Life is electric,
it sparks
it flows
it explodes
like lightening
in sheets
and forks.
Fuelled by water
fossils
and atoms.
There is more to electric light
than meets the eye.
Electricity lives in particles
wherever imagination reigns.
Diary note No 18 – Matterings
What matters most to me now?
Not these days,
Not this week,
Not today.
Now?
Candidates
- The evaluations I was given last night at Carrigaline Toastmasters Club, especially the points made by Deirdre O’Mahony (no relation)
- Brexit
- Another cup of tea in this kitchen
- Seeing my brother Peter
- Visiting my son, grandchildren & daughter-in-law near Guildford UK
- Cutting the grass
- Completing the work on Swedish Higher Education for Eoghan O’Leary
- Another cup of tea.
- Which poem will I introduce & read at Blarney Tosstmasters this evening
- A second cup of tea
The attraction that lasted
1.
I fell in love with the nose that nuzzled near the nape of my neck,
her fingertips touched mine on Baggot Street bridge that night in May.
We walked with electricity between us.
I talked to myself about the way she spoke through lips I longed to lick.
You could say I was attracted to the ambiguity of her personality, the style with which she tickled my boxers.
2.
I grew familiar with her nose.
The fingers lost their tips.
When the Sun came up, the electric light dimmed.
I got used to talking to her.
The summer sun sank below the mountains, below the plain, lost from sight.
3.
The Fall moon peeped from behind clouds, drawing the tide, going and coming.
Every Night, Dawn, Morning, Day, Afternoon, Dusk, Evening,
every Cycle of Life.
she came to me, to the house of my youth, slipped into me with an ocean wave,
flickering, feasting, flowing.
I married her blue eyes,
and we all lived lively ever after.
How’s your swing?
You wake up on the golf links, as you do every day.
You tee off as soon as your feet touch the ground.
You have no idea where your ball is going to land – you pray for a decent lie.
You may find yourself buried in a bunker, up against the face, without a stance.
There’s also a good chance you may have rolled into the middle of a fairway – you may be sitting pretty.
Otherwise, there’s always out of bounds, a water hazard, ground under repair, even a hole in one …
You’re not in charge of the wind.
You don’t control the slope.
You can’t command the bounce.
You may even lose your ball.
Wherever you are, you are not lost, you have your clubs, and another ball.
No matter where you lie, you have your swing – you always have your swing.
No matter how desperate your position, you will have another shot.
There will be another ball to strike, another hole, another round to play.
You just have to keep on swinging your clubs, and playing the ball in front of you.
You will finish the course.
You don’t have to keep the score.
Cork – City of Sanctuary
Marshlanders of the World,
Asylum seekers from the Wars,
Boatpeople with seawater and the nation’s welcome port;
Sturdy, hardy, chattering
City of the Big Stories:
They tell me you are desperate, and I believe them, for I see your bloodshot eyes plead for sleep and peace from death.
And they tell me you are starving, and I believe them, for I hear your children howl for a bowl of rice, a tablespoon of porridge, even a saucer of tripe and drisheen.
And they tell me you are dying from thirst for friendship, for an arm outstretched ready to pull you ashore and wrap you in swaddling clothes.
And having scraped together, I stand against the crowd that scoffs at this my city, as if they offer a better bed to beggars:
show me the city of your dreams with choirs singing Hallaluia at the docks proud to hug strangers with fire in their eyes,
flinching from complaints, yet carrying on the twisty fight against the lethargy of liars, the hard-of-hearing heads that resist irresistible grace;
cute as a hoor those occupiers of property that lockout migrants from hell, stitched together with courage fit for humanity
cool-headed
open-handed
considerate
giving
planning, restructuring, re-building
Under the fog, tears dribbling on cheeks, smiling with dimples,
Proud to be making history smile to children of the street,
Smiling loud through blackthorn and brambles, out into lanes and alleyways
Laughing with the laugh of the Lough and the Island and the Well where sparrows nest
Raucous
Clasping travellers, boldly, loud in honour of half-dead strangers found abroad,
Proud Marshlanders, a safe harbour for ships, a market safe for the whole world, heart-makers, soul-shifters.
A City of Sanctuary.
____________________________
Invitation to launch of Cork City of Sanctuary Strategic Action Plan on March 29th 2019
If only Picasso had podcast
If only Picasso had podcast
from a smartphone,
on his palette,
Guernica might have had more impact.
Women and children might have brought Franco down.
Picasso might have screamed
“The Luftwaffe made paint cling like barnacles to this bloody canvas”.
Le noir, blanc et gris
Das schwarz, weiss und grau
The black, white and grey
The bull and the horse
Coffins
These may be episodes from Season One,
recorded in a Paris studio.
As it was, Pablo did the best he could,
to spread his message
like a virus pulling subscribers,
reproducing itself,
seeping into the ears of a few strangers who watched him work.
If only Picasso had podcast,
and shared his sweat on Twitter,
his voice would have gone viral,
Guernica would be alive
wherever massacres matter.
Leaving the House
Theresa May pulled up her knickers and quit the toilet.
She left the Commons behind with a smirk on her face.
No handbag, she strode with both arms swinging.
Her Jacob had 54 sons, eight daughters and a double-breasted suit.
He hung limply like a collage cut from Goliath, Jonah & Judas – with a Pharisee’s mouth thrown in.
“My whisky, my whiskey, my kingdom for a dram” she muttered to her driver.
“Take me to the tenth house, and give me wand to cast ten plagues on both their benches”.
- May the River Thames turn balsamic
- Let the legs of frozen frogs hail down
- Feed the scoundrels snails smothered in stinking slime
- Grant every remaining voice a swarm of beasts of burden
- Feed the traitors mad cows & bullocks
- Give them sour kraut for bedfellows
- Eclipse their sun, moon and stars
- May their red palms burn in hell
- Breed locusts in their hair
- Bury the firstborn of both parties
And bring me Cameron’s head.”
Diary note No 17 – The Dragon
Once upon a time, there was a dragon in Cardiff that chewed shamrock for desert, and spat the roughage out.
He lived on daffodils for breakfast, and cultivated leaks in fields down the Gower.
He was deadly when it came to barbecuing white puddings from Kerry and rashers from Offaly.
When he was hungry, he masticated mouthfuls of minced Irish rugby players during the first half, and farted on substitutes throughout the second half.
He was a champion without doubt.
It never crossed his mind to mend his ways. He wasn’t afraid of Saint Patrick nor the snakes.
His nightcap was cawl, and he slept with a fresh leak under a pillow stuffed with goose feathers.
Evil spirits didn’t bother him.
#WeAreMuslim
By birth,
by blood,
by bleeding,
a Muslim
a human
being.
Massacred
mercilessly,
as if excreted
onto his chopping board
and swept into a rubbish bin.
My crime was to pray
to the wrong god
on Friday morning.
He was the judge,
the jury,
licenced to kill.
Diary note No 16 – The loser
I came in last last night.
A loser, comprehensively vanquished, whitewashed, beaten, massacred.
In a phrase, I was thrashed.
Not just pipped at the post
Not just a photo-finish
Not nudged out by a nose.
I wasn’t even placed.
Everyone was better than me in the speech contest.
That’s the end of my effort to become World Champion (for another year).
Was I that bad? Yes.
Was the speech a nightmare? No.
The speech was fine.
A woman
came up to me with tears in her eyes.
“Thank you for your wonderful speech. I was so moved by it. Like you said, all I’ve wanted all my life is to be listened to, to be heard. You put your finger on what matters most to me. Thank you ever so much. It was great.”
The speech was well worth delivering.
It meant a lot to at least two of us.
The speech was magnificent, despite my delivery – not because of how I delivered it.
The judges
found my speaking style poorer than every one of the other contestants.
They punctured my self-esteem.
My hubris.
Don’t you love it
when judges do that for you?
How considerate.
How thoughtful.
How generous.
What a gift.
I owe a debt of gratitude, don’t I?
“You must change your life”
Do not go loudly out of the room,
slip ever so gently away.
If they know you are gone,
they won’t leave you alone.
Move swiftly away from the light.
Do not stand up when others are down,
let no one see you shine out.
If they spy you on high,
they’ll slice you apart.
Move swiftly away from the light.
Do not die out before you are born,
nor choke your voice from song.
If you spend your talents
buying time and deceit,
there’ll be nothing of you to remember
when we shovel wet soil on your grave.
Diary note No 15 – A Social Audio Book Club
What’s the point of joining a book club?
Wouldn’t you be better spending your time writing a book?
What’s the point of talking, when you could be reading?
Today …
I invented an idea that’s new to me.
I thought:
“How about an audio book club?”
“How about a social audio book club, on LIMOR, not WhatsApp?”
- The Rick O’Shea Bookclub is online.
- There are lots of face-to-face book clubs.
In the whole of human history, there has never been a social audio book club.
Limerick for Larry
A handyman indeed was Larry,
we agreed he was contrary.
He walked out on us all,
never warned us a-tall,
He slunk off to be tested for Artistry.
Diary note No 15 – Follow no one’s advice
If Rilke didn’t abandon his wife & child – and go to live in poverty in Paris – would you have heard of him?
Would his poetry be in print today?
If Rilke hadn’t taken Rodin’s advice so thoroughly, would you be (even a little) curious about what made Rilke great?
Did Rodin mislead Rilke?
Deliberately?
Did Rodin defraud Rilke out of a joyful life – by telling Rilke to do what Rodin couldn’t do?
How much gratitude is owed to Rodin for his dishonesty?
Diary note No 14 – Most important day of my life
Today is the most important day of my life.
I went to Phelan’s pharmacy for drugs.
I bought cat food from Glanmire Pet Shop, Royal Canin “regular fit feline health nutrition.”
The next thing I’m going to do is pick up my laptop. It’s been serviced.
After that, there are two rugby matches to watch.
The dinner will be a surprise.
Is it any wonder this is the most important day of my life?
Don’t make your poems rhyme
Don’t make your poems rhyme,
unless you’re a genius with syllables.
Don’t stuff yourself into a wedding dress,
nor imitate Cinderella’s sisters.
Half-rhymes are a different matter,
provided you miss the end of the line.
Ignore my view if you’re happy
to write mediocre cant,
bland, sentimental, niceties
your friends will lap up
and forget.
Crimes against umbrellas,
fine, generous and irritating
stress on the wrong core
of earth where you scatter salt
pepper, cardamom and treacle.
Stop fretting over dictionaries
in search of le bon mot.
You’re better to scatter and slant perspiration
before you blame your education.
My name is Donald Trump
My name is Donald Trump,
I’m the leader of the band.
I piss, I fart, I shit – I jump.
Sure I know we are all grand.
I’m a man who thrives on basics.
All my hair carefully made.
See these hands forever laid.
Believe me hugher than a Phoenix.
I’m greater than they say,
You want to know my way?
Ever one to steal a deal,
you want to eat my meal?
Build em high, build em strong,
Motherfuckers, bastards, wrong.
Let us send them all back home,
Let us lock them in a SuperDome.
I know you’ll hear my strong decrees.
Let’s see, what only we can see.
Let’s call them out, those Holy Joes,
those PC pussies, I suppose.
We are the Warriors, the Warriors,
no worriers, no foreigners
No losers here.
Lend me your ear
We shall build the tallest tower.
Let’s be rid of all things sour.
Motherfuckers.
Let the judges fear our wrath.
What a shower of lazy suckers.
We will turn their children back.
I am the Lord of Every Deal.
This one deserves a damn good feel.
With me you win, never grow thin.
We’re so righteous, we’ll never sin.
I will make America great
I will make the whole world wait.
We shall be forever tall
when we build that fucking wall.
My name is Donald Trump,
I’m the leader of your band…
If I was sovereign
If I was sovereign, a dictator, over the US of A, I’d make GREEN BOOK compulsory.
I’d compel every citizen to watch* Green Book on a big screen.
(I wouldn’t make this happen overnight)
The draft plan I’m considering is here:
- President & Cabinet obliged to watch the movie by 1 April 2019. Penalty for failure – disqualified from office for 100 days.
- Senators, Representatives & Supreme Court judges by 1 May 2019. Penalty for failure to comply – disqualification for 125 days
- Military generals, Governors & city Mayors by 1 June 2019. Penalty 150 days
- Candidates for all public offices (federal & local) by 1 June 2019 – penalty for failure to watch Green Book = disqualified from ballot until next election cycle
- All teachers (including kindergarten & higher education) by 1 July – penalty for failure = automatic unpaid leave from office for two months.
- All voters by 1 November 2019 – penalty for failure to be determined after Congressional hearing.
- All News editors by 1 October 2019. Penalty for failure to publish review of Green Book = Fine of $3,650 rising to $365,000.
- All law officers, prison staff & ministers of religion by 1 September 2019 – penalty for failure to conform under consideration.
- Exemptions: none, except patients in authorized comas.
- Green Book Film studio owners & CEOs – National Medal of Honor presented by President of USA by 1 May
________________
* NB This sovereign dictator will exert no pressure on subjects to agree with
(1) the point of view of the director, or distributor of Green Book
(2) feelings & thoughts shown & expressed by any of the characters
(3) the dictator’s views
(4) anyone else’s values.
The requirement is to watch Green Book (and remain awake in the cinema).
Pancake day
I’ll put Nutella aside for a year,
I was minded to chuck it away.
Tis the devil’s food, the bane of our day,
it’s time for you to hear.
There was a man who loved his sugar,
There was a man who loved his sugar,
his hair as black as ebony,
a girth as firm as any fine figure,
his brain is sharp as me.
Nutella for lunch, and syrup for tea,
honeycomb ice cream and meringue,
soon as stout as an orangutan
our hero worshipped Cadbury.
Diogenes fled, Diabetes came,
Diogenes fled, Diabetes came,
he couldn’t remember his best friend’s name.
Fructose, glucose, sucrose abound
Obesity reigned, Dementia crowned.
Obesity reigned, Dementia crowned.
I doubt he’s in heaven with Harry,
the lads from the links do not tarry.
It was hell to watch him decline,
and think Nutella was fine.
and think Nutella was fine.
I urge you fair friend do not splurge
your shekels on food you should purge.
Remember a love for your gut, heart, and liver.
Pray slay the taste for sugar.
Nutella thrills,
Nutella thrills,
Nutella kills,
Nutella fills
your tummy with fancy frills.
Remember, remember six pancakes you ate,
before it is too late.
54-word story
“Will you blow into this colostomy bag? Will you scratch an itch from under my arse, before you breathalyse me? I’m over the limit of the black stuff I drink. The coffee has gone to my head.”
She winced a smile from the side of her mouth, and waved me on my way.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 