the masses

to be satisfied just looking at the sun.

I did.
I looked at the sun.

Astonishing…

Perhaps I was wrong.
Perhaps I was the failure.

I started writing.

It felt refreshing.

Pats on the back,

Polite comments and praises.

I was seduced,
intoxicated by appreciation.

Soon I would be the lump of coal
transforming into a diamond

The winning ticket
The one in a million.
Flawless.
Unique.
Without practice.
Without effort.
A unicum.
This “new” me..
A thinker..
A writer..
A word wrapper..
A poet..

What I loved to hate,
I now hated to love.

Thinking like a child,
naive like a child,
I believed the sun turned around me.

One day I might grow up.
One day I might loose this spirit.

Hopefully it won’t be soon.

________________________

Note:

A big thank you to Lars Blichfeldt 

You can read other poems by Lars here & here 

ThoughtForToday. – 21 November 

  

The most attractive story 

you can tell 

about yourself 

is 

how 

you went from 

corrupting to trustworthy

rags to riches

carnal to holy

alpha to omega 

– thanks to a force outside your control