The walk
Dear Mountain Bear,
Thank you for going on the walk I did not do.
You have taken the shoes from under me,
and given them room to breathe the air of night,
while a cryptic owl swooped his silent flight
in search of the very thing I did my best to put away.
The hunt for fresher life, fertile and festive,
in the company of small mammals in plain sight,
in the company of trees in leaf,
earthworms and earthlings,
in the garden of the Big Bang.
It suited me to stay indoors,
and not to cry too much in the face of the messenger outside,
to celebrate a brave warrior‘s walk
into the cradle of my infancy,
into the face of my fears,
into the promise of my fertility.
Falling apart
Falling apart
One day you’re fine,
you’re on top of the world,
full of wonder, purpose, design,
and enough energy to navigate
on an ocean of beckoning life.
Like a cormorant that dives deep
and surfaces with a beak full of fish,
like a hawk that swoops
and rises with the food that matters,
yo u’re in love with the melody of every day life.
Until the day you wake
with a tetchy throat,
raw retching cough,
a nose that dribbles,
and you’re streaming down
into a conviction
there is no way back,
there is only one highway
to the other side,
and the road is rough enough
to erase the memory and melody
of a life you used to think was grand.
A broken wing, a blinded eye,
a crippled hunter,
all paradise lost,
the wilderness of unrelenting self pity.
And you know it will have its way with you,
And you know there’s no fighting back,
no resurrection overnight,
but hours to wait, and drugs,
the chemistry of recovery.
And you are left looking
through the only question
that matters to you,
the only mystery that matters any more:
When will I fall apart and lose my heart,
again.
Song of the Wandering Fog
Song of the Wandering Fog
If you go out in the fog today, you’re not sure of a great surprise.
If you go out in the fog any day, you may not be sure you’re wise.
For everywhere you go through fog
is bound to be confusing,
and everything that’s bemusing you
means a well of anxiety.
I can’t go out in the sun today, nor under a sky that’s blue,
I can’t go out in my favourite air
nor go forward without a care.
As I go out in the fog again, I know I’ll never be sure
when I’ll bash my head on a wall
because fog is obscure and means unsure,
and can even drum up fear.
When I am out in the fog right now, I’m in touch with reality.
When fog is thick and hard to cross,
I’m sure I am not free to act
in charge of my destiny.
When you go out in the fog next time be sure to celebrate.
You’re bound to get lost,
you’re bound to be tossed
into a new divide.
Should you go left or should you go right?
Should you go back or should you press on
when you don’t know where you’re going?
There’s only one way to decide.
Are you ready to be safe and sure to save face,
and what did you do last time?
How strong are your arms, your legs and your heart
’cause they here to help you start,
to welcome the dark,
shake hands with the gloom,
and muddle your way towards a rising moon.
You’re born with a light that shines
from an undergrowth
and you’re never alone in a vacuum.
No fog can extinguish your will to adventure.
Now where shall we go today?
My new shoes
My New Shoes
My new shoes are not worn.
You wouldn’t count a few steps around the kitchen bar on tiles.
The laces are not tied.
and yet these Eccos fit, all toes report.
The sole of that right foot looks eager to move off,
an engine with fuel in its tank.
This left foot craves to be admired and cries aloud
“Look here, unspoiled, a sight behold.”
To move or not to move?
To stay or not to stay?
You never hear the sun afraid to rise.
I bought them black, like onyx,
trusting they’d protect me
from puddles of muddy water
and stem the drain of life
as I grew older.
Let them turn charcoal
as I roam the fields and riverbanks
where blackbird sing.
I shall admire both right and left,
and tie these laces loose
until evening sets
beyond that mountain there.
Emerging from retirement
Emerging from retirement
(for my good friend Robert)
At last I can go to work,
and make my own dawn,
cast off the grip, the drive, the contract of employment,
like hedgehog wake from hibernation,
like black grizzly bear resurrect from torpor,
no longer follow the politics of prose,
nor feign fellowship with routine strokes of stratagem and strategy,
awake with a hawk’s eye,
dive like thick-billed murre for cod and worms,
from the coast of a new land
from the marrow of bones too rested for their own good.
How does an Unbeliever pray?
Not on my knees with head all bound in thorns,
not in a pew prostrate before a god,
not stooped, nor bent, a sinner supplicant,
a poor unworthy man afraid to say:
Like as the eagle soars astride the wind,
like as the river flows from spring to sea,
like as erratic stands upright and firm,
a worthy creature proud to stride the land.
No more a child beset with guilt and shame,
but grown attentive to the joy of light,
humble as dust and underwhelmed by night,
a star that shines and whispers love to all.
We move in prayer, our talent in our verse,
we celebrate in time the universe.
Emissions
Idaho – Our Provenance
It is illegal to smoke (mince pies) in these premises,
We will re-open (cream) on Friday 28th at 08:26,
W(h)ines by the bottle,
we sell (humour) gift vouchers.
I sat beside the bag lady
preventing her overcoat
from being (whipped) cream.
Richard’s ebony hair glistened
with perspiration, behind candles
that dripped red calcified wax
to a fine point suspended over
pastry laced with sugar water.
His smile reflected
from the surface of a teaspoon
that had never seen a better day
– just as the jigsaw, fixed to the glass
that protected the map of the island,
cast shadow over Cork
– just as the woman of the house
squeezed a clothes-horse
under the reindeer’s bauble.
“I’m going to Jackson … “
reminded me of Tammy Wynette
and Santa’s brother, last seen
outside Boise wielding a pickaxe and shovel
wanting work whenever women
would watch him waffle on about
“the land of many waters”.
Idaho Cafe is deeper than the Grand Canyon
in affections,
and shorter in afflictions
because bunyons are bound to blush
unseen under square tables.
‘This is forever”, every mince pie,
Esto Perpetua,
there is no Dracula here,
Huckleberries cry.
A locally-owned Breakfast, Lunch, Bapini,
Sweet fix,
with drinks like Idaho
americano, espresso, cappuccino,
marshmallow
– lest you go past the best cafe in Ireland
(voted by aficionados)
without noticing blackboards
full of chalked wines
on the Saturday before Christmas.
Birth
The child was born poor,
among sheep, and cranes settling
on holy water
My Musical Autobiography
In the beginning …
Life began in the 1960s
There’s more to the story …
My parents helped make me …
The people who have ideas
The people who have ideas
breathe, touch, imagine the best,
the same way eagles fly
on air blown in streams that flow
over waterfalls, whirlpools, lakes –
into backwaters,
into oceans.
The IDEAS I met
in the home The Quiet Man built
(alongside the Cross of Cong)
have all come
clad with strings and baggage,
stubble and eau de cologne
from Jo Malone.
A few carried by musical instruments,
some with a stoop,
the odd one with a straight back,
semiconductors
looking for company
Congregation,
and the like.
Ideas encased in characters:
Rewilding man
Heart with a fear of trusting others
Ireland’s first flow consultant
Multi-tasking woman
(who brushed her teeth
and spat into her handbag)
HUDDLING
against the safety of closed paradigms
and spent minds
MINING
for alchemy
and epiphany
TAKEAWAY:
If it’s icy cold,
pee in your pants –
it’ll soon dry out
and keep you warm.
A splash of IDEATION on the road …
near the Hungry Monk.
Heretics listed:
Bureaucracy works
War eliminates fear
Doing the shagging thing
Stop travelling
Make something useless
The green soup for lunch
began life as an idea
in the mind of a vegetable
(Civil Rights for Vegetables)
before you eat words for ingredients.
THIS YEAR
the best interruptions were ideas
that would not keep
behind the Hedge
Desperados
Camerados.
I have no idea
I have no idea
(a poem for CongRegation)
I’ve never given birth to an idea that floated
the wine I’ve drunk, the women I’ve loved,
all permeable membranes that leaked
all blocked arteries
like clods of hair in a drain.
I’ve had multiple births from embryos implanted
like seeds, into my imagination.
I’m big into cultivation, gestation, articulation
and eradication.
There’s an earthworm casting in my brain.
I’m here to sing a song that longs for Cong.
You can’t go wrong among the throng
where you belong
with your ideas on yellow leads and purple cows.
Compiling & Composing a New Poem
Imagine: An old mature narrow pub in Ireland downtown Dublin in October 2018. on Monday 15 October 2018. An A5 notebook by Leuchturm1917.
2pm. Because it’s there
The Palace Bar floorboards fair game for lunch
The Guinness there went down without protest
It was food for legs that traipsed from Abbey Street.
Refreshed the brain grown soggy with exhaustion
Oil to lubricate a head too heavy for its neck.
Down the throat between the teeth into the mouth
like a dive in the Atlantic
after the sun set
between the teeth down the throat
a liquid lunch with a pen and notebook
all for the sake of a man who never turned up
all for the sake of a story that
never came through the door
battle fatigues, a beard to stroke
bare arms, long hairs
an ear to scratch, Kindle to read
through black-rimmed glasses
he was bald enough for an
adventure
he lifted his pint with his right
hand.
She came to take snaps off the street to take snaps
smiled with awe and appreciation
wanted to stay until the Bulgarian
signaled time to go.
another story the didn’t lift off.
a bird is known by its song
a man by his conversation
Fleet St
The Palace Bar
__________________
For the sake of a story that never was told
for the sake of a stranger who never turned up
I walked in through the bar door
of the Palace Bar
I took to the stool
for the sake of a pint.
I drank till the porter stout was gone
_________________
Work (towards a poem) in progress
Imagine: The Republic of Work in Cork @ 12:49 on 18 October 2018
The Floorboards in the Palace Bar
are tight
No light for ghosts from The Irish
Times
to leak through
on to a stool or two…
______________
Autobiographies
Autobiographies
I drank coffee over bacon and cheese
writing autobiography,
as easy to swallow as Rapunzel and Guinness.
The woman in a cream suit
shook gold earrings and munched
waffles from Idaho
soaked in organic maple syrup
with her mouth open
reminded me of my mother,
Paul, close your mouth when you’re eating.
I read the wine list
in the mirror
behind my back.
That was as difficult to do
as swallowing cod liver oil neat.
How many autobiographies live unwritten
within this life,
under the surface,
scratching for release
from Purgatory?
Am I lost in Dante’s wood,
or sunshine?
Is this Idaho real,
or escaping on the page,
a fleeting fairy tale?
I couldn’t catch her name.
Irish leader greets the Pope
Greetings Francis,
Leader of the humble Roman clan,
Micheál D, Leader of the noble Irish clan
bids you come in peace.
May your visit transform you,
as the salmon transformed Mac Cumhaill
Your arrival has been expected,
as the swallows of summer
and the floods of winter.
We thank you for your prayers
We are grateful for your confession
as ever we are when a bold child seeks forgiveness.
We are moved by your contrition.
As you begged for mercy from survivors
we celebrated your sincerity.
We greet you with the proud heart of a wounded dog.
May your stay be sweet
May your sleep on sheets be bitter sweet
May you dream the dream of a injured stallion
that will never again win a race.
We offer you courage to change
the shape of your smile
the tone of your tongue
the breath of your benediction.
The noble Irish clan
so squashed and squandered
by scourge of Vatican
worships no more
at the feet of any vicar,
nor any bishop in sheep’s clothing.
We have made ready for you Franciscus
Ireland will have its way with you.
What news do you bring?
What song shall we sing?
Friend.
Coffee with the Pope
I had coffee with the Pope today.
His was a flat white (as you’d expect),
mine was black as humour.
We broke croissants,
both wore sandals,
not a rosary beads between us.
The text on WhatsApp, I thought was a joke,
or Michael Kelly, The Irish Catholic,
flying a kite, ready to redact.
“Paul, forgive my intrusion,
I know you’re no longer one of the Faithful,
I heard you don’t believe.
But I’m in trouble surrounded by Followers
too holy for Salvation.
I need a youth to give it to me
between the eyes,
like David to Goliath.
When I land in Dublin Airport,
should I fall on my knees
and beg forgiveness?
Prostrate myself and be flayed?
Or surround the air with prayers ,
the yellow and white,
the Pioneer Pin,
the Crucifix?
Maybe a donkey to the Áras?”
Spilt coffee,
bags under his eyes, yellowed teeth, double chin,
coughing up phlegm.
“On Saturday, I’ll feel Ireland underfoot
Ivan the Terrible was born,
Nietzsche died, Armstrong too.
The Holy Trinity was confirmed,
Galileo showed us his telescope.
What have I to offer?”
A desperate man looking for lost family.
Figment.
Cracked glass.
I hadn’t the heart to help him.
The Pope is coming on the Joe Duffy Show
The Pope is coming on the Joe Duffy Show
Wherever the people are gathered, I want to be
However Irish men and Irish women care to listen,
I want to be
among those who have supported me
those who built my churches
my schools
my hospitals
my laundries
my graveyards.
I have prayers to make
on Joe Duffy,
Confessions to make
on TalkToJoe.
Contritions to express
on Liveline,
Penance to receive.
DIVINE HEADLINE
Will Joe take my call?
Hear my all?
At all?
Don’t I deserve to be heard?
Can you not stomach another apology?
Another stream of Vatican Vernacular Verbatim?
They call me Francis
I am not Franciscus
I am the Vatican
Institutional Man
I stand for the Vatican
I behave the Vatican Way
I did not write a letter
There was one on file
Rome designed the words for me to deliver.
Rome will be on Joe Duffy.
If Irish children, Irish women and Irish men
believe,
if you believe me, the Vatican, the Bishop of Rome.
Wherever the people are gathered,
I want your belief
Will you have me on the show?
Will your researchers prepare me?
Calm my nerves?
Steady my trembling tongue?
Joe@RTE.ie
I am the Holy See.
Condescending You, Condescending Me
I was on my way from life to death,
Crossing over from poverty,
Searching for what’s right for me.
It’s a mountain hard enough to climb,
A mountain hard enough to climb.
Condescending me,
Looking down on me,
From way up high on your pedestal.
You whispered to me ever so free,
You spoke to me ever so free,
with a smirk in your eyes
“You are a woman,
I see you can sing,
and you really can dance,
you even understand,
and you’ll improve
and you’ll grow up
and realise why I’m so wise.”
– With a smirk on your face
You put me in my place..
Condescending you,
condescending me.
I met you in the bar that night,
and in the club where we danced all right.
My hopes arose, I was aroused
by the look in your eyes
by the cut of your gib.
By your sighs,
you seemed ever so wise.
It was a shock, it was a rock,
It was demise,
I could see in your eyes.
“That’s good for a woman,
that’s good for a woman,
That’s ever so human.
I’m very impressed,
You’re not even stressed.”
Your tone was a knife,
it cut me apart
Your look was a spear
flung deep in my heart.
You woke me that night
Condescending me
Condescending you
From your mountain top,
to a weed below,
Condescending me
Condescending you.
I was on my way, from life to death,
crossing over from poverty,
searching for what’s right for me.
And it sure ain’t you,
And it sure ain’t you
Condescending you.
You can fuck yourself
You can fuck yourself
I’m looking after me
I’m looking after me.
I’m looking after me.
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
Moving
Moving
(for BKB)
Our kitchen clock has ticked,
time to pack up,
time to clear out,
cardboard boxes,
still life on the living room floor.
A full-stop.
Another paragraph written.
This house has done its work.
Candles burnt.
We were here,
a joint composition,
major and minor keys,
melody,
atonality,
dissonance,
harmony.
Unfinished symphony.
More than poetry.
Infinity of haiku
silent rooms between
characters.
On this stage,
we voiced parts,
fashioned scripts,
co-authors.
I’ve written my way through this house,
stepped beyond the deck,
out into a backyard
to trees and stream
underneath snow.
(Memories in parentheses)
Our kitchen, hearth of home,
chairs, a shrunken table,
furniture that made space grow.
Chicken noodle soup from a can,
potato chips,
grapes,
milk from a carton,
silver spoons,
our last supper.
I don’t know where we’ll eat tomorrow.
Never known the next phrase,
the sentence to come,
the chapter after this,
the story’s conclusion.
Like a hummingbird’s nest,
where we eat, drink, love, grow, sing,
shall we weave together twigs,
plant fibers,
bits of larch leaves,
shall we thread spider silk to bind our nest
together
and anchor
to another forked branch.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 