The Pope is almost here

These are fragments I’ve scribbled down while listening to the Irish national news today.

They came quickly from a fund of anger that festers within my body.

I’m sharing these phrases here in case I don’t sculpt them into verse soon. These are the exact words, warts and all.

The Pope is coming here

Defender of the Faith
God’s Vicar on Earth
Protector of priests
Conspiracy
Defender of pedophiles
rapists
Jesus Christ must be tossing in his grave
Confessor
Propagator of Untruths
Poser for the Poor
Prayers
Celebrator
Defender of Eucharist.

A chalice of putrid blood
the blood of people
abused
destroyed lives.
Destroyer of children
Leader of liars
Bishop of Rome
the central committee for the propagation of vice
7 deadly Sins
Mortal sins.

Salvation from prosecution

Infallible corruptor

The institution of Pope is here already in every parish + diocese

The silence of brother
the silence of priests, nuns
housekeepers
confession.

How shall the faithful welcome him?

longing, flags, reverence, prayers,
adoration

 

Who first ate an egg?

Her name isn’t known.

Wild jungle fowl were domesticated as early as 3200 BC. [East Indian history]

Fowl were eaten more often than eggs.
Eggs were saved to hatch to supply fowl.

Fowl were laying eggs for man in 1400 BC. [Egyptian & Chinese records]

(All this information was found on the internet.)

 

This is not a poem

It’s a heatwave. What was it like to get drenched, to be showered on, to come home damp & dank?

The longest day is past.  Gone for a year. It was a tipping-point, nevertheless snow is unimaginable.

Lazing round listening to languid language – utterances from friends, acquaintances, companions, strangers: research time.

There is a time for everything.  Now is the hour for breathing through your nose.

Who knows what’s coming?

Music maybe.

 

I’m not creative

I’m not creative,

except in the sense that every human being is creative,

and, if every human is creative,

the word is fairly useless.

I’m not a creative writer,

except in the sense that every writer is creative,

and, if every writer is creative,

the word is superfluous.

 

I am simply

a person who writes,

a person who writes frequently

a person who writes in a certain style.

 

(I used to write letters every day and thought my letters were attractive.)

 

I’m cheesed off by the quantity of left-handed people who are ‘creative’.

I know the word has colloquial meanings –

people with original ideas

people who find brand new ways

artists, designers,

theatre, television, radio, film people

engineers, architects

marketing people

people who get their work exhibited

many more I can’t think of.

(As if dentists & grave-diggers weren’t creatives)

 

How useful is creative as a distinguishing word?

How often do you wish to say

you’re a creative person, a very creative person

and, by implication,

that person over there isn’t creative,

has barely a creative bone in their body’?

(I like ‘creativity means not copying

Feran Adria from elBulli said that)

 

When I write something people call creative,

I don’t know what they’d label ‘ordinary’.

I don’t know what criteria people use.

(I fear the lowest common denominator is ‘creative’.)

 

If I knew what standards people used

to describe a writer as creative

I’d understand.

 

The one thing I’m sure of,

I don’t dream of myself as a creative being.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are one of us

You are confused
unsure
uncertain
you have mixed feelings
you are in two minds
afraid
worried
cautious
wary
overwhelmed
stretched
you are alone with your inner critic
you feel weak
dependent on others
disappointed in yourself
you have secrets
unloved
let down
you wish you were understood
you crave forgiveness
suspicious of your motives
mistrustful
needy
self-obsessed
you have bad intentions
you put your best face forward
behave like a confident person
walk as if your knees never knocked
strong
assured
knowledgeable
educated
You make yourself organised
decisive
you speak as if you are worth a listen
you associate with successful people
work the room
you look as if you’re listening
you say the right things
appear to be good
truthful
honest
you say you’re rational logical objective
you  show off
you promise
say you will change
profess to believe
smile
offer support

you are an average human
you are loaded with emotions
imaginations
rivers of thought

You are one of us.

 

__________________________________

Welcome VictoriousOne

VictoriousOne

I am an amalgamation…
an opportunity …
a dead end…
a new beginning …
a power source…
an old cliche…
a work of fiction …
a lightening rod…
a magic trick…
a mission impossible …
a best kept secret…
a shiny object …
Take what pleases,
court what eases,
coax what teases
& leave the rest.

____________________________

We need a commission or a committee


[Cartoon by Martyn Turner]

Somewhere in Dublin…

“If we’re to avoid being blamed for this shambolic fraud – we better get a retired judge.”

“Surely that’s asking for trouble?”

“Never, sure won’t it all have blown over before there are any findings.”

“You mean til after the next election?”

“Hasn’t that always worked?”

‘Is there not a better way?”

“To get at the truth?”

“The truth is we have to kill this – did you hear Joe Duffy today?”

“Oh I know. That fecker’s always stirring shit.”

“Maybe we should make him a retired judge. That’d keep him quiet.”

“Joking apart, where’ll we find a judge?

“Noel or Patrick will sort it. They’re good guys.

“Where are you going now?”

“I’ve a statement to make – and after that Drive Time.”

“I’ll tell the lads.” 

“Mind you don’t leak this to Micheál.”

“Hah, ha – that’s a good one.”

To select poems for a reading requires courage

I’m feeling the fear.

I have to decide which poems to read on Friday evening in Ennis County Clare.

I introduce the reading in Poet’s Corner at 8pm.

By then, I must reject most of the poems – especially several with which I’m besotted.

Sitting in my kitchen in Cork, staring at pages, wielding a scissors,

reluctant to plunge pretty poems into recycling

– I need to procrastinate.

Crowd-source the problem.

Ask the opinion of others.

Be open-minded.

Let the Universe decide.

Out-source the angst to my Guardian Angel.

Wish I had only 13 poems fit for human ears.

Maybe I’ll drop a pile of pages over the bannisters – and pick those that land on top.

How the hell can I tell which ones the audience might love?

I’m not going there to please the audience – surely?

It’s not as if I have a book to sell.

[Let them go to Kindle Store]

Integrity, authenticity, veracity

I am an artist – that means I must ignore the urgings of others.

I must purge myself of any impulse to avoid personal responsibility.

I must be true to my self.

Welcome indecision, welcome mixed feelings, hug the living daylights out of discomfort.

Think of all the brazen bastards who’ve never held a haiku, nor snogged a sonnet.

Maybe I’ll crumple 50 into a sack and get a blindfold woman to sink her fingers in?

Trust anything other than myself.

At least it’s only Tuesday.

I thought I had a plan.