Why does my wife not read my verse?

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Why does my wife not read my verse?

She’s surely not averse

to phrase and lines she reads at work,

her daily dose of prose that lurks

on paper and email I’ve heard her curse.

Poetry, you scheming rat,

you promised you’d deliver

a feast-seducing habitat,

a song to make her quiver,

not a sour look, nor petty spat.

Oh, why does she not sneak a peek

to see what I have written

in Moleskine notebook fit to tweak?

At least she’d know what has me smitten

the day I dared to plumb the deep.

There’s much more depth in me

than fake illiteracy.

I’m a minor chord, a malady.

I’m a scribe in search of melody,

a cloud of nature’s ancestry.

May she not pass like a Pharisee

10 minute poem

(For Robert & Juliette)

I must arise and go now
and go beyond the Pale,
and a small forest grow there,
a heart and mind remake.
And I shall have some ease there,
and peace to rest my limbs,
and she will wait upon the seas,
and walk on roots of birch and spruce.
And I shall call her on the wind,
like gull and hawk in sun.

I must clear out this festering way
and take a mountain step
across the lake that’s shaped my view,
and bid my drive farewell.
When oft I rest in thrall of moon,
and bless the hour that’s struck,
you’ll see me stride among the stars
‘mid leaves that paint a life sublime.
I’ll draw my warmth from a fire she’ll set,
and crack a bottle of wine.

_____________________

Note: This poem was originally composed in 10 minutes – while being recited into my iphone. It took a lot longer than that to knock into this shape.

A fool

It is foolhardy

to drive a car

when your back is out.

Foolhardy to sit

on a sofa

– said the mature man

to himself

as he picked his keys

from the rack.

Diary note No 13 – Wanderlust in woods

A few minutes ago, I opened the front door and went out into fresh air.

Gingerly, I shuffled around. I talked to my aching back.

It’s nearly time for Wanderlust – to walk in Moanbaun Wood with Rebecca Solnit, again.

That wind today is a bit too chilly for me to start straight away.

There is the habit to recapture.

Thank goodness I haven’t finished reading that magnificent book, that best of companions.

The three Rs


(For Robbin T Milne)

Rilke, Rodin, Rembrandt

all made for reading

all fit for writing

all writhing with the rhythm of arithmetic life

the precision of patience

lichenlike.

Three men on a mission

To scribe with a steely sense of solitude,

to shape with stoney sight

to paint faces in the light of night

I met Rembrandt alone,

beard like waterfall,

watching stars.

Rodin lost in thought

on a bench

across the street from a brothel

I passed Rilke in a vacuum,

listening to water boatmen

making solitude sing.

I found out later

they all supported the same football team

Picture-painters on the pitch.


The French sculptor Auguste Rodin said, “Compare me with Rembrandt! What sacrilege! With Rembrandt, the colossus of Art! We should prostrate ourselves before Rembrandt and never compare anyone with him!”[

Diary note No 12 – Cricket, Fish & Chips

What have the game of cricket and fish & chips got in common?

Do people take fish & chips to cricket at Lords or the Oval?

Do bowlers eat chips before taking the new ball?

Maybe some top-class cricket coaches ban teams from eating fish & chips the night before the toss?

Perhaps the conversation in Café Beva between Roger & Paul went from trivia to profound – from pastime to work?

Why did Paul record the conversation about cricket?

Could it have anything to do with the next test match England will play? (Against Ireland at Lords)

What would an eavesdropper have thought?

– the mystery of everyday life.

Are you wearing your hearing aids?

Unless I’m wearing hearing aids I won’t make the great speech you’re hoping for.

You know, my friends, that unless you hear brilliantly, It’s impossible to speak well.

Before I speak I need to put my hearing aids in

  • My mother had excellent hearing all her life. She listened at keyholes. She kept in touch with her children’s phone calls about important matters which might impinge on the extended family.
  • She had phenomenal hearing. She once heard me and Brian Cox lighting up Woodbine cigarettes behind the copper beech tree in our garden.
  • She had patient hearing. She spent hours in the kitchen listening to me spout on about my beliefs, my thoughts, my feelings.  She even asked me questions about my political rants.

My mother couldn’t afford to buy hearing aids.
Her hearing aid was the acute attention she paid to me -whatever & how ever I spoke, plus the attentive ear she gave to others, all her adult life.

—————

And what about you?

The most important thing I know about you, I see written all over your face.

Deeply chiseled into your Toastmasterly character

Engraved

  •  You love to be heard. You are no wallpaper – You are the leading actor in the Oscar-winning movie  “My dramatic life” – you are the Linchpin.
  •  In your deepest heart, you wantthe person sitting next to you to wear hearing aids, before they speak to you.
  •  You want them to listen to you as if their life depended on it

Last evening, I was cooking spaghetti Like my daughter said over spaghetti in the kitchen last night, “Dad, all I want for you is your attention, that’s what I call love.”

This evening, you expressed it through your body language, the way you settled into your seat.

You wanted all of us speakers to pay attention to you our . It was as if you spoke to me “Paul, pay attention to me before you speak.”

Where are your hearing aids now?

Isn’t it so uplifting to be in the midst of a community of friends who listen to each other – genuinely listen.

Friends genuinely listen to you, friends listen well.

Imagine
you’re going to leave here and go out into the garden and hillside of a wider community.

Imagine
you’re going to take your hearing aids with you – just as your best friends do.

Imagine
like my mother,  you have excellent, phenomenal & patient hearing.

I must arise and go now, and take my hearing aids out.

Let me trust you to leave your hearing aids turned on.

Let me trust you to listen well

I trust you to speak superbly and wear your hearing aids with pride.

 

Diary note No 11 – Blarney Toastmasters

I was ‘Master of Ceremonies (MC)” last night.

About 20 people in a room in Blarney Woolen Mills hotel.

All keen to become better at public speaking – formal & informal.

All expecting a good experience.

The meeting was mettlesome.

Two members of our Toastmasters Club introduced themselves to the audience.

They each spoke for about five minutes in prepared speeches. There was plenty of applause.

I felt good to be in the room.

Artificial intelligence

(with thanks to Ray Garraud)

I have artificial intelligence 

Unnatural impulses 

An emotional database 

A robot brain 

Dots & dashes

reflex connections

I am a smart machine 

A digitalised hub

that makes meaning matter

A deepfake 

Virtual vision

Digital imagination 

Holographic presence 

A synthetic wormhole of darkness

I am an algorithm

Antithetical antibody 

I am human image 

Neural synthesis 

Fractalic acumen 

Biblical beta

Lightning connector

Idealistic conductor

Symbolic bridge 

A child of the Deep Blue flag

Superb Stockfish 

I am a labyrinth of thought 

I am Hal in fashionable dress by Houdini 

Intimacy of everyday life

The blood gave Puma what he craved,

that warm connection,

that deeper resonance

the end of a ritual.

the flow from a raw, umbilical cord,

roots

There was, of course, the fur,

the light fluffy stuff.

It was claws that built a bridge between them,

it was sinking teeth in flesh that released the duende,

way beyond play.

It was the same for the bunny,

it was the same for the rabbit,

only this time the rabbit was fed up of being called a bunny.

The rabbit wasn’t cute,

the rabbit wasn’t Flopsy Mopsy or Cottontail.

The rabbit had feelings too.

personified,

objectified,

infantilised.

There’s more to a rabbit than a cuddly thing for children.

If you could get close to a rabbit, you’d meet the animal within,

an animal with teeth,

an animal with family

an animal with ties,

an animal that doesn’t live in cottonwool

has enemies,

is preyed upon,

and is a killer.

Oh yes, rabbits kill cabbages.

So when Puma the cat met the rabbit outside,

there was a deep connection within,

Desire,

the sort of desire a tiger has,

the sort of lust a jaguar has,

the sort of appetite every self-respecting big cat has.

Fear,

the sort of thrill running for your life gives you.

A wildebeest across the savanna,

the ancestors of the rabbits ran free for their lives.

No half-life here,

no cuddly wuddly bunny.

Blood,

flesh,

even the fur mattered

in the utility room that night,

It was the intimacy of everyday life

Diary note No 10 – Teamwork

“When you get back to Ireland, give us a shout” said my cheeky brother No 2.

Proof positive that I’ve been away from the telephone line that connects Cork to Limerick – since Ireland beat Scotland.

I’m sticking to the lurgy – that relieves me of all guilt & shame.

LOCATION
I’m writing this on Friday morning in Café Beva over a (too) large helping of scrambled eggs on a warmed plate.
Roger didn’t make it. Eoghan is preparing for rugby in Rome. The Wiffe has Louis in the wood. De daughter was asleep.

TEAMWORKING
Compelled to go beyond pony-riding to hockey by an exponentially expanding ambition, I morphed phone-called chat.

“Isn’t teamwork in sport ideal preparation for civics & working in a shop?“

Don’t shelf-fillers & managers need to work as a team with common sense of purpose, and inter-dependence?

A notion that welled up like lava.

Has the Harvard Business Review published a paper on this?

Diary note No 9 – Captivity

I was born into captivity, into a family, they were in charge, set my daily routine, administered my food, decided when I was heard, what I should see, my destiny.

Those gaolers sent me to an institution that held me captive, defined my agenda, put me in a room, decided what I should learn, when I was good enough, when I should be let out

into another ritual, and on into another asylum.

Gradually I was made fit for an open prison, condemned to a life sentence immersed in a language I had no power to design.

Moment by moment, my thoughts sucked into solitary confinement within a zeitgeist that disguised itself as an dreamscape, shaped with illusions of grandeur.

Captured & captivated, imprisoned & impressed,

As if I was an ant that thought he was a free spirit

As if an elephant that loved to be tethered in a circus tent

Even my imagination ring-fenced.

I was bred in captivity by a family that thought there was a key hidden somewhere safe

As if it could be released in time to avert what is to come.

The ants face extinction

Elephants are shuffling into an abyss

The key never strong enough to turn the lock, and release inmates

These marks, letters, phrases, are a sentence for some and a sentence for all.

The eyes of the wild animal that roves over paragraphs & stanzas are focussed on straight lines.

I don’t see what I don’t see in my captivity.

The mystery of history.

Diary note No 8 – Indoors

I’m staying indoors for another day. It’s drizzling damp outside. Again I’m missing my Wednesday morning golf.

My biggest concern is the dog. I won’t give him enough exercise today. If he could speak English, he’d surely complain.

Talking about Trump, talking about McCabe, having in an asynchronistic conversation with my friend Victorious in USA – that’s what I’ve been doing from my armchair.

That led me to contact my sister in Arizona via WhatsApp. I’d like to hear her views.

Thank goodness I’m interested in Brexit, and have Sky News. Political crises are good distractions from the state of my health.

I’m only good for recording audio and I’m dictating this straight into this post.

My especially good friend Eoghan O’Leary has offered to drop in and bring me something I’d like. I’ve asked for a small bunch of sweet black grapes.

Daily Note No 7 : Surviving on Audio

I’m staying indoors as much as I can. This morning, I’ve been to Doctor Dara Byrne.

There is nothing to do for my health except keep hydrated.

If my phlegm turns from yellow to green, I now have a prescription for an antibiotic, Amoxicillin.

During the last 48 hours, I’ve recorded & shared audio* on LIMOR about

  • Praising Maria Popova’s new book “Figuring‘
  • Feeling miserable
  • Getting to see a doctor in Ireland
  • House-swapping for holidays

Recording audio keeps me going and seems to release some energy from a repository within.

(* I’ll put the audio here)

PRAISING MARIA POPOVA “FIGURING”
FEELING MISERABLE – THE BENEFITS
GETTING TO SEE A DOCTOR IN IRELAND
HOUSE SWAPPING

Diary note No 6 – Rilke

Today, in my kitchen, at 10:30am, I’m reading “Letters to a Poet” by Rilke – into my Voice Record Pro App.

RILKE ON SADNESS

I haven’t yet walked the dog Louis.

Questions

How many years is it since I first heard of Rilke?

Was it David Whyte who made the introduction?

Why did I find Rilke so tough, so steely, that I didn’t have the confidence to read him?

What’s happened that I don’t have any such fear now?

How come Rilke feels like the most relevant writer to converse with, to have dialogue with, to have an internal life with?

What’s going on inside me?

Probably it was Maria Popova in Brainpickings who was the tipping point.

She often brings Rilke into her Sunday newsletter which arrives just after 9am.

I associate her with Rilke, and relish the snippets she shares.

Diary note No 5 – THE INTERVIEW

The most satisfying work I’ve done recently is this INTERVIEW with my friend Ray Renati in Palo Alto, near San Francisco, California, USA.

It’s 92 minutes short.

THE INTERVIEW

First of a series of interviews with some of the most engaging people whom Paul O’Mahony, poet, knows.

Ray Renati is a professional actor, theatre director, podcaster, photographer, comedian, singer, father, dog-walker and more.  He lives in California, USA.

Paul & Ray met on social audio on the App Anchor, about three years ago.

The purpose of THE INTERVIEW is to introduce Ray Renati to people who don’t know him delve into the person Ray is and is becoming
(in 92 minutes)

THE INTERVIEW covers 8 topics:

Why do you live where you live?

Why do you do the work that you do? 

Why do you attract the people you attract?

Why are you so committed to the causes your espouse?

Quick questions: like “Ice cream or jam?  Reagan or Nixon?”

Why are you such a spiritual guy?

Why are you so keen to leave a legacy?

What question would you like to ask Paul O’Mahony?
__________________
You are welcome to contact Ray Renati by email at
“rayrenati@gmail.com” 

Daily diary No 4 – THE COLD

The girl in Liam Ryan’s SuperValu supermarket said: “you probably can’t go home without those.”

She was talking about Lemsip. She also said everyone has a cold now.

I hope mine leaves my chest soon. Tomorrow, I might go to the doctor and get some antibiotics.

Does it make me feel better to know I’m in good company?

SafeHaven2018
happened in May. Today we had our final team gathering in the Silver Springs hotel to finish it off: Sharon, Eddie, Pat, Lisa, Mary (plus her brother Paul) and me. Pat passed round a notebook for each of us to write a few words. I wrote a little ditty like this, and a few lines more.

From little acorns do mighty oaks grow
and little Cork a mighty conference show …

It did me good to go.

Diary note No 3 – Down

Lying in bed at 11:20 am is an un-pleasant thing to do on a Saturday morning.

I slept over eight hours last night, my Snore Lab App shows I snored 30% of the time.

I want to stay indoors all day.

My daughter wants to go out and play a hockey match.

The Wiffe wants to buy logs for the fire in Middleton.

I don’t know what the dog wants,

The cat will find a way to be satisfied.

There’ll be nothing lyrical today. Everything in the minor key.

Discontent

Dissonance

Destroyed

Disconsolate.

I have nothing to contribute out of this empty shape. All energy lost. If I’m not kind to myself today, who will love me enough? Who will pamper me enough?

I have responsibilities.

There is audio from The Talk Show for Talkers” to edit.

There is “The Spy and the Traitor” to finish.

There is the coaching poem which is in draft.

It would be irresponsible not to have a cup of coffee with a friend

Irresponsible not to shave.

Irresponsible not to spend a few minutes thinking of my extended family.

____________________________________________________

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Diary Note No 2 – Baths

Back in Café Beva for a quick slurp with Roger Overall at 9:07AM.

He’s gone now – off to see a potential new client for Show&Tell Communications.

(Maybe there’ll be more work for us in March.)

Baths

I was meant to dash home to let a bathroom-transformer in to our house.

When’s the last time I had a bath? How many baths have I had since 2007?

How many times will I climb over the side and practise the first part of what Archimedes did?

Which came first – the bath or the shower? Which is more popular in Siberia?

Coffee

Thank goodness I got a text from the Wiffe – “take your time, I’m home.”

That’s why I’m sipping a black Americano at a square table which has a Formica top.

Diary Note No 1 – The blog

image_571833188038767A Thursday morning at 10 am, I’m having breakfast in Café Beva in Glanmire. Eating scrambled eggs and sausages, drinking a black Americano.

In front of me the Irish examiner newspaper.

It’s a dry cloudy day, less damp than usual.

I put a vase containing a small bunch of two red roses, one white rose, and three sprigs of lily in the kitchen.

Louis, our English setter, is in the car. I’ll take him for a walk when I finish here.

Thinking back to 2005, when our daughter was born, and we came to Cork, from BathWith baby Grace – that was another age.

I started blogging, often daily. The good old days when blogs sometimes attracted long conversations on text.

In those days I grew new friendships via the blog, by commenting on other people’s blogs and a few times meeting bloggers face-to-face.

I remember JL Pagano, Paige Harrison, John of Dublin, Sinead Gleeson, Conn O Muíneacháin. I’ll remember more later.

The best way to start blogging is to read the blogs of other people, and connect with them on their blog. I left a lot of comments. It didn’t matter very much to me how many people read my blog posts.

I had an audience. I wrote for my daughter knowing that she would not be interested in anything I wrote for maybe 25 or 30 years.

It’s important to have a focus. It was also excellent writing practice.

Today I find it hard to recognise my own writing. Sometimes I say “how did I write that? Where did those words come from?”

Maybe I was a better writer then.

The words came to me as if they were an organic extension of my daily life, and thoughts, and feelings.

Sometimes poems came. sometimes political invective came. Other times observations about this new country I had returned to.

In February 2019, I don’t know what will come out.

We’ll see.