Poem by Paul O’Mahony: “Life-saving anthem: I stand against the crowd

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 that 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:

“To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless light” – Walt Whitman “Song of the Banner at daybreak”

Tis time for daisy-chains and dandelions,

the thrush with gangly legs has gone to wind,

hostas, risen, pushed aside the shale,

and clover back to torment dreams of lawn.

There’s a cherry blossom behind my back,

the baby oak’s grown leaves on time

………………… in rowan and hawthorn writ

with showers for ink, lavender for paint.

The black dog tastes an apple core,

licks the fly and sucks for more.

The black dog’s in the grass,

…………… paws, panting fast.

She sleeps below the windline stretched,

out of senses, out of mind,

no rush to untangle the rest of the deep.

The black dog’s dead. The black dog’s dead.

The daisy chains are broken,

the dandelion’s divine.

There’s a place we know as light.

There’s a home we know is right.

_____________________

Unfinished:  you see the bits that I’m sleeping on. Waiting to approach this fresh.

The two poets who give me quotes these days are Walt Whitman (1819-92) & Mary Oliver (1935 -).

The background poets in the English Market

It would be easy to miss the poets

in the Farmgate Cafe

encased behind glass

as you sip espressoed coffee

on a Saturday afternoon

in the English Market.

Poems slip by without fuss,

prefer to let you pass

until you’re ready to listen

to your breathing heart

– the minute they sense you ache

for a set of fingernails

with which to grip on to fragile life

ticking like a fading metronome.

Poems are used to coffee drinkers

who turn their backs on them.

Poems become taken forgranted

even when handwritten and hung.

Poets never have the last laugh.

Ink fades gradually away.

I wonder whether the spirits stay

hidden among fushia encased in a water jug.
____________________

This was composed in the English Market Farmgate Cafe in Cork Ireland in May 2015

The Walt Whitman Show – on Periscope – on Katch.me

Click on this link please – it leads to “The Walt Whitman Show (14 September)

Warning: it’ll take a minute to load up.

http://katch.me/embed/v/5b71d1a1-7f30-34c5-804c-6e5956882bbe

_______________________

I submit for your consideration:

  • Walt Whitman (1819-92) is the greatest of the American poets.
  • On Periscope you can meet wonderful, interesting & connecting people.
  • Katch.me is the way to save “scopes”.
    (You can save video from Persicopes on You Tube & Vimeo – but not the interaction you have with people during scopes.)

Dante’s Inferno (Canto 7)

Note:  I shall publish my readings of Cantos 1-6 in the next few days. My plan is to read, record & share all 34 cantos of “Inferno” by Dante.

This was a bit of an experiment: to learn how to embed a file from Audioboom.com into a WordPress.com blog.
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A poem about writing a poem

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.

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“To write a poem now” – read by the poet – my first effort since depression lifted (mp3)

First published 10 November 2011 in “From Bath to Cork with baby Grace (1)”. This was my first effort to write a poem since the lifting of depression. I began it in Ely, near Cambridge UK, & finished the first draft in Cafe Beva, Glanmire, Co Cork.

Echoes


I sing to the rocks on the road to Roundstone
and they sing of home to me.

I whisper my secrets to blooming heather
and she whispers back to me.

I hum a tune to silver stream that rushes past
and she hums my melody.

I wipe my eyes in the mountain wind
and she cries her heart for me.

I see the sea wave on every tide
and she comes and comes for me.